So the correct answer is four in the front (two adults, siblings seven and eight), four in the back seat (siblings one to four) and two right in the back (siblings five and six).
Except today there were only nine of us.
‘Is Dad ready?’ I said as I squeezed in.
‘He’ll be a while yet,’ said Mum.
‘But isn’t he coming with us?’
‘No, he’ll come later.’
‘But how will he get there?’
‘The whole of the Port’s going, there’ll be no shortage of rides.’
‘Are you sure he’s coming?’
‘I’m sure,’ she said, adjusting the seat so it was all the way forward. Then she started the engine.
The siblings cheered. We were off.
The finals were in Wangaroo. The finals were always in Wangaroo. Because of their facilities, which were second to none. I’d like a Pollywaffle for every time somebody from Wangaroo had said to me, ‘Our facilities – second to none, mate.’ I think they must’ve learnt it at a very early age.
I have to admit – their oval was green and lush. Ours was brown and dusty. It never got watered, the club couldn’t afford it, the funds weren’t there. Our change rooms were a bit rough, too. Dirt floors, cold showers. Nails for hangers. Visiting teams were always whinging about it. Wangaroo had tiled floors and hot showers. I suppose they were right – second to none.
So Wangaroo had the home-ground advantage. Another fact of life – never underestimate the importance of the home-ground advantage.
We arrived early, of course. There was nobody at the gate so we got in for nothing. But being early wasn’t about saving money. Later Mum would send a sibling over with the entrance fee. Being early was about being early.
Mum parked the car in her favourite place, just around from the goals, between the forward-pocket and the half-forward flank. The siblings piled out. There were only a few people around. A man was trundling a funny-looking machine around the edge of the oval, marking the boundary line with white paint. Three blokes were erecting a beer tent – they always put an extra one up for the finals. A white van pulled up next to the canteen. ‘Wangaroo Bakery’ it said on the side.
What a day for footy! It was perfect – cool, and the sky was clear with just a few wispy clouds up high. There was no wind either.
Mum unscrewed the thermos and poured a cup of tea. Then she took a pen and started on ‘Mr Wisdom’s Whopper’, her favourite crossword.
‘Come on, let’s have a dob,’ said Best Team-man.
He ran onto the oval, bouncing the ball, dodging imaginary tackles. Then he kicked the ball, aiming for a couple of magpies pecking around in the grass.
‘Leave ’em alone,’ I shouted.
The birds flew off as the ball bounced next to them. They landed on the branch of a gum tree behind the goals.
‘At least they’re wearing black and white, our colours,’ I said.
‘Yeah, but I betcha they still barrack for Wangaroo,’ said Best Team-man.
‘Jezza on the lead,’ I yelled, running into space.
Team-man kicked the ball out in front of me. I marked it on my chest. Then I looked up, took two steps and kicked. The ball took off like a rocket and soared over the goals.
‘That’s it,’ I said walking back to the car.
‘What do you mean, that’s it?’ said Best Team-man ‘We just got out here. That was a great dob.’
‘I know it was, that’s why I have to stop. If I use up all my great dobs now, I won’t have any left for the match.’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘I’m not being stupid. It’s mathematics. Probability.’
‘Kicking a football is probability?’
‘Sure. It’s like this. I’m not the greatest kick, right? I’ll be the first to admit that. Maybe one out of ten kicks will be any good. So probability is that the next nine will be shithouse.’
‘Then just have nine quick kicks and start all over again.’
‘Geez, you’re hopeless at maths. Probability doesn’t work like that. Maybe the next nine kicks will be good. Then I will have stored up ninety bad kicks, and I won’t have time before the match to use them up.’
‘Then mean to kick badly.’
‘No, you can’t do that, you can’t trick probability. Don’t you know that’s why casinos make stacks of money, because you can’t trick probability?’
‘Then why did you even bother coming out for a dob?’
‘In case I did ninety bad kicks, then I’d have ten good ones all ready for the game.’
‘Fair dinkum,’ said Team-man, shaking his head in disgust. He hated that, when I beat him with pure and impeccable logic.
As I walked back to the car, a dusty white ute pulled up alongside Mum. Bales of hay in the back, a pointy-nosed sheep-dog running from one side to the other, barking. Grills Lillee was driving. He always parked next to Mum. Sitting in the passenger seat was Grills Lillee’s son, also called Grills Lillee. All the male Lillees (and some of the female Lillees) were called Grills. Don’t ask me why, I don’t think even the Lillees knew. Some sort of family tradition I suppose. It got a bit confusing, so we called the son ‘Young’un Grills’. But ‘Young’un Grills’ had three brothers and each of them was called ‘Young’un Grills’. Luckily they weren’t with the other Grills Lillees today. They were probably back on the farm, feeding the chooks, or watering the sheep, or whatever it is that farmers do.
Grills leant across and wound the window down. He looked like all farmers – big horsy teeth, face red from the sun, and a haircut he’d given himself with his wool clippers.
‘Gidday, Mrs Black,’ he said.
Grills talked like all farmers, too. By using the squeeze technique. It was because of all those flies out in the bush. Open your mouth, and you’d end up with one down your throat. Not a pleasant experience, I can assure you. So farmers like Grills didn’t open their mouths, they squeezed out words from a little chink in the side. But they got so used to it, they did it all the time, even when the chance of getting a fly in the throat was minimal. Squeezing out words was a very slow process. In the time it took Grills Lillee to say, ‘Gidday, Mrs Black,’ most people would’ve carried out a fairly decent conversation.
‘Gidday, Mr Lillee,’ replied Mum.
‘Nice day for it,’ squeezed Grills.
‘Perfect,’ said Mum.
That was it. Grills didn’t say anything after that. He probably wouldn’t for the rest of the day. It was hard work squeezing out words. That’s why Grills sat in his ute all day. That’s why he didn’t go over to the beer tent with the rest of the blokes and abuse the mug-rotten umpires. That’s why he beeped his horn so much.
The siblings had run off in all directions. Two of them were tying the banner to the fence. I lay down on the back seat.
‘Are you feeling okay, dear?’ said Mum.
‘I’m all right, just a bit nervous,’ I said.
I closed my eyes. The sun was level with the window now, its warmth filtering through onto my face. It was quiet, only the sound of Mum’s pen scratching away on ‘Mr Wisdom’s Whopper’. I was drifting off.
Ka – bang!!
An exhaust backfired. A car pulled up next to ours. I sat up. It was a station-wagon, full of rust, a bunch of black and white streamers tied to the aerial. In the front sat Shirl and Mick, and in the back was Pickles.
‘It’s Shirl and Mick!’ I said.
‘It’s not,’ said Mum, looking up from the crossword. ‘Blast,’ she said under her breath.
You probably don’t rate ‘blast’ very high as far as swear words go. Maybe you don’t even think it is a swear word. But my mum did. According to her, ‘blast’ was right up there. It was strong language indeed. She wasn’t happy.
‘Gidday,’ said Mick, getting out of the car.
Mick was a skinny little bloke, but hard work had made him tough and sinewy. Years ago he’d got cancer of the left ear, so the doctors had
chopped it off. They’d given him a false one, but Mick didn’t like it; he never wore it. Instead he’d pull his beanie (always a black and white one) down on one side, to cover the hole. We’d all gotten used to it, but it must’ve looked pretty weird to anybody else. Mick had dressed up for the occasion – he was wearing tight brown trousers, a wide belt with a serious buckle, a white nylon shirt and his best thongs. Even his beanie looked clean.
He was rolling a cigarette. Once Mick put a rollie in his mouth, it didn’t come out, that’s where it stayed, stuck to his bottom lip, even when he talked. Mick didn’t talk that much anyway, and when he did it was usually only a single word like ‘yep’ or ‘nup’ or ‘dunno’.
Shirl got out from the other side.
‘Gidday, Gwen,’ she said to Mum.
‘Gidday, luv,’ to me.
Shirl reminded me of the cuttlefish shells we collected from the beaches. She was sort of frail and sun-bleached. Her eyes were blue, but a faint blue, the colour of your favourite t-shirt that’s been washed over and over. She was wearing an old footy jumper. It came down to her knees. Below that her skinny legs stuck out.
‘Have a feed of prawns with us and a beer won’t ya, Gwen?’ said Shirl, lighting up a ciggie.
‘Yes, I’d love that,’ said Mum.
She was lying.
Shirl and Mick hardly ever came to the footy but when they did, they didn’t muck about, they made a big day of it. Mick set up two deck chairs in front of the car, just behind the boundary line. He struggled by with an enormous esky. He put it between the two chairs. Then they both sat down. Mick fished two stubbies out of the esky. He handed one to Shirl. In perfect unison, like synchronised swimmers, they tore the tops off, raised the stubbies to their mouths, and took a sip.
‘Imagine,’ said Mum softly, looking up from her crossword. ‘At this time of the day.’
‘We passed Arks,’ said Pickles. ‘He’ll be here soon.’
As if on cue the Arksmobile farted into the ground. I could see the Nungas jumping up and down in the back. I could hear them laughing and yelling.
It pulled in next to the Grills. I couldn’t see Dumby anywhere.
Immediately I thought the worst – Dumby’s not coming. Something happened to him. First we lose Colin (who used to be Carol). Now Dumby. May as well just hand the trophy over to Thumper. Don’t even bother playing.
‘Where’s Dumby?’ I asked Clemboy.
‘Coming with his mob. Be here dreckly,’ he said.
Thank God for that. But who was Dumby’s mob? I didn’t even know Dumby had a mob. He always got a lift to the footy with Arks.
‘Here they come now.’
A late-model Holden Torana, covered in thick red dust, came through the gates. It stopped on the other side of the oval.
‘Why don’t they park here?
‘Search me,’ said Clemboy. ‘Why don’t you go arks ’em?’
By the way – the Arks family weren’t the only ones who said arks.
‘Come on, let’s go see them,’ I said to Pickles.
‘Nah, you go. He’s your mate, not mine.’
I walked around the boundary. Past all the cars with Wangaroo colours. There were plenty of filthy looks and a few muttered comments. One little kid even tried to trip me up. I was behind enemy lines here, that’s for sure. It was a relief to get to Dumby’s car. He was standing at the back, looking good as usual, wearing his favourite boots with the red stars. There was a girl next to him. Somehow she looked familiar. Then two men got out of the front.
‘Hey, Dumby. I didn’t think you were coming. I was getting worried,’ I said.
He smiled.
‘Don’t worry about me, brudda. Mr Reliable. Hey, this here is my little sis, Clarence. This is Blacky.’
‘Gidday,’ she said.
Then I realised where I’d seen her – playing netball. I used to go and watch my sisters play. (Not to perve on the girls’ undies like Pickles, honest.) I remembered Clarence because she was so good. She was short, but quick. Sometimes too quick for her team-mates – they wouldn’t be ready for her passes, the ball would fly past them. Clarence. That’s right, the other players called her ‘Clar’. Good pass, Clar. Well done, Clar. But I didn’t know she was Dumby’s sister.
‘Gidday,’ I said.
‘And this is me dad,’ said Dumby.
‘Pleased to meet ya,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘Chug-a-lug.’
Dumby and his old man were like peas in a pod. Except one of the peas had grown a fair-sized beer gut. He looked pretty fit though, like he could still pull on the boots and play a decent game of footy (as long as he didn’t have to run around too much). He was a flashy dresser, too. He was wearing white shoes and a cowboy hat. There were a couple of huge rings on his fingers and a chunky gold watch on his wrist.
‘Good day for the footy, Mr Red,’ I said, shaking his hand.
Dumby and Clarence laughed.
‘I ain’t no mister,’ he said, smiling. The same killer smile as Dumby. ‘Call me Tommy. Chug-a-lug.’
‘And that’s my Uncle Sid,’ said Dumby.
Uncle Sid was looking out at the oval. He looked around, over his shoulder, when Dumby said his name.
‘Gidday,’ he said, and he turned his gaze back to the oval.
Then Arks’s voice came floating across the oval. ‘All youse Port players. Get over here. Now!’
‘I think he wants us,’ said Dumby.
‘I think he might,’ I said.
Dumby grabbed his bag from the back of the car.
‘Good luck, youse two,’ said Clarence. ‘I’ll be cheering for youse.’
My face went red. Well, I think it went red. It felt like it went red.
‘Chug-a-lug,’ said Tommy.
By now all our players had arrived. They were standing around the Arksmobile. There were plenty of dads there, too. I looked around but I couldn’t see mine, not even over at the beer tent.
‘I want us all to sit together in the stand,’ said Arks. ‘No wandering off. Watch the first half of the Under 12s’ game. I want youse to watch which way the ball bounces, see what the wind’s doing. Let’s go now.’
Dumby and I sat together. He started combing his hair.
Then the Thumper walked past. He was wearing shorts and a truckie’s singlet. He had a pie in each hand. He took a bite from one, then the other.
‘Geez, he’s got bigger,’ said Deano.
‘Look at the size of those arms,’ said Clemboy.
‘Imagine the tatts he could fit on them,’ said Pickles.
It was Pickles’s dream to get a tatt.
‘Be quiet you guys, he might hear you,’ I said.
‘Hey, Thumper,’ yelled Dumby.
‘Shut up, Dumby,’ I said.
The Thumper kept on walking. Thank God he didn’t know he was the Thumper.
‘Wangaroo first ruck. Up here,’ yelled Dumby, louder this time.
The Thumper stopped, and looked up towards us in the stand. He didn’t say anything, but he had that stance – legs apart, elbows slightly out, like those gunslingers in the old westerns. Instead of six-shooters he had meat pies, but he was still dangerous. I elbowed Dumby in the ribs.
‘Best team win, unna,’ said Dumby, smiling.
Thumper smiled back. Bits of pie crust between his teeth.
Then, in a voice as deep as the graves he dug, he said, ‘Yeah, best team win,’ and kept on walking.
‘What you do that for?’ I said to Dumby.
‘Why not?’ he answered.
It was typical of Dumby. He was always doing things like this. Mad things that had no meaning.
The siren went. Half-time. Murraculka Under 12s were leading Tangaratta Under 12s by eleven points. Big deal.
‘Okay, lads, let’s go,’ said Arks. ‘Time to get ready.’
‘PORT’ said the handwritten sign on the change room’s door. Wangaroo’s facilities may have been second to none, but the smell was the same, like all chan
ge rooms – sweat, dirty socks, liniment oil.
By the time I’d finished changing, that squadron of butterflies had resumed their aerial manoeuvres. I wasn’t the only one who was nervous, though. I looked at my team-mates spread around the room. Some were sitting down, heads between their knees, others were pacing back and forth, like lions in a cage, others were bouncing footies against the wall. Even Dumby had tied and untied his bootlaces about ten times already.
But Arks was more nervous than all of us. He had a piece of chalk in his hand and was attacking the blackboard like a mad man. ‘Chalking out the tactics’ he called it. When he’d finished it looked like a kid’s scribble from kindy. I don’t know why he bothered. Let’s face it, Arks only had one tactic – ‘down the guts’. I suppose he had ‘kick it long’ as well, but that was really just a variation of ‘down the guts’.
Opposite me, on the wall, there was a sign in big black letters – ‘WINNING ISN’T EVERYTHING IT’S THE ONLY THING.’
Winning. Losing. Winners. Losers. The old man went on about it all the time. ‘There’s only two types of people in the world, son – winners and losers. Now, which one do you wanna be?’
‘Um, think I’d like to be a loser, Dad, if that’s okay with you.’
There was a knock on the door. An umpy, all in white, appeared. ‘You’ve got ten minutes,’ he said in a high voice.
‘Sit down, everybody,’ said Arks.
Time for the pep talk.
We all squeezed along the bench, thigh against thigh. Arks stood in front of us. He bent over slightly from the waist so that his eyes were on the same level as ours. His slicked hair glistened under the lights. He was holding a footy in one hand.
‘Youse lads,’ he began. ‘This is it.’
Thwack! He slammed the footy into his other hand.
‘This is what we’ve been playing for all year.’
Thwack!
‘The whole of the Port is here to watch youse today.’
Except my old man, I thought.
‘And they ain’t going home disappointed.’
What did I tell you – football breeds optimism.
Thwack!
‘This ain’t just a game of footy,’ he said.
Yes it is, I thought, looking down at my boots. That’s exactly what it is – just a game of footy. Just a stupid game of footy. Who cares if we win? Does it really matter? What does it prove? The Port will still be a dump. Arks’s Pollywaffles will still be stale. The old man will still think I’m a gutless wonder. I looked up. It was quiet, absolutely quiet. Arks was looking right at me, his black eyes boring into mine.
Deadly Unna? Page 7