by Scott Monk
‘We won’t lose.’
‘You better not.’
They smiled just as a teacher busted Kelly and ordered her back to her seat.
‘Hey, Kel?’ he asked nervously, before she left. ‘I, um, don’t know what you’re doing tonight, but do you want to come to a party at Chris’s house?’
She looked behind her at the rows of Princes boys and Mother of Mercy girls sitting in the grandstand. ‘I can’t. Our school’s making everyone to go to a party at Princes Boys College tonight.’
His hopes deflated.
‘But I’m sure I can sneak out of it.’
All right! Matt grinned wide as Kelly playfully winked at him then walked back to her seat. Oh man! Their first date!
Hunting for the talent scouts near the canteen, Matt found Blackwell and his father instead.
‘Do you want people to think you’re a failure? Well you’re playing like one. That Cassidy kid is making a fool of you.’
‘I’m trying as hard as I can.’
Knuckles gripped Aaron by both sides of his head and yanked him forward. ‘Then I should have called you Pillow, because you’re just as soft as one out there. It’s a wonder those talent scouts are interested in you. I wouldn’t even pick you for the Under 9s the way you’re playing. You hear me?’
Knuckles pressed hard against both sides of Aaron’s face, like a vice. Aaron cried out in pain and tried freeing himself but his old man seemed to get a thrill out of the screams.
‘Stop bawling like a kid. Pain’s good for you. Elite footballers don’t feel pain. They live for it.’
Aaron quieted, but it was a struggle. His face boiled red as his father kept squeezing. Matt wondered if he should get help. It looked like Aaron was going to pass out.
Finally, the sounds of the crowd cheering the players back onto the field forced Knuckles to release his son. With a snarl, he threw him against a brick wall. Still in agony, Aaron rubbed the sides of his head as his father stared at him, nose-to-nose. ‘Now get in there and smash those Bankstown kids out of the game. Especially that Cassidy kid. I don’t care how you do it. Break their bones. Knock them unconscious. Just as long as you win. Because if you don’t, you can forget about coming home. Ever!’
The mudfight started again but this time Blackwell’s team struck back ferociously. They scored two quick tries to post a 14–7 lead. Instead of outplaying the Mongrels, Aaron did exactly what his father commanded. He ordered his biggest players to gang up and take out the smallest Mongrels players with merciless tackles. The Bankstown players didn’t have a chance. Matt copped the brunt of the assault. Shoulders boomed against his skull, hard heads cannoned into his guts and swinging arms knocked him from his feet. Each hit left him more and more drained. His teammates copped it badly too. They slammed into the juggernauts then crumpled at their feet, either injured or too dazed to play on. One of the smallest players dropped the ball in a bone-cruncher and a Lions player scooped it up to score under the posts.
The second try came through milking penalties. Every time a Lions player was tackled, he’d buck or scream until the ref awarded a penalty for holding. Other times they’d pretend they’d been bashed with a swinging elbow and take a dive. One such penalty saw Princes take the tap twenty metres from the Mongrels line and score in the corner after three more tackles.
Ten minutes later, Blackwell ordered his players to remove Rhino from the game. The Lions forwards aimed every tackle at the big Maori’s knees until one finally popped under all the punishment. Rhino toppled to the ground, trying to hold the excruciating pain in check but was eventually stretchered off gritting his teeth. That left a huge gap in the Mongrels defence. The Lions snuck in another try, taking their lead to 18–7 with twenty-one minutes to go.
Another tactic was to send players to the blood bin. At the first sight of blood, the ref had to order a wounded guy off the field to get fixed up. But the Lions players saw it as an excuse to knee or punch the nose of their opponents in tackles and remove them from the match. It was nearly as low an act as the head-high tackle on Matt that almost beheaded him. At least the Mongrels got a penalty for that and the Lions player was marched off.
The worst moment of the game came next. One of the Mongrels was hit hard in the chest and the hips by three tacklers. The kid landed badly just as Blackwell deliberately jumped on his outstretched arm to force him to let go of the ball. Everyone heard the bone snap and the kid scream. As the crowd booed loudly, Matt and the Mongrels rushed over to their teammate to see if he was okay. He wasn’t. Immediately they sought revenge.
Insults were slung at the other side before the ref intervened.
‘It was an accident,’ Blackwell said, full of sickly sweetness.
‘I’ll show you what an accident looks like!’ Chris shouted.
‘Back off!’ Matt said, grabbing his mate before he did anything stupid. ‘It won’t do us any good.’
Blackwell laughed. ‘Listen to your friend, feral, or you might be the next one to end up in hospital before this match is finished.’
‘Good, then I’ll be able to see your brain in one of those preserving jars.’
Blackwell lunged at him, but Matt dragged Chris away before a fight broke out. ‘Save it for the game,’ he warned.
‘But they’re cheating, man!’
‘I know. I warned you at half-time what they’d get up to. But stay cool. Don’t blow it for us. I’m gonna need you if we’re going to win this.’
The ref awarded the Mongrels a penalty as the kid was taken off the field by medics. Blackwell copped an earful and a warning that he would be put on report, but it didn’t matter much. The attack had served its purpose.
Matt had to lead by example if he wanted his teammates to believe they could still win. Looking around at the fellas standing in the rain, he realised they were thoroughly demoralised after being punched, kneed, penalised and virtually knocked out of the game. Resentment was starting to burrow deep. Princes Boys College players were playing dirty but the ref was letting them get away with it. The Mongrels wanted to retaliate but Matt had clearly said no. Even this late in the match and with little to play for, he didn’t want them to sell themselves out. They’d played simple, honest footy all year to get to the finals. They weren’t going to dishonour themselves for twenty lousy minutes of revenge.
The Mongrels plodded into position as the Lions once again had possession of the ball. A burst of energy saw Matt take the next three tackles himself. They were big hits that floored each of his opponents. That fired up the crowd and his teammates.
Grover and Hazem accepted the challenge next and drove their tackled player back a good ten metres. The guy tried to off-load to one of his mates but the ball slipped from his hand and the Mongrels jumped on the fumbled ball.
It swapped several pairs of hands before Matt caught it again. He wanted to give it to Rhino and watch him bulldoze down the middle of the field, but the big guy was out for the rest of the game. Matt ran five metres, only to be tackled by Blackwell. The Lions captain crunched down on his hip and punched him in the ribs. Only anger inspired Matt to return painfully to his feet and roll back the ball.
The next play spurred them on. A deceptively lazy tackle saw Grover beat two defenders. He passed to Hazem, who passed to Chris. The Sundance Kid saw an opportunity and kicked the ball over another defender’s head. Matt chased after it, scooped it from the ground then bolted full-speed towards the tryline. The Lions had been caught napping and he planted the ball down for four much-needed points. Chris converted and the scoreboard read 13–18. Fourteen minutes to go.
They had to hurry.
The Mongrels received the ball again but the Lions defence tightened. They smothered each of the next four plays and nearly knocked Matt out on the fifth. Blackwell clapped his mates and shouted there needed to be more of the same.
Wiping the rain from his eyes, Matt nodded to Chris to get ready to kick on the last tackle. The rest of the Mongrels readied themselv
es as did the Lions. The wet ball whizzed into the Sundance Kid’s hands, but instead of booting it down the other end of the field, he threw a long wide pass to Hazem out on the wing. The Rocket barely caught it and exploited a gap in the Lions defence. He ran a good fifty metres before two desperate tacklers brought him down only five metres from a try.
Hands on hips, Matt spat. The trick had nearly worked.
Ten minutes left.
The Lions muscled their way back into the Mongrels half but without any result. The Mongrels swamped them on the last play and Matt tackled Blackwell before he could get a kick away. The solid defence had forced a turnover.
The Mongrels pounded their way down the field and before long, Matt had the ball again. Charging forward, he ran straight into a vengeful Blackwell. The Lions captain slammed him into the ground, fired a fist at his face then used his face as a stepping block for his spiked boots. Matt screamed with pain as Blackwell stood over him. Chris had seen the attack and pushed the Lions captain away from his best mate. Blackwell threw an insult back and that was enough for Chris. Already enraged at bad refereeing decisions, he threw a punch straight at Blackwell’s head but missed. Blackwell retaliated and started an all-in brawl. Fists flew as Lions and Mongrels fought it out in the centre of the field. The ref and touch judges rushed to stop it as the guys unleashed a season’s worth of aggro. Matt tried dragging players away from the melee but copped a blow to the chin. He spun away just as the ref put an end to the fight.
The ref called over the Sundance Kid, Blackwell and Matt. He asked them what the fight was about. Blackwell denied everything.
‘I didn’t see any stomping either,’ the ref said, agreeing with Blackwell. ‘But I did see you pick a fight with the Lions captain then throw the first punch. That’s why I’m going to give you ten.’
‘What!’ Chris said, just as amazed as Matt. ‘What are the spike marks on Matt’s face? Upside-down zits?’
The ref blew his whistle and signalled he was sending Chris to the sin bin for the rest of the match.
‘You can’t do that!’
‘I just did,’ the ref answered. ‘Now go!’
Angry, Chris shook his head then started to walk off the field. But not before one last snipe. ‘What colour are your jocks today, ref? Gold and purple?’
Blackwell laughed smugly.
‘And you!’ the ref said, turning on Aaron. ‘Think yourself extremely lucky that you’re not joining him.’
The whistle blew and it was another penalty to the Lions. They burned up time as they slowly played their next set of six. Thankfully, they remained scoreless.
The ball was once again in the hands of the Mongrels. But they had to do the amazing to win. They were trailing by five points with four minutes to go. A try and a goal would give them six points and win them the game.
The first tackle proved fruitless. The Lions quickly wrapped up one of the Mongrels and readied for the next one. The second and third gained some metres, but the fourth lost them the same amount of ground. The fifth play saw Hazem rocket forward and off-load to another one of their players. That helped them get twenty-five metres from the Lions tryline with two minutes to go. The Mongrels were kings when it came to last-minute wins. They were desperate for one of them now.
The ball came to Matt and he quickly fired it towards Hazem again. Two Lions players tackled him but failed to grab him around the arms. Hazem easily off-loaded to Grover, who kept the ball alive. He whizzed it back towards Matt, who passed it to Big Mack. The big centre charged forward, drew two defenders then twisted to off-load the ball again. Matt had scooted around to receive it and he quickly realised a gap had opened. He dummied to his left but zigzagged right. Bad move. Lions players guessed his ploy.
Whhheeeeeee! The final siren had sounded. His heart almost stopped.
This was their final shot. Matt put up a bomb as two tacklers speared him in half. The ball soared in the air, high and out of control. It started falling dangerously close to the sideline. Somebody grab it!
Lions and Mongrels players leapt into the air, stretching with slippery hands to catch the wet ball. The crowd sucked in its collective breath as it bounced off fingertips. It fell to the ground and thudded near the corner. Blackwell saw it and pounced. But Hazem lived up to his name and blasted towards it. He banged his hand down on it a fraction before the Lions captain.
The blue and white army screamed for joy as the Mongrels celebrated. Try! They were 17–18 but still had a goal to kick. If they could put the two-pointer over, they’d win the grand final.
‘What do you mean Chris can’t kick it?’ Matt asked the ref.
‘Sorry, but he’s in the sin bin for the rest of the match. You’re going to have to find someone else to do it.’
That was bad news. Chris was the team’s sharpshooter. No one else in the team came close.
‘No way, Matty. Not me,’ Grover said, when Matt offered him the kicking duties. ‘I’ve got two left feet.’
‘You’re kidding, right?’ Hazem answered. ‘This is way too important. If I stuffed up, no one would ever forgive me.’
The rest of his teammates gave similar answers.
Drawing in a deep breath, Matt knew what he had to do.
He squatted down and set the ball on a mound of sand as his teammates, the Lions players, teachers, coaches, fans, talent scouts, parents and Kelly all watched him. Never in his life had so much pressure rested with him. The grand final. The Mongrels could win it. All he had to do was boot the ball between the posts then go home and celebrate. Easy, right?
But he was kicking from the sideline on a miserable afternoon. The ball was wet, the grass was slippery and he had never kicked for goal in his life. Short of an earthquake, he didn’t think the odds could be any worse.
Matt lined up the kick, stepped backwards, gulped and crossed himself. This was it. He ran in and let fly …
The crowd went silent as the ball curved towards the goalposts. It sailed end over end towards them with boundless energy behind it. From where he was standing, Matt grew more and more confident the longer he watched. The shot looked good. No, it looked great! He choked on the excitement. They were going to win!
The ball hit the crossbar, shook water from the posts and then bounced back into play. Matt couldn’t believe it. He’d missed.
Princes Boys College had won.
An hour later, a dripping shower head was Matt’s only companion as he sat in the grey loneliness of the change room. Overcast light filtered through three grimy windows above the empty benches, lockers and urinals. The air reeked with the smell of body odour, sweat, mould, feet and yellow cakes of soap. The sombre voices of his beaten teammates had fallen silent as they’d showered, changed and slowly drifted out to suffer quietly at home. The weight of defeat had crushed them all.
The Lions were a different story. They’d celebrated when the last kick had failed. They’d piled onto each other, screaming and cheering along with the crowd. The hardest thing was seeing Blackwell hoist up the trophy.
Matt shivered. Water dripped from his hair, face, arms, jersey, bandages, shorts and boots. It pooled around the foot of the bench he was slumped on and trickled into a small drain nearby. He wasn’t wet only from the rain. He’d stood in a cold shower for who-knows-how-long. He’d hoped it would wash away the anguish that tortured him. He’d let his mates down and that hurt the most.
Leaning forward, he cupped his hands over his face and cried.
His muddy boot launched the ball into the air. It flew through the rain and headed for the goalposts. While wobbly, it was accurate. Sailing through the middle, it bounced to a stop near three other balls scattered around the in-goal area. Matt didn’t care, though. He grabbed the last one and lined it up for another kick. Thump! It too soared through for a goal.
Unable to watch her son torment himself any longer, Heather rose from the grandstand, opened her umbrella and walked across the empty field. She placed a hand on his shoulder just as
he reached down to scoop up the balls.
‘Time to go.’
‘No, I’ve got to keep practising.’
He grabbed the fourth ball but the other three fell from the cradle of his arm, plopping back onto the ground. He lashed out at them with his boot, splashing mud everywhere. With none left to kick, he ran his hands down his face, embarrassed at his outburst.
‘C’mon,’ his mum said softly. ‘You did your best. It wasn’t your day to win.’
‘Why? Princes didn’t deserve to.’
His mum shrugged. ‘I don’t know why, mate.’
‘It just isn’t fair.’
‘I know. But don’t destroy yourself over it. You can walk away saying you played your best.’
‘But that’s nothing compared to winning the grand final, is it?’
His mum didn’t argue. Whatever she said wouldn’t help. Instead, she focused on getting him home.
‘It’s time to go. Chris’s party’s in a couple of hours.’
‘No way. I’m not going.’
‘Why not?’
‘I can’t face the guys after this.’
‘Matthew.’
‘They’ll never forgive me.’
‘If they truly are your friends, do you think they’d hold it against you?’
A pause.
‘No,’ he said eventually.
‘Exactly. Knowing your mates, they’d blame themselves first.’
Matt let her words sink in. She was right, of course. His mum always was.
He picked up the balls, dumped them in the change room then reappeared dressed in blue jeans, a black T-shirt and red flannelette shirt. His wet clothes sagged in his ratty school bag, which was slung over his shoulder.
The two of them walked through the main turnstile. The sound of rainfall echoed through the tunnel as his mum told him the good news: she’d kept her job. The beancounter had been sacked instead. The good news distracted him enough to ask a few questions. But before his mum could elaborate, he spotted trouble.
Aaron Blackwell was standing in front of the Bulldogs talent scout, mouth agape. His dad was jabbing the scout in the chest and arguing hotly. Under a tree, Kelly waited patiently.