Arks opened his door. I said nothing.
‘This’ll be the first one, then,’ he said.
I wasn’t much of a footballer. Not much of an optimist either.
The oval is on the edge of town, close to the Kapoona road, a stone’s throw from Porky Fraser’s pigsties. When there was an easterly blowing, like tonight, you wished they’d thrown that stone a bit further.
First we had some goal-kicking practice. I was the worst kick in our side, probably on the whole peninsula. I knew all the theory – weight evenly balanced, eyes on the ball, leg straight, toe pointed, follow right through. If they had an exam, sat you in a classroom and asked you a whole lot of questions about how to kick a footy, then I’d come top. But all this info in my head didn’t get to the rest of my body. Something happened to it in transit, it got confused, muddled up. Instead of a perfect lace-out drop-punt the ball would dribble along the ground, skew off to the side, or sometimes it didn’t go anywhere, I’d miss it completely. What really annoyed me was that somebody like Mark Arks, who could really boot the ball, knew bugger-all about the theory.
‘Geez, I dunno, mate,’ he’d say, shaking his head, if you asked him any sort of technical question.
A couple of weeks ago we were playing Murraculka. I was lining up to take a shot for goal. Dead in front. Some moron yelled out from the boundary.
‘Jesus Christ, not him, he couldn’t kick the ball over a jam jar.’
Of course everybody thinks this is a great joke. Even my team-mates. I missed the goal. Out on the full. After that they called me Jam-Jar Black. Only for about a week, though. It seems like the only nicknames that ever lasted were the ones I made up.
Arks stood in the goal square and I took shots at the goals. After a while he got sick of chasing after the ball.
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘let’s try some ruck work.’
In the old days all the ruck ever did was jump up and punch the ball as hard as he could. But that all changed. It was the Aboriginal champion ‘Polly’ Farmer who changed it. He revolutionised ruck work. He introduced skill and finesse. Instead of just punching the footy, he tapped it, he palmed it, he placed it. He thought about what he was going to do with it.
Arks threw the ball up in the air.
‘Jump, lad,’ he yelled, ‘and thump the bloody thing.’
I jumped and I thumped. But I missed, ending up flat on my backside. A galah in the gum tree behind us squawked. Arks threw the ball up. I jumped again. I thumped again. This time I connected with a thwack! and the ball flew towards the goals.
‘That’s it Blacky, that’s it, lad, thump the bloody thing.’
It felt good, real good. I looked triumphantly towards the gum tree.
We should’ve stopped then, when my confidence was up. But Arks kept tossing the ball up in the air, again and again and again. And I kept jumping and trying to thump it. It was getting dark and in the fading light the ball became blurred and indistinct. I could hardly see it. My legs were tired and my hands were sore. I was missing all the time now. Even the galah got tired of watching. It gave a final squawk and flew off towards the town.
At last Arks called it quits. He said nothing as we bounced along the back road to my place. But I could smell his disappointment, even with all that Brylcreem. Well, I thought, I might as well get some enjoyment out of tonight. I baited the hook.
‘Did Dumby Red ask you about those boots?’
‘What boots? He never arksed me anythink.’
Whammo! Double banger – an ‘arksed’ and an ‘any-think’. But it didn’t give me much of a thrill. Poor Arks – with his banged-up ute, his stale Pollywaffles, his baggy shorts, his Brylcreem, his missus who shot through, all those grand finals and not a bloody one. I was feeling sorry for him. This was his big chance – the talk was that next year the Point would get organised, field its own team – and he’d lost Carol, his best player, his first ruck. All he had was me – Jam-Jar Black.
We pulled up in front of the house. It was late, they’d probably started dinner already.
‘You look after yourself, lad,’ said Arks as I got out.
‘Sure will. See ya Saturday.’
‘You bet. Take care.’
‘And, Mr Robertson.’
‘Yes, lad.’
‘Don’t worry, we’re gunna win this one.’
‘You betcha we will,’ said Arks. But he didn’t sound too convinced.
5
They used to have a team out at the Point. A good one, too. They’d won heaps of flags. But then they got kicked out of the compy for brawling. Not the players, the spectators. One of them had run onto the field and decked the ump. Broke his jaw. Since then, the Nungas had played for us.
Every year, before the season started, Arks would drive out to the Point and pick up all those players who wanted a game. Then there’d be a training session so Arks could check them all out, decide who was any good. After training he’d put a list on the notice-board. This was the squad. If you weren’t on that list, then bad luck pal, you had no chance of making the team.
That’s when I first met Dumby Red. Arks had just been out to the Point and the Arksmobile was packed with Nungas. I knew a couple of them from last year, but the rest were strangers. Maybe I’d seen them around, but I didn’t know them.
Even though the Point was only half an hour’s drive from the Port, the two towns didn’t have much to do with one another. The footy was really the only place where Nungas and Goonyas got to hang around together.
There must’ve been about forty of us in the change rooms. Usually, especially at the start of the season, the Nungas got changed at one end and us Goonyas at the other. There was no rule or anything, it was just the way it was.
I was sitting down, lacing up my boots. The place next to me was empty. I’d bagsed it for Pickles. We always sat together.
Mark Arks was parading around in his jockstrap. He was the only one in our team who had one, the rest of us just wore our undies. A jockstrap, in case you don’t know, is a weird-looking contraption that’s supposed to offer extra protection to the reproductive organs. Mark Arks thought that because he had a jockstrap there was something special about his reproductive organs. But I’d seen them a few times and they looked pretty ordinary to me.
Somebody sat down next to me.
‘That’s Pickles’ spot,’ I said without looking up.
‘All look the same to me, brudda,’ came the reply.
I sat up. It was a Nunga, one I didn’t know. He was smiling. I couldn’t help noticing his teeth. They were perfect. He wasn’t tall, but not short either. Slim, athletic-looking. He had long hair, shoulder length. And he was wearing Levi’s, a denim shirt and basketball boots with red stars on the side and red laces.
What great boots! I’d never seen any like that before. He hadn’t bought them local, that’s for sure.
‘Any hangers around here?’ he said, undoing the buttons on his shirt.
‘You’ve gotta be joking,’ I said.
Hangers? There weren’t even proper hooks, just nails banged into the wall.
‘You play footy?’ he said.
‘Yeah, I’m the second ruck. What about you, what position d’you play?’
‘Dunno,’ he said.
‘Whatta ya mean you dunno?’
‘We don’t play no positions out the Point. We just run around and dob the footy. None of that position stuff.’
He took a jumper from his bag. It was blue – Carlton colours. Then he pulled it on over his head. I could see the number now. It was 25. Unbelievable! – he was wearing Jezza’s number! My herd, the best footballer on the planet, and this dumb Nunga who didn’t even know what position he played was wearing his jumper.
‘Anyways, what your name called?’ he said.
‘Gary. But everybody calls me Blacky. What’s yours?’
‘Dumby Red.’
‘What?’
‘Dumby Red.’
‘Why they call you that?�
�
‘It’s me name, unna.’
‘But it’s not your proper name, is it? It’s not what’s on your birth certificate?’
‘I don’t know nothing ’bout that birth certificate stuff, all I know is me name’s Dumby Red.’
When he’d done up his boots he took out a white comb.
‘There a mirror round here?’ he said.
‘Over there,’ I said, pointing.
He walked over, and started combing his hair.
Pickles arrived.
‘Whose stuff is this?’ he said, annoyed.
I nodded towards Dumby. He was still combing his hair.
‘Okay, let’s get out there,’ bellowed Arks.
The other players started to move outside. I waited for Pickles to get changed. We were the last to leave, except for Dumby. He was still at it, combing away.
‘You coming?’ I said.
‘Yep,’ he said, slipping his comb into his sock.
‘Okay, lads, two laps warm-up,’ said Arks.
There was a chorus of groans.
‘Get to it. Now!’ he said.
We took off. I was at the back with Dazza and Pickles. Dumby Red was in front of us. The pace was slow and we all kept together. Then about halfway through the second lap Arks yelled, ‘Sprint it in from there.’ Pickles soon dropped behind. Dazza and I had our usual race. I looked ahead expecting to see Mark Arks in the lead. He was the school sprint champion after all. But instead it was Dumby who was first. And was doing it easy too, with long balanced strides.
‘Geez, can he run, or what?’ said Dazza after we’d arrived.
‘Doesn’t mean he can play footy,’ I said. This Dumby Red kid was starting to annoy me.
‘Circle work,’ yelled Arks, after Pickles had struggled in last. We spread out across the oval.
Arks kicked the ball towards Dumby.
‘Mark it,’ he yelled.
Dumby took a couple of strides, jumped up easily, grabbed the ball in front of his eyes and stabbed it with his left foot back to Arks. It thudded into his chest.
‘And again,’ yelled Arks.
This time he grubbered the ball along the ground. Dumby ran straight at it, scooped it up one-handed and kicked it back. With his right foot this time. Again it thudded into Arks’s chest.
After training Arks pinned the list to the notice-board. All of us crowded around. Top of the list was Mark Arks. The next name down was Dumby Red’s. Further down was my name. Then Dazza’s. Pickles’ was last.
Arks was in a good mood, laughing and cracking jokes as the Nungas piled back into the Arksmobile. He knew he’d have a good side – Mark Arks in the centre and Carol leading the ruck. And if this Dumby Red played like he trained, then Arks’d found the forward he’d been looking for. Maybe this’d be his big chance.
Dazza, Pickles and I started walking home.
‘Nukkin ya, Blacky,’ yelled Dumby from the back of the Arksmobile as it rattled past.
‘Nukkin ya’ is Nunga talk for ‘see ya’.
‘Mate of yours now, is he?’ said Pickles.
‘No way. Not him. I hate his guts,’ I said, and I spat on the ground just to show I meant it.
And I suppose I did mean it. This Dumby Red was trendy, he was talented, he was up himself, he wore Jezza’s number 25, and he had that smile.
A couple of months later we were playing Tangaratta, at Tangaratta. They were a hopeless team, but they had Mad Dog. He was a scrawny kid with dirty blond hair that hung over his mean eyes and a mouth full of busted teeth. Mad Dog was a hopeless player, but that didn’t matter, he never went for the ball anyway. He’d do anything to put you off your game – punch you in the stomach, elbow you in the face, kick you in the nuts. Anything.
We thrashed them 27.9 to 1.2. Dumby kicked eight goals from the half-forward flank. Eight more than me. I didn’t even touch the ball. I spent the whole game making sure I was nowhere near Mad Dog.
After the game was over, a few of us – me, Mark Arks, Deano, Pickles, Dazza, and a couple of others – decided to check out the town. It didn’t take long. There wasn’t much to check out – just a few empty streets. The only place open was the servo.
‘There’s ya mate,’ said Pickles.
Dumby and Clemboy, another Nunga, were coming out of the servo. Both of them were munching on a packet of chips.
‘Piss off, he’s not my mate,’ I said. ‘I hate his guts.’
But this time I didn’t spit, because I didn’t mean it. A terrible thing had happened – I’d stopped hating Dumby Red’s guts. I couldn’t help it, I’d started to like him.
I suppose in the beginning I was jealous, because he was so talented. He could do it all, all the clichés – take the big grab, snap goals from impossible angles, kick equally well with either foot, run past people like they were standing still. He could’ve kicked ten goals every match if he wanted to, but he gave out heaps of handballs. If you called for the ball he’d pass it to you. He was a real team player.
Dumby was totally up himself, there’s no denying that. He couldn’t walk past a mirror or a shop-window without stopping. I’d even caught him looking at his reflection in a puddle, giving that white comb of his a good workout.
Despite this I still liked him. Probably because he was mad. Really mad. Madder than a cut snake. Life was never boring when he was around.
So I stopped hating Dumby’s guts. Except I still acted like I did. I was used to it, I suppose. It was easier to stay like that.
‘What a dump,’ said Mark Arks. ‘I’m going back.’
‘Me, too,’ said Dazza.
Everybody agreed there wasn’t a lot of excitement to be had in Tangaratta.
Then we met them, a gang of Tangaratta kids coming the other way. Mad Dog was one of them. We stopped. They stopped. We looked at them. They looked at us.
‘What are youse looking at?’ said Pickles.
‘What are youse looking at?’ said a red-haired kid with heaps of freckles.
‘What’s it to you, bloodnut?’ said Pickles.
‘Nuffin,’ said Bloodnut. ‘What’s it to you, scumbag?’
It went on like this for quite a while. Pickles and the Bloodnut exchanging compliments. Nobody seemed to be getting the better of it. I was losing interest. My stomach was desirous of a pie.
‘Let’s go,’ I said. ‘I’m hungry.’
‘Yeah, let’s go,’ said Dazza, and we started to walk away.
Then Bloodnut yelled, ‘Get ’im Mad Dog!’
Before I knew it Mad Dog had me in a headlock. I’m not sure why he chose me. Maybe it was because I was the tallest. Maybe it was because he didn’t like the look of me. Maybe it was because I’d spent the whole game running away from him, and he hadn’t had the chance to punch me in the stomach, elbow me in the face, or kick me in the nuts. Whatever the reason, he had his arm around my neck and my nose was wedged up against his armpit. It didn’t feel good. It smelt even worse. Mad Dog was scrawny, but he sure was strong. Whenever I tried to pull my head free he’d give a mad cackle and rap me on the top of the head with his knuckles.
‘Help me! Help me! Get him off me!’ I screamed. Nobody, none of my team-mates, did a thing.
Then he started spinning me around and around. I was getting dizzy.
‘Whatta ya reckon? Into the turnbuckle,’ he said.
Into the turnbuckle was an illegal, but effective, tactic used by the wrestlers on the telly. The baddy would ram the goody’s head into the turnbuckle. And even though the turnbuckle was well-padded and the wrestlers were only acting, it still looked painful.
But where, I wondered, was Mad Dog going to find a turnbuckle in the main street of Tangaratta?
When I saw what he had in mind I started to get really worried.
‘Help, help, for Chrissakes help!’ I yelled, as loud as I could.
Mad Dog wanted to ram my head into a Stobie pole. Stobie poles are made from steel and concrete. They don’t have much padding.
‘Better let him go,’ said Bloodnut. ‘He’s shittin’ himself.’
‘Yeah, let him go. He’s shitting himself,’ everybody agreed, especially me.
Everybody except Mad Dog.
‘Into the turnbuckle,’ he said, and he started running.
I looked up, the Stobie pole was looming closer and closer. Just when I could feel my head crunching against the concrete, Mad Dog loosened his grip. I pulled free.
I spun around. Now Dumby Red had Mad Dog in a headlock. And he was really squeezing, too. Mad Dog’s face was getting redder and redder.
‘Ya had enough?’ said Dumby. ‘Had enough?’
The Mad Dog was doing everything he could to get free. But he couldn’t. Dumby had him in a vice-like.
‘Enough,’ said Mad Dog, finally. ‘Enough.’
Dumby let go. Mad Dog turned around with his hand outstretched.
‘No hard feelings,’ said Mad Dog. ‘Shake on it.’
It was the honourable way to end a fight.
‘No hard feelings,’ said Dumby, smiling.
As Dumby went to take his hand, Mad Dog swung his left fist around in a huge haymaker. It caught Dumby on the side of his face. His head snapped back. I thought it’d knock him out, a punch like that. Dumby wobbled a bit, but he stayed on his feet.
He was looking at Mad Dog, like he couldn’t comprehend what had just happened.
‘Don’t shake hands with no boongs,’ said Mad Dog.
The first punch landed flush on his nose. There was a crunching noise and blood spurted out. The second punch closed his eye. The third punch would’ve killed him I reckon, but it didn’t connect. Mad Dog ducked, and took off down the street like a startled rabbit. The rest of his gang followed.
‘Thanks, Dumby,’ I said as we all walked back to the oval.
‘That’s okay,’ he said, rubbing the side of his face. He let me have one of his killer smiles.
It was just the excuse I needed. Now I could stop hating Dumby’s guts. Thank God for that.
Deadly Unna? Page 2