‘Willi One Blood. It’s called Whiney Whiney.’
I smiled politely. It did grow on you after a while though. Henry was bouncing along in the driver’s seat, banging his hands on the steering wheel. His head was nodding with the beat and he sang along to the chorus. Man, you know what really drives me crazy. It was kind of cool really.
‘Here we are,’ Henry said, pulling into the car park. ‘Hey, there’s your mate.’
Jason was just getting off a bus. I was looking forward to seeing him; I hadn’t seen him in weeks. The entire Glenfield Giants’ team was going to be there. Frank had sent the Glenfield coach a truckload of tickets, without telling him why. Even now, on the day of the first game of the season, nobody knew I was a Warrior.
Henry parked in a reserved space and I ran over to the bus to see Jason.
‘Hi, Jason.’
‘Hi, Daniel.’ He seemed a little uncomfortable.
‘How you been?’
‘Good, good, you?’
‘Yeah, good.’ We were talking to each other like two old ladies at the local cat show.
Just then, though, Phil Domane got off the bus and I steeled myself for the usual round of insults. Blocker got off behind him.
‘Danny-boy,’ Phil called out. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you’d given up playing league. Thought it was too hard-going for you.’
‘Give it a rest, Phil,’ I said.
‘Oh, I forgot,’ he laughed. ‘I suppose you’re playing for the Warriors today!’ Blocker cracked up at that one but Jason just looked more and more uncomfortable.
‘I suppose you’ll be playing first five-eighth, replacing Ainsley Retimanu.’ More laughter.
‘Actually,’ said a big voice from behind me, ‘he’ll be playing on the wing. But he’s coming off the reserves’ bench today.’
Phil’s eyes opened wide and, for once in his life, he didn’t seem to have anything to say. Behind him Blocker whispered, ‘That’s Henry Knight.’
I opened my mouth to ask Phil what key he was going to fart the national anthem in, but shut it again. I’d already won this round. No point in rubbing it in.
‘Hi, Henry,’ Jason said.
‘G’day, Jason, and who’s this?’
I said, ‘That’s Phil Domane.’
‘The boy without a brain,’ Henry said automatically, and I am sure he regretted it as soon as he said it. ‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean … anything.’ Phil’s mouth was as wide open as his eyes.
Henry wouldn’t say something to hurt someone on purpose. Not even a guy like Phil Domane. It had just slipped out and I think he felt quite bad. ‘Come on, Flea,’ Henry said. ‘Let’s get into the changing room.’
I walked off with him, not saying a word. All the weeks of secrecy were suddenly worth it, just to see that look on Phil Domane’s face.
I don’t know how Frank had managed to keep me secret from the media for so long, but once I sat down on the reserves’ bench in my Warriors’ uniform I was a secret no longer. There was an endless stream of photographers snapping away at everything I did, once they realised that I was not one of the ball boys. The commentators couldn’t stop going on about my age. I just felt so proud sitting down on the sideline, in my uniform, part of the greatest rugby league team in the country.
We were up against the Machetes. The Blacktown Machetes. They were a new side to the competition.
Their coach, Nathaniel Kettle, was from England and had a reputation as a hard man. As we found out during that game, and as many teams found out that season, the Machetes played hard and dirty. They played to win at all costs, and quite a few players got hurt playing against them. The worst injury that I knew of was what happened to Henry, but that didn’t happen till much later in the season.
The sun shone hot over the stadium and the grandstands were almost full. That was good news for a club which had had trouble attracting good crowds in some previous years.
A tall, thin player with bright, blonde hair, his name was Carver, kicked off for the Machetes. Ainsley took the kick and fed it to Bazza who made a great run up the field but took a swinging arm from the Machetes’ fullback, a mean-faced poker of a man named Dell Bean. His nickname was Rumble, I don’t know why.
Bazza got up with blood pouring from his nose, but played the ball before getting help from our trainers.
The rest of the game was pretty much the same. On the Warriors’ side, skill and flair, with bullocking runs from our forwards, Henry most of all. On the Machetes’ side, swinging arms and elbows and every bit of rough stuff in the book, whenever they could get away with it. The referee can’t be everywhere at once, and they got away with a lot.
At the end of the first half we were ahead by two points, thanks to a brilliant piece of footwork by Ricky Albany that put Ainsley into the corner on a run-around.
At the start of the second half I started looking up at the coaches’ box, wondering when Frank would inject me into the game. The crowd and the commentators were all wondering the same thing, but, with just ten minutes left to play in the game, Frank had used all his other reserves and not me.
Henry burst straight through the first couple of tacklers with five minutes to go and got his arms free to feed the ball around Rumble Bean’s back to Brownie, who fired a long basketball pass across to Ricky, who ran forty metres and scored the winning try with a great flourish.
A few minutes later the final whistle went and I, along with thirty thousand fans, three commentators, eighteen Warriors and most of the Glenfield Giants Rugby League Team were wondering why I hadn’t got on the field.
I told myself that Frank hadn’t wanted to risk me in such a tough game when we were ahead most of the time anyway. I told myself that and I hoped it was true.
I didn’t even bother to have a shower afterwards. No need. I just changed and sat quietly in the corridor waiting for Henry.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said when he finally emerged. ‘I’m sure he’ll use you next week. He’d be stupid not to.’
I smiled. ‘Yeah, he’d be stupid not to.’
Henry said, ‘Let’s go play some Chai-chop-ski.’
TEN
MEET THE PRESS
The press conference was held in the boardroom in the Warriors’ offices next door to the stadium. Usually it would have been held in the media room under the grandstand, but this was no ordinary press conference. There was me, Henry, Frank Rickman and Henshaw Walters (the Warriors’ manager) all lined up at a bench table at the end of the room.
The room was long and the dark, muddy-crimson walls were lined with framed Warriors’ uniforms from previous years, right back to their very first strip.
Interspersed with those were copies of newspaper articles about the team. One of them that caught my eye was a story, with a huge photograph, on the front page of the Sydney Morning Herald, all about Stacey Jones, the Warriors’ greatest-ever player.
Behind our table, the Warriors’ logo had been hastily tacked to the wall so it would appear in the photographs and television coverage. In the far corner, a large television set had been pushed against the wall to make way for a camera tripod. It was a big room, but it was packed.
Frank was there to answer questions from the team point of view. Henshaw was there to answer any financial questions. I was there … well, you know why I was there, and Henry was there because he’d volunteered to be there.
‘It’s going to be tough going,’ he’d said to Frank. ‘The Flea is going to need a friend.’ Frank had nodded.
They had rescheduled the press conference to the boardroom as soon as they had realised the number of reporters and camera crews that were going to be there. As well as all the usual sports journalists, there were people from all the newspapers up and down the country, radio stations, TV channels and two crews from Australian TV, who had flown over specially.
I felt quite important, really, for someone who had never played a game for the Warriors. I also felt really, really nervous at
all the flashing bulbs and TV cameras and microphones.
I needn’t have bothered. Feeling nervous that is. The questions were all for Frank, with just a few for Mr Walters about salary caps and what I was actually getting paid.
I just sat at the table next to Henry feeling like an ornament.
‘What did he do to win a place in the team?’ one of the Australian reporters asked, waving a spiral notepad at Frank. ‘He must have impressed you with something.’
Frank looked across at me and smiled before he turned back and answered. ‘You’re probably expecting me to tell you about his fancy footwork and his ball-playing skills, and his speed off the mark. And all that’s there. You’ll see when he takes the field. Daniel is a phenomenal young player. But that wasn’t what impressed me the most. What swung it for Daniel was his commitment and motivation. The very first day I met him I thought he was a brave kid for even walking into my office. During his trial he lost the ball, and most kids would have given up. But Daniel didn’t. He refused to give up even when it all seemed lost, and that’s the kind of attitude I need around here.’
‘Patrick King, Sports Herald,’ said a cheerful, chubby-faced man. ‘Aren’t you worried that Danny is going to get hurt, playing on a field with professional, adult league players? Especially teams like the Machetes.’
A low murmur ran around the room. First game of the season and the Machetes already had a reputation for tough and dirty tactics.
Henry jumped in ahead of Frank. ‘I’d like to answer that question,’ he said. ‘And first of all it’s Daniel, not Danny, but we all call him the Flea.’
Pens scribbled furiously at that.
‘During training, Frank asked me to have a run at the Flea. I think his words were “squash him”.’
There was laughter at that, although Frank looked quite uncomfortable. Henry continued, ‘I was a bit reluctant, because I’m not a little fella,’ more laughter, ‘and I didn’t want to hurt him. But the Flea here told me to give it my best shot. He told me, and these were his own words …’ Henry paused and stood up. The TV cameras had to tilt back to keep him in the shot. He reached down and plucked me out of my seat and lifted me up on to the table, so that I was almost eye-to-eye with him. ‘He told me not to chicken out.’
We faced off at each other for a moment in mock seriousness, like two heavyweight boxers weighing-in before a title fight. The room erupted in laughter and cameras flashed in a sheet of lightning.
Finally, someone asked me a question. It was a well-known sports reporter from Australian TV, Laura Grace. For some reason she spoke slowly and loudly, as if I was deaf, or stupid, or a three-year-old.
‘Daniel, are you excited to be playing with the Warriors?’
What kind of a dumb question was that? I resisted the temptation to give a smart answer that would have made me seem like a brat. I also resisted the temptation to answer her in the same silly kind of voice that she asked the question. I simply said, ‘Yes, it’s a great honour to be on the field with players who have been my heroes for many years.’
There were lots of other questions after that, but most of them were directed at Frank, so I just smiled and nodded a lot.
ELEVEN
QUADRUPLE SCOOPLES
Henry swung by the next day. We shot around to Jason’s house but he was over at Tupai’s, so we drove over there. It was really cool driving around in Henry’s car instead of biking everywhere all the time. They were playing stuntmen in the front yard, riding their bikes down the path, then pretending they’d just been shot by an unseen sniper and falling off, diving in a real dramatic way to the ground and rolling over and over.
Jason told me once that he had this secret hope that some big-time movie producer would be driving past just as they were doing it and would be needing some stunt-kids for a new movie they were making.
I didn’t think that was very likely, but it was a fun game anyway, and I used to play it with them sometimes. Before I was a Warrior that is.
‘Hey, guys,’ I called.
Jason said, ‘Hey, Daniel, hey, Henry.’
‘Hi, chaps,’ Henry replied.
Tupai looked nervous. I think he was a little awestruck by Henry. Strange, for the strongest kid in school and possibly the world.
‘You coming to the game?’ Jason asked.
‘What game?’ I asked.
‘The Nuggets.’ Jason looked disappointed. I felt like an idiot. I had completely forgotten that the Glenfield Giants were playing the Northcote Nuggets that afternoon. The Nuggets were much higher up the competition ladder and, being a neighbouring club, it was always a big match.
‘You coming?’ asked Tupai.
I looked up at Henry. ‘Sorry, guys. Love to. But we’ve got training. You know.’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Jason said, ‘we know.’
Henry said, ‘If you see that Phil Domane guy, can you tell him I’m sorry about calling him the boy without a brain.’
Jason laughed. I said, ‘He doesn’t need an apology. He’s just a dork.’
‘I’m sure he doesn’t mean to be nasty,’ Henry said. ‘Most people are really good when you get to know them.’
‘I don’t think so,’ I said. ‘Phil’s just plain mean.’
Henry shook his head doubtfully. Then he smiled. ‘Hey, I’ve got a softball bat in the boot of my car. Do you guys want to play some Ball and Bat?’
‘Ball and Bat?’ Both Jason and Tupai looked mystified.
‘You must know it. One guy pitches, another one hits, the rest field. After you hit the ball you lay the bat on the ground and whoever gets the ball tries to hit the bat with it.’
‘That’s Bat-Down!’ Jason said. ‘Yeah, sure.’
Tupai was keen too, although he still didn’t say very much around Henry. We all piled into Henry’s car and shot on down to Manuka Park. When we got there, Jason looked over at the entrance to the Lost Park and raised an eyebrow at me. I shook my head. The Lost Park was our secret. Not even my new friend Henry was allowed to know about that.
For a big guy Henry was really quick at Bat-Down (or Ball and Bat if you called it that). He was really co-ordinated with his pitching and catching, and if the ball went anywhere near him he’d get a hand to it for sure.
His batting was a bit of a problem for us smaller guys. The first time he hit the ball he knocked it clear out of the park. It landed somewhere down in the car park by the boat ramp.
After that, Jason had the idea of wrapping a sweatshirt around the bat whenever Henry was batting. He couldn’t hit it anywhere near as far like that, so it kind of evened up the odds a little.
‘Have you seen Jenny around at all?’ I asked Jason. He was batting, I was backstop. He wasn’t very good at it but he tried hard, and nobody minded.
‘Yeah, she’s around,’ Jason said cautiously.
‘I haven’t seen her for weeks. Training and all.’
Jason swung at the ball and missed. I caught it.
‘Strike one!’ Henry called out.
Jason nodded. ‘She watched your game. She told me.’
‘Shame I didn’t get on the field, eh?’ I said quietly. Jason swung and missed again.
‘Strike two!’ Henry called.
‘Yeah, shame. And I think Jenny was a bit disappointed that you forgot her birthday.’
I slapped a hand to my forehead. Jenny’s birthday! I had been so tied up with training that I had completely forgotten it.
Jason swung wildly at Henry’s last pitch. It was a good pitch but Jason was miles away from the ball.
‘Strike three, you’re out.’
I tossed the ball to Tupai, who was next-up pitcher, still shaking my head at my own stupidity. I had promised Jenny I wouldn’t forget her. But I had. I made a mental note to go and see her as soon as I had a free moment.
Jason handed me the bat, laughed and ran off to the outfield. He was like that. He wasn’t all that good at Bat-Down but he enjoyed himself anyway.
We just bashed
around like that for the rest of the morning until lunchtime when Tupai and Jason had to go home to get ready for their game. It was great. We laughed a lot.
On the way to training Henry and I stopped for ice-creams. I asked for a double scoop. Henry ordered a quadruple scoop. He called it a quadruple scoople, but the owner of the dairy seemed to know exactly what he meant. It was an ordinary ice-cream cone but with four, count ’em, four balls of ice-cream, all different flavours, piled one on top of the other. The dairy guy had to push a milkshake straw down the middle to stop them all from falling off!
Henry smiled at me on the way out of the dairy and said, ‘Don’t tell Susan.’
Susan Parkes was our dietician and nutritionalist. I’m sure she would have frowned on a quadruple scoople.
The next morning I came down for breakfast before school. Dad was still there, which was unusual because he normally went off to the gallery before I woke up. He had the newspaper in front of him and he turned it around without a word.
The story hadn’t just made the sports’ section, it had made the front page. Almost a quarter of the page was taken up with a huge photo of me and Henry squaring off at the press conference. The headline ran: Henry and the Flea.
I think it was the first time Dad had really realised that what I was doing was something pretty special.
‘Sit down, Danny,’ he said. ‘Have some breakfast.’
‘Shouldn’t you be at work?’ I felt a little uncomfortable. I wasn’t used to Dad being there in the morning, let alone wanting to talk when I had just woken up.
‘I’ve shut the gallery for the day.’ I couldn’t believe it. Dad never did that! He continued, ‘I didn’t realise … I guess I just didn’t realise.’
‘It’s just another team, Dad. It’s nothing.’
Dad looked at me, and I had the horrible feeling that he was going to cry, but I didn’t understand why. ‘No, it’s not, Danny. It’s not nothing. I’ve just been too … I haven’t been …’
He shut his eyes for a moment. I was starting to understand what the problem was.
The Flea Thing Page 5