Killer Boots

by Jenkins, Wendy

  ‘Mum, you’ll never guess what. I met Matt Tognolini down the oval. You know — Toggo. He was kicking some balls around and got me to kick them back to him. He was driving a red Mustang and it was full of football boots and he gave me a pair. They just about fit. Look.’ Greg swung his feet up from the side of the bath.

  ‘He gave you a pair?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  There was a pause of a couple of seconds. Greg held his breath.

  ‘Why would Matt Tognolini just give you a pair of boots?’

  ‘I dunno. We were playing together. And he’s got heaps of ’em. Probably gets ’em for free.’

  There was another pause. Greg knew it wasn’t a good sign when his mother’s brain did overtime like it seemed to be doing now.

  He wasn’t wrong.

  ‘Well, you’ll have to write a letter and thank him,’ Chris said. ‘I’ll give you some paper and we’ll get the Dockers’ address from the phone book.’

  ‘Oh, he won’t expect that. It’ll just embarrass him.’

  ‘Why would he be embarrassed? Most people like to be thanked. It’s a very generous present.’

  ‘Yeah, but it’s no big deal to Toggo. Like I said, he’s got a car full of boots. He probably gives them away all the time.’

  ‘Not to us … Is there some reason you don’t want to write to him? Is there something you’re not telling me?’

  Greg was stuck. His mother was calling his bluff. She knew he wasn’t exactly telling the truth. And she knew he knew she did. He should have quit while he was ahead over Ashley.

  A drum kit joined in with the acoustic guitar. It was a bit light on with the cymbals but he could hear it loud and clear. Toggo hadn’t exactly given him those boots. But then, he hadn’t exactly nicked them either. There was only one way out of this. It was really risky but he had no choice. He’d let Toggo decide.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘I’ll write the letter.’

  Greg sat at the kitchen table with a piece of paper in front of him. Half-a-dozen scrunched up sheets were on the floor around him. He wasn’t getting too far. It was really hard once you got past the ‘Dear Toggo’ bit.

  Just then Rowan came in.

  ‘Doin’ homework on a Sunday? What a suck.’ He opened the fridge door and poured himself an orange juice. As he took a gulp, his eyes slid along the floor from the scrunched up wads of paper to his brother’s feet. ‘Hey! Where’d you get those boots?!’

  Greg looked around at Rowan. He didn’t blink an eye. ‘Toggo gave ’em to me,’ he said. ‘So suck yourself.’

  SNAF

  ‘Oh hell!’

  That was the second time Matt Tognolini had said that in an hour. The first time had been at the oval when he’d remembered he was meeting Alison for lunch.

  ‘What’s up?’ Alison asked. ‘Something wrong with the squid?’

  They had an outside table at Old Papa’s and had just started hoeing into some calamari.

  ‘I hope not. No, I think I left my footy boots at the oval I was telling you about.’

  ‘That’s not such a big deal is it? You’ve got more boots than Madonna. I bet you don’t even know how many pairs you’ve got.’

  ‘Probably not … but they’re not all like this.’

  ‘Like what? Aren’t they all the same?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Sort of?’

  Toggo took a piece of bread and started to butter it. How could he explain it to Alison when he didn’t really understand himself.

  ‘I felt really good wearing them, you know … I kicked really straight, and …’

  Toggo looked up from his bread. Alison had the expression on her face that she got when she didn’t really understand what he was trying to say but she wanted to. He tried a bit harder.

  ‘… It just felt different than it has for a while. Like I could do anything — like it does when I have a really good game and everything just … goes right.’

  ‘Do you want to drive back and see if they’re still there?’

  Toggo shook his head. ‘They’d be long gone by now. Someone will have snaffled them for sure … there was a kid there I was playing with …’

  ‘Do you know his name?’

  ‘No. But his dog’s called Turley.’

  ‘Oh, great.’ Alison laughed. ‘Maybe we can cruise the streets around the oval calling “Turley” and see what house he comes out of.’

  ‘Nah,’ Toggo said, ‘We might get the real thing, and then what would I say? “Hi Craig! Can I have your autograph?”’

  Toggo thought of something. Chances were a kid who played that well was in a junior football club — a check with the local junior grade teams would probably turn him up. But no. That’d be a bit over the top. And scare the poor kid to death if he had nicked off with the boots.

  And anyway, Alison was right. The boots were all the same — same maker, same size, same style. It had probably been playing on the old oval that had made the difference to his kicking. It had been fun just mucking around, with no pressure, no hassles, no one expecting him to be ‘Toggo’. No one except that kid, and he’d been great.

  ‘Whatcha thinkin?’ Alison asked.

  ‘Oh, that I’ve been sitting here in the sun too long. If I believe in magic boots, I’ll believe in the Tooth Fairy next.’

  Alison took a sip of her wine. ‘There’s a part of me still believes in fairies. And looks like there’s a part of you does too.’ She leant over and kissed him. ‘You’re just a big SNAF, really.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Sensitive New Age Footballer.’

  Toggo got serious with the calamari for a bit. He wasn’t too sure what to make of what Alison said sometimes. When he looked up, she had that expression on her face again. He grinned. ‘Don’t tell Justin Ayres that stuff about me being a SNAF,’ he told her. ‘He’s already working out what he’s going to do to me next time we meet. Only thing that gives me an edge is that he thinks I eat nails for breakfast.’

  DEAR TOGGO

  Dear Toggo

  My name is Greg Lukin and I’m the one you left the boots with at the oval on Sunday morning. I really enjoyed having a kick with you. I don’t think my friends will believe it when I tell them at school tomorrow. My brother is really jealous even though he goes for the Eagles.

  I’m writing to thank you very much for the boots. They’re the best boots I’ve ever had and I’m really looking forward to wearing them when I play next week. I know they’re special. I play full-forward for South Fremantle in the under fifteens and hope I kick as many goals with the boots on my feet as you would have done.

  Thanks again.

  PS. Kick a ton against the Roos next Saturday.

  Greg read the letter through. It was pretty short but it covered the main points. It should satisfy his mother anyway.

  He read it again more slowly. The bit about Toggo ‘leaving’ the boots was a bit sneaky. It wasn’t exactly a lie though. Toggo had left them. He might have even meant to, only he took off so quickly he hadn’t had time to say so. Anyway, when he got the letter he’d know Greg had the boots. And if he wanted them back, he’d know where to find him.

  Part of Greg felt good about that. It would be a total disaster though, trying to explain to his parents if Toggo did write — or, even worse, show up. He might not be able to convince them that ‘leaving’ and ‘giving’ were the same thing. The more he thought about it the worse he felt.

  The first thing Greg did all week when he came in from school was check the letterbox. Then he checked the top of the fridge in case Dad had knocked off early or Rowan had beaten him home. Please don’t let there be a letter, he’d say to himself as he got off the bus and walked the couple of blocks home. There’s not going to be a letter.

  Monday and Tuesday seemed to be just bills, but he thought he’d be pretty safe until the middle of the week anyway. (Unless Toggo sent someone around. And he wouldn’t do that would he?)

  Greg had figured it out as much as he
could. It would take at least a day for his letter to get to Dockers headquarters and the same time for one to come back to him. (He had, somehow, forgotten to give a phone number.) And then there was the time it would take Toggo to get the letter and write a reply. He probably only came into the ground a couple of times a week for training, and he’d be flying to Melbourne this Friday for the match with North Melbourne. So, with any luck, Greg would get a week or two’s wear out of the boots, whatever happened.

  When he got off the bus on Thursday he felt a tightening in his chest. There would have been enough time now for Toggo to have got the letter and written a reply. It was training tonight for the South Fremantle under fifteens and he really wanted to wear those boots.

  There were three envelopes in the letterbox. One was a bill and one was a letter for his father. The other one, in a plain white envelope, was addressed to him. Oh, hell! He tore it open.

  Dear Greg,

  Just a note from your favourite dentist to let you know that your six-monthly check-up is due. I will be delighted to examine your million-dollar smile at your earliest convenience.

  PS. I have sent a reminder to your folks as well. John Denning; D.D. (Demon Dentist)

  Dr Denning had become a real pain in the molars since he’d worked out how to do a standard letter on his computer. Kids all over the metropolitan area would be getting the same piece of crap with their name at the top like he’d done it just for them. Probably had a different version for the ankle biters — called himself Doctor Dolly or Doctor Dumptruck and printed out on pink or blue paper. And it looked like he’d got himself a graphics package. There’d be no stopping him now. Some adults went demented when they got their hands on a piece of hi-tech.

  Still, it was the first letter from a dentist that Greg was pleased to get. It meant he could wear the boots to training. And if there was no letter for him tomorrow, he could wear them in the game on Saturday.

  Alison was lying on the floor of the lounge room reading Matt’s mail. He was in his bedroom getting his stuff together ready to fly out next morning. Dempsey was going from room to room whining.

  ‘Come here, Demps.’ Alison held out her arm and Dempsey padded over. ‘He’s only going for two days, okay?’ Alison rubbed the dog’s ears. ‘I’ll miss him too. But you know he always comes back.’

  Dempsey didn’t look too convinced. ‘Hey, I’ll be here with you.’ Alison usually moved in while Matt was away. It kept Dempsey company, and was a break from the noise of the house she shared with some other students.

  Dempsey flopped onto the floor next to Alison, still uncertain. Her eyes were on the door Matt would come through when he’d finished packing.

  Alison went back to the letters. She enjoyed reading what kids wrote to Matt, or ‘Toggo’ as most of them called him. Some of the little kids were really great. She read the ones with big writing first.

  Dear Toggo

  I saw you play Friday. My Uncle David took me. I play for Balga under eights. My name is Ben. Can I have your autagraff please.

  Dear Toggo

  I go for the Dockers. Your my favorit. My sister goes for Essendon. I think they suck …

  There were a couple of letters that looked like they were from older kids.

  Dear Toggo

  My name is Greg Lukin and …

  Alison sat up. ‘Hey, Matt. There’s one here from that kid you met at the oval. He says he’s got your boots.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  Toggo came in and sat on the floor next to Alison. Dempsey snuggled in to his leg as he took the letter. ‘Fremantle address,’ he said. ‘Just the other side of the highway. It’d take only a couple of minutes to shoot over there and pick up the boots.’

  Toggo read the letter carefully. He had a smile on his face when he finished. ‘Well, looks like the boots have found a good home.’

  ‘Yeah, but you didn’t actually give them to that kid did you?’

  ‘Not as I remember.’

  Alison took the letter back and read it again. She laughed and shook her head. ‘Pretty nifty footwork. Smart kid. Saying that you “left” the boots with him is a stroke of genius.’

  ‘Probably had his parents breathing down his neck. It’d be pretty hard to explain how you got a pair of boots like that. I mean, what’s the poor kid s’posed to say — they fell off the back of a red Mustang convertible?’

  Alison smiled. ‘I guess not … So you’re going to let him keep them? I thought they were your special fairy boots.’

  ‘How could I possibly ask for them back after such a heart-rending letter? That kid will be packin’ it. He’s probably haunting the letterbox … and sweating on every big red car that goes past. And anyway, I drove off and left them behind. I think the fairy worked out whose feet they should be on, don’t you?’

  Alison nodded. ‘But, you know, Matt — I was right. You are just a big SNAF.’

  ‘Nah I’m not. I won’t write to tell him he can keep ’em until after a week or two. Let him sweat.’

  ‘Oh, real tough. Where do you keep those nails you have for breakfast? I better try some with my muesli.’

  KILLER BOOTS

  ‘What do you mean, they’re Toggo’s boots?’

  ‘Just what I said.’ Greg was trying to explain all the complications to his best mate Nathan while they were doing stretches at the side of the oval. It took a bit of explaining, especially when they had to keep bending and stretching into really weird positions. This might stop the team from getting strain injuries but it made them look like a mob of dorks.

  ‘Don’t tell anyone about the Toggo thing,’ Greg added. ‘It’s going to be bad enough handling the vibes from Mum and Dad if I have to give the boots back. I don’t want to be mega-embarrassed with all the guys as well.’

  ‘Sure. But what if he turns up on the doorstep and asks for the boots? What’ll your dad say?’

  ‘I’m trying not to think about that. But Mum’ll be worse — it was her I told the story to in the first place. If Toggo writes or comes around, Dad’ll ring and tell her for sure.’

  Things had been pretty heavy between Chris and Nick when they were going through the divorce, and for a while after that. But they were getting on a lot better now. This was a huge relief, but it meant they were a united force again when it came to things like homework and footy boots.

  ‘Couldn’t you keep quiet about a letter if you got one?’

  ‘I’m in deep enough. And anyway, I’d have to give the boots back, and how would I explain to Mum that they were missing? She’s already really suss. First these boots just appear, they can’t just disappear again.’

  ‘I bet Toggo won’t give a stuff about ’em,’ Nathan said. ‘He’d be too busy. And anyway, those big AFL players get plenty of cash. He’s not going to worry about a lousy pair of boots.’

  ‘That’s what I keep telling myself.’

  ‘And you actually got to have a kick with him …?’

  ‘Yeah … He wanted to practise kicking for goal and —’

  ‘Right, guys!’ The coach’s voice broke through like Chris Lewis splitting a pack. ‘Out on the oval. Three laps and then into it. Big game this Saturday. We’re playing Cockburn, remember.’

  The boots felt a bit loose as Greg jogged around the oval, but not too bad. He’d have to stuff a bit more cotton into them before the game though. Cockburn were tough. You couldn’t afford to have floppy feet against that crew.

  Nathan was puffing along beside him. It was only the second week of their competition and they were still a bit underdone. ‘You really … played kick to kick … with Matt Togno … lini?’

  ‘Would I … lie … to you?’

  They did some skills stuff after they finished the laps — mostly handball and tackling. Then the coach split some of them into two groups to practise kick to kick through the goals.

  Greg was in a pack jostling about forty-five metres from the posts. Michael Dunne, built like a concrete outhouse and named after one, gave him
a friendly nudge in the ribs.

  ‘Hey, Lukie. Reckon you know what those goalposts down there are for?’

  ‘You should know, Dunny. You’re s’posed to aim for the hole in the middle and just let rip.

  ‘S’ that right, Lukie?’ one of them said. ‘Must be why you’re always spraying in front of goals.’

  The other kids laughed and Greg hoped that would be the end of it. Normally he enjoyed the joking and slinging off that went on, but his mind was on the boots. This would be the first time he’d had a chance to go really full out with them. He’d tried to have a bit of a kick with Dad on the road earlier in the week, but a neighbour had come out and said that if he wanted his shrubs pruned he’d bring in a professional.

  The ball came in high and looping. Four of them went up for it but none of them could take the mark. Nathan, who was smaller and quicker than the rest, ran around the back and gathered in the crumbs. He punched the ball to Greg with a shine in his eyes. ‘Let’s try the new boots, hey?’

  Greg nodded. This was it. He ran towards goal, steadied, and sent down a full-on torpedo punt. It was a kick for distance. The ball soared off his boot, high, straight and beautiful — and sailed through the goal posts over the heads of the group down the other end.

  There was silence for a moment. Then, ‘What a kick!’ Dunny was open mouthed. Nathan was yelling and jumping up and down on the spot. ‘Now I know why they call them torpedoes.’

  Greg didn’t say anything. That ball going off his boot had been something else. It was like his body, the boot, the ball, had come together almost perfectly. He hadn’t felt anything like it before.

  A couple of balls later he set himself for a mark, and managed to bring it down on his chest. When he lined up his kick, everyone went quiet. This one went high and long like the first one, and straight through the goal posts.

  The coach, who was watching this time, called out. ‘Great kick, Greg! What have you been having on your Weeties?’