The Crush

by Scott Monk

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity, including internet search engines or retailers, in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including printing, photocopying (except under the statutory exceptions provisions of the Australian Copyright Act 1968), recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of Random House Australia. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  The Crush

  ePub ISBN 9781742742762

  Kindle ISBN 9781742742779

  Random House Australia

  an imprint of

  Random House Australia Pty Ltd

  Level 3, 100 Pacific Hwy, North Sydney

  http://www.randomhouse.com.au

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  First published in 2000, reprinted 2004

  Copyright © Scott Monk 2000

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the Publisher.

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  Monk, Scott, 1974–.

  The crush.

  ISBN 0 091 83973 4.

  I. Title.

  A823.4

  Cover photograph by Reece Scannell.

  Cover design by Gayna Murphy, Greendot Design.

  Author photograph by Tricia Johnson.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Copyright

  Imprint Page

  Dedication

  Title Page

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Epilogue

  Biography

  This one’s for my mates

  —the best team I could have.

  Ravaged with broken and crippled bodies, the footy field looked like a war zone. Blood dripped from foreheads stomped on by spiked boots and hands clutched ribcages nearly blasted from their skins. Medics stretchered off two guys who had knocked each other out in a tackle, while a third staggered along the sidelines, still shell-shocked after a big hit. Each new onslaught brought more pain and destruction but every man stood his ground. The fear of being hospitalised was nothing compared to the hurt of losing.

  Heads up! A bomb!

  Leaping into the air, Matt Cassidy fought several players to snatch the ball spinning from the sky. The kick was perilously close to his team’s tryline. If he missed his opponents would score and the game would be over, not to mention his life.

  Got it! With a thud, the ball exploded against his chest and knocked him off his feet. Boom! His skull bounced against the hard, dry turf, snapping his neck forward and rattling his teeth. It felt as though his head had shattered like a vase on cement. Probably looked like it too. But he didn’t care. He’d saved a certain try.

  There was no sympathy, however. Three bodies slammed on top of him, pinning him under a shadowy grave of limbs and hot angry faces. A fist pounded into his guts and an elbow grated his face into the dirt. A knee smacked him in the chin and sent his head bobbing again.

  Wanting to scream, he bit down on the pain. He couldn’t show he was weak. Men didn’t carry on like sissies anyway. Especially tough footy players like him.

  A whistle sounded and the referee called a penalty for holding. His opponents reluctantly shifted off him to complain, but not before one last sly punch to the ribs. Matt’s teammates rushed to his side and hauled him to his feet; not to see if he was okay but to reclaim the ball.

  ‘Great catch, Matty,’ one said. ‘Good to see you can still stand. We can win this, you know.’

  Win what? A new head? He hoped so. His current one was doing a Cyclone Tracy on him.

  Wonky on his feet, Matt tried refocusing as his team kicked for touch. They jogged to the forty metre mark then took the tap. The ball changed hands twice before an opposing hulk steamrolled the guy with the ball. From the other side of the field, Matt could hear his tackled teammate’s brain pinball around his head.

  The second and third tackles were just as brutal. The fourth was horrendous. One of their smallest players was knocked unconscious by a beefy guy packing more meat than a slaughterhouse worker. The crowd loved it. Three hundred teenage spectators sitting in the grandstand cheered and screamed for more pain and blood. Painted in school colours and shouting insults, the feeling was almost tribal.

  Matt’s teammates argued with the ref for a penalty while the volunteers stretchered off their third body for the day. They said the tackle was unfair and too high. But the man with the whistle shook his head and waved play-on.

  Typical. If he was any more biased he’d be tri-ased.

  The injury reduced the Bankstown Central High Mongrels to just twelve players—one short of full strength. It was no good calling on the reserves. They were already on the field or sitting on the bench, making sure their busted limbs didn’t fall off. Twelve men would have to do.

  Catching his breath, Matt glanced around his team waiting for the next play of the ball. The fellas were doubled over, clutching stitches or wincing as they hobbled into position on their own twenty metre mark. They were all but destroyed. For seventy-seven minutes they had thrown themselves at the opposing tryline but each time they had been driven back. They could still steal a win, but the clock was tick, tick, ticking down.

  The score was 12–14. The Mongrels were losing by two with three minutes of play left. A defeat or a draw would be disastrous. Only a win would see their school reach the finals for the first time ever.

  Playing the competition’s best team didn’t help. The Princes Boys College Lions had not lost a match all season. And it wasn’t hard to understand why. They had the biggest forwards, the best backline, a coach who was an ex-Australian captain, a fully fledged gym to train in, personal trainers and testosterone that dripped from them like sweat. Generation upon generation of the state’s best footballers had gone to Princes. The school’s overflowing trophy cabinets testified to their success. Losing a premiership was equal to treason.

  For the first time, the Mongrels had blue and white jerseys. Some of them even had numbers. The ‘gym’ was a couple of aluminium benches beside the dusty school oval that the guys used to stretch their legs. And then there was Steve Evans’ mum. She was a personal trainer, in a way. She always warned the fellas that if they smashed another of her windows, she’d chase after them and skin their hides.

  But the Lions didn’t intimidate Matt. He was determined to reach the grand final. And if that meant beating these silverspoons, then so be it.

  ‘C’mon, you Mongrels!’ he shouted, clapping his hands together. ‘Let’s show these rich boys how to play footy!’

  One of Matt’s teammates rolled the ball underfoot into his hands. Matt dummied right, then off-loaded the ball to the left. The ball swapped between fast hands before the win
ger grabbed hold of it. He made a twenty metre break but was abruptly cut down by the Lions captain.

  Matt glanced at the clock. Ninety seconds to go. One tackle left. They would have to kick. The crowd was already celebrating. The Lions were going to be remembered as the most successful high school football team in the district. Matt’s Mongrels would be quickly forgotten.

  Eighty-nine. Eighty-eight. Eighty-seven …

  The ball whizzed Matt’s way. A big front-rower charged at him and he shot it to his right. It headed towards Chris Pearce, the team’s fullback, who readied himself to kick. He could easily boot a ball forty metres up field. Arrogantly, the Lions slowed their momentum and waited …

  But the Mongrels had one last ploy. Chris never caught the ball. Matt did. Their teammates reversed the play at the last moment and hurled it over players’ heads. Matt easily grabbed it and bolted forward. When the Lions discovered the bluff there were too many gaps to fill. One guy dived at Matt’s ankles and another at his waist but he easily palmed them off. A third tackler lunged at him but ate dirt.

  Legs firing and heart hammering, Matt powered up the sideline, zeroing in on the Lions tryline. Sixty metres. Fifty. Forty. The Lions fullback was in front of him and their captain chasing ten metres behind him.

  On the thirty metre line he dropped the ball and grubber-kicked it ahead. The Lions fullback tried taking him out with a shoulder charge but missed, Matt zigzagging out of the way. But the manoeuvre had cost him ground. The Lions captain caught up with him and the race was on.

  The ball rolled into the in-goal area, the two captains desperately trying to reach it first. One had to touch it for a try. The other, to punch it over the dead ball line. Whoever did so would win the match.

  Together they crossed the tryline and pounced, their hands outstretched. Frantic fingers crunched down on the ball. Bang! Their bodies skidded and slammed into a sideboard.

  The final siren shrieked and Matt clamped down on the pain tearing through his nerves. Filled with doom, both he and the Lions captain looked at the ref, begging to know who had touched the ball first.

  Dressed in white, the ref looked at both of them as the crowd rose to its feet. The shouting and pleading died down as the ref looked at the two touch judges for any help. None came. The decision was his alone. Raising the whistle to his lips, he breathed in, pointed to the ground and blew shrilly: try!

  As one, the Mongrels leapt into the air and howled. They’d won! 16–14. They were through to the finals!

  Blokes came from everywhere, screaming and piling on top of each other. Shortly, the pyramid of bodies caved in and guys hugged and laughed with their mates on the grass. Watching from the in-goal area, their wounded captain wasn’t forgotten. A couple of fellas lifted Matt onto their shoulders to salute his great solo try.

  The Princes Boys College team and their home crowd were a different sight. Beaten, they cursed, booed and clawed at their faces. They’d been robbed of being the district’s first team to finish a season undefeated. Their own captain couldn’t believe it. He shouted at the ref and blocked his way when he tried to leave. Two of his teammates were forced to drag him away before things got nasty. Shaking himself free, the captain swore at the ref again before grabbing the ball and throwing it at the ground in disgust. He stormed away, vowing revenge.

  Brown sugary foam showered the Mongrels as one of their teammates shook up a can of Coke and sprayed it around the change room. Several other players grabbed their own cans and retaliated before scrubbing the fizzy dregs into their captain’s scalp. Laughing, Matt flicked back his wet hair and grabbed two of his mates to belt out the team song.

  Chorus after chorus echoed along the subterranean corridors beneath the grandstand until the guys were hoarse. Resurfacing into the warm sunlight, they gathered in the main car park of the Princes Boys College grounds. A couple of snarling Lions players walked past and ‘accidentally’ bumped into them. That angered the Mongrels but Matt calmed them down. This was their moment. No one was going to spoil it for them.

  ‘We did it, Matty! We did it!’ Chris Pearce said, shaking his mate by the shoulders. ‘Three more wins and we’re in the grand final!’

  ‘Bring ’em on. I’m that pumped I could play all three teams now.’

  ‘That’s a Mongrel talking.’

  Chris slapped Matt on the back, sending sharp pains dominoing throughout his body. He was amazed that he was still able to stand after all the punishment. He’d need so many icepacks when he got home, he might as well camp in the freezer.

  ‘Legendary kicking game, buddy,’ Matt added. ‘You won us the match.’

  ‘Listen to it. You’re the guy who ran sixty metres down the paddock and scored five seconds before the final siren. They should martyr you, man.’

  ‘Don’t you have to be dead first?’

  ‘Well, you’re brain dead, aren’t ya?’

  ‘Hey!’ Matt swung a fist in his best mate’s direction.

  Chris easily dodged it and laughed. ‘That try was unbelievable. It’s a wonder those talent scouts aren’t signing you up right now.’

  ‘What talent scouts?’

  ‘C’mon. You saw them. That fat bloke and black guy sitting in the grandstand with clipboards. Word is they were asking a lot of questions about you.’

  ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘Nup. They stopped Hazem and asked if you had a manager.’

  ‘Yeah, okay. Ha ha. You can stop joking now.’

  ‘I ain’t joking. It’s the truth. I swear.’

  Matt stuck out his hand. ‘On our friendship?’

  ‘On our friendship,’ Chris answered, shaking it.

  Matt’s jaw dropped. Chris wasn’t mucking around. Two talent scouts after him? No way!

  ‘Who else did they ask about?’

  ‘Who do you think?’

  Chris eyeballed Aaron Blackwell, the captain of the Princes Boys College team. He was the best player in the district by far. A giant since the age of eleven, he outmuscled, outplayed and out-thought his opponents. His teammates idolised him and all the girls thought he was hot. He had tanned skin, spiky black hair, brown eyes, a square jaw, broad shoulders, thick powerful arms and legs, and pecs and a ‘six-pack’ carved into his chest. A modelling agency had signed him up to a twelve-month contract flogging off surf wear. If he had any more tickets on himself, he’d be a scalper.

  His good looks couldn’t save him at that moment though. The legendary former Australian captain and coach of the Lions, Johnny ‘Knuckles’ Blackwell, was in his face. On the sidelines, he jabbed a powerful finger into his son’s chest and blamed him solely for losing the game. ‘You’re a disgrace, y’hear? That’s the worst game I’ve seen in years from any of my sons. You let a bunch of rejects beat you. I would’ve pulled on a pair of boots myself if I knew you were going to play that bad!’

  ‘I’d hate to be in his shoes tonight,’ Matt said.

  ‘Me too. High heels aren’t my style though.’

  The two mates laughed until they were interrupted by a woman standing behind them.

  ‘Excuse me. You’re Matthew Cassidy, right?’

  Matt twisted about. A young woman with long dark hair and brown skin and a tall man wearing a check shirt and holding a camera were standing behind them.

  ‘Yeah, that’s me.’

  ‘G’day. Bronwyn Hurrell from the Canterbury Bankstown Express. I’d like to write a story about your big win today.’

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ Matt said, grinning. And it wasn’t because he was going to be famous—he always was a sucker for stunners. Growl.

  Chris tapped Matty on the shoulder and said he’d talk to him soon. The good-looking journalist asked a few questions, which he answered easily. He’d been interviewed several times before. Once, he’d even made it into the sports section of the Daily Telegraph. A PE teacher had sent in an old, dorky photo of him for the paper’s young sports star section—bowl haircut and all. His mates had ribbed him for weeks, calling him Toa
dstool, Mushroom Head and Stackhat.

  Matt chuckled. ‘It’s fantastic. There’s always been a lot of bad blood between our teams. They usually thrash us and rub it in for ages. I guess it’s our turn for once. And it’s even better now that we’re into the finals. We got the wooden spoon last year. Hopefully now we’ll win the whole comp.’

  ‘One last question,’ Ms Hurrell said. ‘What do your mum and dad think about your dreams of a football career?’

  ‘Mum’s all for it. She says she can become my manager and retire.’

  ‘How about your dad?’

  Matt hesitated and glanced behind him, looking for an excuse to escape. He found one across the car park. Chris and the Mongrels were pointing at a couple of Lions players, who were dropping their bags onto the ground in anticipation of a fight.

  ‘Sorry, I’ve gotta go. Catch you later.’

  ‘One photo first,’ the photographer said, holding up his camera. Matt posed for nine more frames before he excused himself.

  When he reached his players, they were being hassled by a couple of the biggest Lions players, including Aaron Blackwell himself. Fists were clenched, ready to fight, and mouths were machine-gunning off the insults. The Mongrels had catcalled a couple of Lions players one time too many.

  ‘You dumb ferals,’ Blackwell said. ‘Don’t you even think for a moment that you won that game. We were robbed of a dead-cert try by that stupid ref and that lame captain of yours.’

  ‘We won it because we were the better team,’ Chris growled back, trying to free himself from Blackwell’s hands, which were clamped around his neck.

  The Lions players laughed as one. ‘Better team? Yeah, right! Freak show more like it.’