Deadly Unna?

by Phillip Gwynne

  ‘This ain’t just a game of footy,’ he repeated.

  Arks was right – for him it wasn’t just a game of footy. What he said was the truth, his truth anyway, even if it wasn’t quite mine.

  ‘Remember who you’re playing for.’

  He walked slowly along the line of players, still bent over.

  ‘Your team.’

  Thwack!

  ‘Your town.’

  Thwack!

  ‘And the glory.’

  Double thwack!

  ‘The glory, lads. The glory of a premiership. Think of it, lads. The glory. No matter what ya do, for the rest of your life, they can never take it away from you.’

  His voice was getting louder now, his face getting redder.

  ‘So get out there and get that glory.’

  Thwack!

  We were all standing up now, pressing together, urging each other on.

  ‘Come on, Deano!’

  ‘You can do it, Dumby!’

  ‘It’s your day, Pickles!’

  It’s your day, Pickles?

  Arks’s pep talk was ridiculous, but it was impossible not to be affected by it. My heart was thumping in my chest. I was pumped up, charged with energy. We all were. I was ready to bound out onto the oval, grab the ball, stream down the field brushing off tackles like they were bushflies and drill the first goal of the game.

  ‘One last thing,’ said Arks as we were about to run out, ‘and I’ve arksed youse this a million times. No buggerising around on them flanks. Up the guts every time you get that ball.’

  We ran onto the field, except I can’t remember actually running. It was like I was being swept along, carried along by something bigger and stronger than I was. Something awesome.

  ‘Way to go, Robbo.’

  ‘Up and at ’em, Clemboy!’

  ‘Ya gunna murder him, Blacky!’

  As we crossed the boundary line, horns started beeping, people started yelling. Then Wangaroo ran out and our supporters were swamped as an enormous wave of sound washed over the oval. Best Team-man was right, those magpies did barrack for Wangaroo, I could hear them screeching.

  We were in position. I was ready to leap skywards, give the ball a mighty thump towards our goal posts. I looked across at my opponent. Huh! Only the Thumper. I was feeling sorry for him. Poor bastard. Imagine having to play against me on a day like this. The siren blew, the umpy bounced the ball. I watched it spinning in the air. Then I ran in and jumped, my arm outstretched. The first goal, the game and the glory would all be ours. I was high, high in the air, my fist almost touching the ball. The Thumper was nowhere to be seen. I’d out-jumped him, out-played him, outsmarted him. He couldn’t do anything, just watch in awe as the best ruckman on the peninsula performed his football magic.

  Ooof! A knee in the balls.

  Ooof! An elbow in the face.

  I tumbled out of the air, landing flat on my backside. The Thumper grabbed the ball, ran straight through three of our players (including Best Team-man) and kicked the first goal of the game.

  The umpy bounced the ball again, I jumped again, I was flattened again, Wangaroo scored another goal. Again and again and again.

  By quarter-time the game was pretty much all over. We huddled together like a mob of lost sheep. Nobody said anything, but I knew it was my fault. A footy game is won and lost in the ruck – a fact of life.

  ‘Gary, Gary.’

  It was my sister, Jenny. She was trying to squeeze between some of the players to get to me.

  ‘Piss off, will ya?’ I said.

  It was bad enough to be the cause of your team’s certain demise without being pestered by your little sister.

  She wouldn’t go away though. Arks launched into another pep talk.

  ‘Go the guts, lads. Go the guts.’

  As we broke up to go to our positions, Jenny followed after me.

  ‘What the hell are you doing? Get off the oval!’ I said.

  ‘Mum says run in from the side and jump late.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Off the oval please, young lady,’ said the umpy in his squeaky voice.

  ‘Run in from the side and jump late,’ said Jenny as she ran towards the boundary.

  From the side. Jump late. Arks wouldn’t like it – not direct, not the guts. But things couldn’t be any worse.

  So that’s what I did. I stopped running straight at the Thumper. I ran in from the side, and I jumped late. It worked, of course. Like I told you, my mum was a fair-dinkum tactical genius. Thumper stopped plucking the ball out of the air, Wangaroo stopped kicking goals at will. We started to score a few of our own. Dumby was on fire at half-forward, Mark Arks was playing well, and bit by bit we made up the difference. At three-quarter-time we were dead level.

  And that’s how it stayed. Wangaroo kicked a goal. We kicked a goal. Wangaroo scored a point. We scored a point.

  I looked up at the scoreboard clock – there was only time-on left, two or three minutes at the most. Mark Arks had the ball, he let fly with a huge torp. But it was too long. It went way over Deano’s head and was headed straight for three Wangaroo players standing together. One of them was sure to mark it. But then I saw Dumby running up behind them. He was really moving, too. Then he jumped, his leg stuck out in front, climbing up on the back of one of the Wangaroo players.

  Idiot, I thought. He’s jumped too soon. The ball isn’t anywhere near them.

  But he kept climbing, higher and higher. I’d never seen anybody so high. Never. Not even Jezza in the 1970 final got that high. And Dumby stayed there, up in the air, way above those three Wangaroo players, like he was never going to come down. The only thing moving was the ball as it spiralled closer and closer until it landed in Dumby’s outstretched hands. And then he fell out of the air, down, down, down, crashing into the ground.

  ‘Ooooooh!’ went the crowd.

  Dumby jumped back up.

  ‘Aaaaaah!’ went the crowd.

  Then everybody clapped. I mean everybody – even the Wangaroo supporters. I knew why, too. They’d just seen the mark of their lives. They knew that no matter how many footy games they went to after that, how many replays they watched on the telly, how many books they read, they’d never see a better mark, a bigger speccy, than that one.

  When the noise had died down Dumby slowly walked back. He pulled up his socks, did up his right bootlace, and ran his fingers through his hair. He plucked some grass from the ground and tossed it in the air. It fluttered to his feet – there was no wind. Then he lined up the goals. Dumby was the deadliest kick in our team, probably on the peninsula. He couldn’t possibly miss from there. We all stood there and waited for him to stick it through the big white ones.

  He ran in. Long, balanced strides. He kicked. There was a sweet sound as his boot connected with the ball.

  I was looking at the goals, waiting for the ball to split the middle. The goal ump would raise those two fingers and the game (and the glory) would be ours.

  Except the goal ump’s fingers stayed exactly where they were. Instead the field ump blew his whistle. Clemboy had the ball. Dumby had passed it to him!

  I couldn’t blame Arks for yelling out what he did. I couldn’t blame him for using that word in public, in front of little kids, and their mums, and grannies, and even two nuns. If I was the coach and the best kick in the team had passed the ball when he had a set shot from thirty metres out, straight in front, with a minute to go in the grand final, I probably would’ve used the eff-word, too. I think even the nuns understood.

  Clemboy was maybe five yards closer to goal. But Clemboy wasn’t the deadliest kick in the team, Dumby was. Clemboy wasn’t the worst kick in the team, either. I was. But he was next.

  He ran in with little stuttering steps and kicked. The ball ballooned off his foot and floated just to the left of the right-hand point post.

  Only a point. But still, it was enough. All we had to do was stop Wangaroo from scoring a goal and we’d win.

 
The noise was incredible. The Wangaroo crowd was urging, urging, urging their players on. Our crowd was doing the same.

  Arks was bellowing, ‘Down the guts, down the guts.’

  Tommy Red was yelling, ‘Chug-a-lug, chug-a-lug.’

  Shirl was screaming, ‘C’mon Port, C’mon Port.’

  There were maybe twenty, thirty seconds to go. The ball flew over my head. I jumped but it was too high, it brushed past my fingers and fell into the Thumper’s massive arms. He looked up, checked where the goals were and started running. One bounce. Two bounces. I looked around, but I was the only one. Between Thumper and the goals, between Wangaroo and victory, was me. Mass of a stick insect.

  All the other players stopped. There was nothing they could do but watch. This was between me and the Thumper.

  Three bounces. Four bounces. He was getting closer and closer, bigger and bigger. He’d reached terminal velocity, full momentum.

  There was a voice in my head.

  It’s just a game of footy, Blacky. The team, the town, the glory – that’s all crap. What’s important is your life. You’ve only got one of those. There’ll be other grand finals, lots of them. If you try to stop the Thumper, you’ll be killed. If not killed then crippled. Don’t mess with momentum, Blacky. It maims.

  It was good advice. I decided to do the Thumper tackle. Nobody would know the difference. We’d lose, but nobody would blame me.

  ‘Shhtop that monshter!’

  It was Shirl. I could see her out of the corner of my eye. Standing up. In her oversized footy jumper, those seagull legs sticking out. A stubby in her hand. She wanted me to stop that monster.

  Fat chance, Shirl.

  ‘Please, Blacky.’

  It was Arks. His voice almost gone. It was a plea, a prayer. Please, Blacky. All those grand finals and not a bloody one. Please, Blacky.

  Sorry, Arks. I’d like to. I really would. But let’s face it – it’s only a game after all.

  Nobody was yelling now. Silence.

  One more bounce and the Thumper had almost arrived. Head down. Legs, arms pumping like pistons. I could hear him breathing, sucking in great lungfuls of air.

  I looked over towards the beer tent. There was a huge mob of blokes there, all crowded together. But I couldn’t see the old man.

  So I took a little sidestep to my right, to get out of the Thumper’s way. But at that exact same second he veered to his left. I’d stepped right into his path. And by then it was too late.

  And that’s the last thing I remember.

  When I came to I was lying on a bed. Mum was there. Best Team-man. Arks. Their faces huge and blurry.

  ‘Am I okay?’ I said.

  ‘You’re fine, dear,’ said Mum.

  ‘Not crippled?’ I said.

  ‘Just concussion,’ said Arks, smiling.

  What’s he smiling for? I thought. I’ve almost been killed and Arks is smiling.

  ‘That was a gutsy effort, Blacky. Tackling him like that,’ he said.

  What was Arks on about? I was trying to get out of the way, not tackle him.

  ‘It was a very brave thing to do,’ said Mum. ‘We’re all proud of you.’

  ‘I stopped him, then?’ I said.

  ‘Not really,’ said Best Team-man. ‘He just ran straight through you. He still kicked a goal, you know.’

  ‘But you slowed him down. The siren went. The goal didn’t count,’ said Arks.

  ‘So we won?’ I said.

  ‘We surely did,’ said Arks. ‘We surely did.’

  His face dissolved into a huge Luna Park smile as I slipped back into unconsciousness.

  15

  ‘Please, Mum, please can I go? Everybody else is.’

  The rest of the family had already gone. The rest of the town had already gone. The only people at home were me and my mum.

  ‘The doctor said you should rest.’

  ‘But I feel okay. I really do.’

  Which was a lie. I felt terrible. I’d heard people talk about splitting headaches. Now I knew what they meant. There was a nasty little man in my head, with a sledgehammer, driving a wedge deep into my brain. But I was determined to go, even if he came with me.

  ‘You don’t look okay. You’re as white as a sheet.’

  ‘But Mum, you’ll waste your perm.’

  The only time the ladies in our town got a perm was when there was a Do – a wedding, the school speech night or something like tonight.

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘But you will.’

  I didn’t know why they called it a perm, when it wasn’t permanent. They should’ve called them temps.

  ‘It won’t last until the next Do.’

  But I was on the wrong tack because my mother was the ultimate Best Team-man. Absolutely the first lemming off the cliff. I had to change course, talk about me, and not her.

  ‘This’ll probably be the only grand final I ever win.’

  ‘There’ll be plenty more,’ she said.

  ‘No there won’t. What if I die tomorrow?’

  ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘Plenty of kids my age die. Car accidents.’

  I could see she wasn’t budging. It was time to employ the heavy artillery.

  ‘Shark attacks.’

  Mum had this thing about sharks, she sat through Jaws with her eyes closed.

  ‘There was that kid last year up the coast. Thigh-deep he was, and the shark just cruised in.’

  I could see that this bothered her, the idea that her son could be gobbled up by a shark without ever having been to a premiership Do. I kept going.

  ‘And bit him clean in two.’

  ‘Okay, then,’ she said. ‘We can go. But promise me you’ll take it easy. No gallivanting around.’

  ‘I promise. No gallivanting.’

  Whatever that was.

  There was a bottle of the old man’s Aspros in the bathroom cabinet. I ate two of them.

  The Institute was a blaze of light. Everything else was closed, including the pub. The car park was full and there were cars parked on both sides of the main street, all the way to the jetty.

  ‘Practically the whole town’s here,’ said Mum as we walked inside.

  This was one of Mum’s sayings. There’d be six old ladies and a black dog at a CWA fete and she’d come back saying that practically the whole town was there.

  But tonight practically the whole town was there. There were people inside and outside. There were people sitting and people standing. There were babies, kids, grown-ups and grandparents. There were people I’d never seen before. There were people I thought had carked it years ago.

  ‘I’d better go and help the other ladies get the plates ready,’ said Mum. ‘But remember what I said – no gallivanting.’

  ‘I’ll be okay, Mum.’

  They’d really done the place up. Black and white everywhere. Black and white streamers looped around the walls, bunches of black and white balloons hanging from the ceiling, black and white crepe covering the tables. Along one wall ran an enormous banner. ‘THE PRIDE OF THE PORT’ it said.

  ‘Over here, brudda!’

  It was Dumby Red. He was sitting, along with the rest of the team, at a table in the front of the stage.

  ‘Hey everybody, Blacky’s here,’ said Dumby, and the other players turned around to look at me. They started clapping, yelling out stuff.

  ‘Onya, Blacky.’

  ‘Gutsy effort, Blacky.’

  ‘Way to go, Blacky.’

  I felt embarrassed. Like I was a fraud. I hadn’t meant to stop the Thumper. It was a fluke.

  ‘Didn’t think you was coming,’ said Dumby. ‘But I bagsed you this chair just in case.’

  I sat down. Dumby put his arm around my shoulder.

  ‘How ya feelin’?’ he said.

  ‘Pretty average,’ I said.

  Which was the truth. The Aspros had helped a bit, but not that much. That nasty little man was still at it.

  ‘Christ Almight
y, did you go down or what? Like a sack o’ shit. I thought you was dead.’

  ‘So did I,’ I said.

  Arks was sitting at the end of the table. He’d been wrapped, like an Egyptian mummy, from neck to toe in black and white streamers, only his head sticking out. And what a happy head it was. At last, after eight grand finals and not a bloody one, the glory was finally his. It surrounded him. He swam in it like a fish. People were congratulating him, slapping him on the back.

  ‘Good onya, Robbo. Just what this town needed.’

  ‘Knew you’d get there one day, Robbo.’

  People who didn’t follow the footy, who never bought a ticket in the Friday-night chook raffle.

  ‘A premiership sure is a wonderful thing,’ said one of them.

  ‘Brings a town together,’ said another.

  Then Arks noticed me. The happy head got even happier.

  ‘Blacky,’ it said, beaming. ‘I love you.’

  Now I was embarrassed. Totally.

  ‘Come on, Dumby, let’s go get a chop,’ I said, standing up.

  The barbie was out the back. Sizzling on the hotplate were rows and rows of plump sausages and a mass of fatty chops. In one corner there was a mountain of tangled onion. Next to it, on a table, were loaves of white bread and bottles of tomato sauce.

  Standing behind all this, tongs in one hand, a beer in the other, was our local butcher, Slogs Kneebone. Slogs looked like mettwurst – he was fat and lumpy and his skin had the same greasy texture. Slogs smelt like mettwurst. Let’s face it – Slogs was mettwurst.

  I had this theory. Years ago, during a wild storm, a bolt of lightning struck a stick of mettwurst that was hanging in the butcher’s. A remarkable metamorphosis took place – legs developed, arms developed, a head, of sorts, popped out. Slogs Kneebone was born.

  He was wearing one of his humorous aprons (he had a whole collection of them) – ‘PLEASED TO MEAT YOU’ this one said.

  ‘How ya going, champ?’ he said when he saw me. He waved his tongs.