by Felice Arena
Prologues
Here I am as an 11-year-old in Kyabram, Victoria. I’ve just been awarded a medal for champion swimmer at my primary school, St Augustine’s. It was one of the most memorable days of my school life. That, and when I took the greatest mark over Garry Lyon!
Even back then, Garry was a footy star. Every boy in our school knew that he was destined for football greatness. During our lunchtimes, when we weren’t playing British Bulldog or Releaso (hard-hitting running games popular with schoolboys in the 1970s and ’80s), Grades Five and Six would sweat it out in major footy battles on the school oval.
One lunchtime I was positioned to play on Garry (he was in Grade Six, I was in Grade Five). The ball made its way toward us and I knew that I had nothing to lose being up against such a champion. So like the Six Million Dollar Man (my favourite TV hero at the time), I took the greatest leap of my life. I flew metres above Garry’s shoulders, amazingly grabbed and held onto the ball with one hand. Everyone looked on in complete shock, especially Garry. No one had ever taken a successful mark—let alone a sensational ‘specky’—from him before. For that split moment in time I was a legend!
Yep, those were the days. What? You don’t believe me? Okay, maybe it didn’t happen exactly like that. Maybe Garry was standing nearby and I took the mark over someone who looked like him…or, maybe it was just a chest-mark kicked to me by Garry. Okay, okay, my memory might be a little hazy, but Garry and I were schoolmates, and, well…I did win that swimming medal!
Happy reading!
Felice
Well, if Felice is going to brag about his swimming medals, I thought it only fair that I dig out a photo of one of my most prized possessions—my first Victorian U/15 Schoolboys’ football jumper. I would have been all of (a very lean) 14 years of age at the time, and it involved flying to Adelaide to play footy against all the other States and Territories. It was truly the highlight of my life, with the added bonus of missing a few days of school back at St Augustine’s in Kyabram. Heaven!
And as for Felice and that ‘mark’! It is obvious why Felice has become such a successful children’s author—he has a very strong imagination, which he has used to write some terrific stories. A bit like the one he dreamed up about taking a mark over me.
We used to love it when Felice joined in for kick-to-kick at lunchtime, as he was the best player to practise taking ‘speckies’ on. I will concede that he was a very good swimmer and gained fame throughout our school for that fact.
Hope you enjoy the book. I think there’s a little bit of Specky, and his family, in all of us.
Garry
Table of Contents
Cover Page
Prologues
1 Saturday Play
2 Footy Blood
3 Footyhead
4 Photo Blues
5 Could Be?
6 Question Time
7 Sensational Specky!
8 More Important?
9 The Truth
10 Adopted!
11 Chriskicks
12 Simmo
13 His Dream…
14 Magnificent Mcg
15 Family, Friends And Fantasy
16 Specky’s Search
17 Dad?
18 Bully Play
19 Christina’s Carlton
20 Footy Fame
21 The Truth
22 Bob
23 Sensitivity
24 Forever Father
About The Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
1 SATURDAY PLAY
‘Come on, get the ball down here,’ mumbled Specky under his breath.
Specky and his team-mates had to play the best footy ever, especially if they were to have any chance of winning today’s competition. He guessed there were about two minutes of the game left to go, and the opposition were ahead by just five points.
Hugging the boundary line of Specky’s school oval were parents, teachers and other onlookers. They screamed and cheered their support. They all knew the importance of this particular game. Specky and his team, the Booyong High Lions, were playing the top team on the ladder, the Beacon Hill Falcons. The Lions were placed second to the Falcons only by percentage—a win today definitely meant reversed positions.
‘Stop mucking about! Stop hand-balling! Kick the ball long! Long!’ shouted Specky’s team coach, Mr Pappas. His entire face turned a bright beetroot colour as he let out his frustration. He was a proud, fair and emotional coach who worshipped the great game of Aussie Rules—and for that reason alone, everyone loved him. Mr Pappas desperately hoped his team could quickly get the ball over to Specky, because for the past four games in a row, Specky had proven that he was the star player. He had single-handedly kicked over seven goals in each game he played, and was the best full-forward in their local schools league.
Specky frantically shuffled back and forth in the goal square, trying desperately to put some space between himself and the opposition’s full-back. But he wasn’t having much success. The determined, stocky player stuck to him like glue. Specky tried his best to ignore his opponent’s off-putting remarks.
‘I think you’ll look good on crutches, you loser! You’d better hope the ball doesn’t come this way, or you’re dead meat!’ he snarled, while nudging and jabbing his elbow into Specky’s ribs.
Specky knew, from spending hours and hours watching and listening to his heroes, players such as Matthew Lloyd and Chris Judd, about the need to stay focused on what was happening on the field and not to get ‘sucked in’ by his opponent. Matthew Lloyd always said to look upon the extra attention as a compliment, a sign that you were playing well and had the opposition worried. That is how he had decided to cope with taggers.
Specky’s opponent huffed and puffed as if he were some kind of wild bush pig, about to make a sudden ferocious charge.
Yeah, right, we’ll see who the loser is, thought Specky. He wasn’t going to let the guy intimidate him.
Specky could see that the action of the game was focused around the centre of the ground. It was hard for him to pinpoint who exactly had the ball. There was a lot of scrappy tackling going on, which resulted in numerous stop and start ball-ups by the umpire.
Then, out of nowhere, Specky spotted Josh Roberts—known to his mates as ‘Robbo’—taking clean possession of the ball. He was one of Specky’s best friends, and the team’s ruckman—he was a tall lanky boy who towered above everyone else. Looking at him, you wouldn’t think he was only in Year Seven. He looked more as if he belonged in Year Nine.
‘Robbo! Robbo!’ shouted Specky’s team-mates.
Robbo looked up-field for his forward-line players. He had a clear break from the opposition. Specky suddenly sensed that the ball was finally heading his way. He shot another quick glance at the scoreboard—time was running out.
Please don’t sound the siren, not yet, he wished.
He could hear Robbo’s proud dad, who was standing beside Coach Pappas, shouting out encouraging words to his son. ‘That’s it, Josh, all the way, boy!’
Specky couldn’t help but wonder how great it must be to get that sort of encouragement. He wished his own father was in the crowd supporting him.
‘Over here, I’m free!’
It was Danny Castellino, another one of Specky’s close friends, and Booyong High’s number one rover. While Robbo was one of the tallest kids in Specky’s school, Danny was definitely one of the shortest. He looked as if he should have been back in primary school—but that didn’t stop him being one of the toughest and most determined players on the team. No one could stop him. He was as fit as a greyhound, and could run nonstop for an entire game.
Robbo acknowledged Danny by spearing the ball directly on to his chest. It was a safe mark
, but Danny didn’t have the luxury of taking his time. He charged off towards the forward pocket area.
The pass was perfect, travelling no higher than a metre off the ground, covering the distance to Danny in a split second, not giving his opponent a chance to punch the ball away.
Like Robbo, Danny’s father was also cheering for him on the sideline. Again, Specky took note of this, and strangely enough, so did the full-back.
‘Is that his dad? My dad’s over there. Where’s yours?’ he asked casually, still trying to bump and push Specky off his feet.
‘He’s not here, he’s not into footy,’ Specky replied in a somewhat disappointed tone.
In the meantime, Danny was making a run for it. He took one bounce, then another, and another. The opposition was closing in on him. One boy charged for him from the wing. Totally unaware that he was about to be caught, Danny continued to dodge and weave past another two players. It was an exciting passage of play by Danny, but very risky at the same time.
Danny knew that there was a fine line between being the hero or villain in a team. He had, on occasions, tried to do too much with the football, lost possession in the process, and cost his team the match. But he had also been the hero, capable of inspiring solo runs that eventually led to match winning goals. Specky hoped that this was one of those times.
Specky could see his friend clearly now. He timed his lead to sprint away from the full-back. ‘Danny!’ he shouted after him.
The boy chasing Danny was only millimetres away from grabbing him and throwing him to the ground. Coach Pappas was beginning to lose his voice from screaming at the top of his lungs.
‘Get rid of it! Look out, he’s behind you!’ he croaked.
But it was too late. The boy from Beacon Hill had successfully taken a firm grip of Danny’s jumper. Under pressure, Danny did his best to get rid of the ball—he had been brutally stopped dead in his tracks. With no time to think, he dropped the football onto his right foot and booted it with all his might.
Miraculously, the unbalanced kick had some power behind it. A gust of wind aided it high into the sky, and as if it was captured in slow-motion, the ball floated towards the goal square, directly above Specky. It was a rainmaker of a kick. So much so that the players had difficulty spotting it in the blinding glare of the sun—but not Specky.
He hadn’t for a moment taken his eye off the ball. The full-back shoved himself in front of Specky, getting ready to punch the ball away. Specky took a step back, fully aware that the ball had now begun its rapid descent towards the ground. With one giant leap, he was suddenly airborne. He propped his right knee securely between the shoulder blades of his pig-like opponent and catapulted his entire stretched-out body high above the players around him. Specky’s opponents watched, and their jaws dropped in awe, stunned by his amazing display. Even Specky’s team-mates, who had seen such aerial magic many times before, looked on with awe. They were proud to witness their full-forward’s gift in taking high-flying marks. True to his nickname, Specky had certainly taken a spectacular ‘specky’!
For Specky there was no other feeling quite like taking a big grab. He had a natural gift for being able to maintain perfect balance while perched on an opponent’s shoulders. With arms outstretched, fingers well spread and eyes fixed on the ball, he was never going to drop it. The other impressive part of Specky’s aerial antics was his catlike ability to always land on his feet, unlike other players who, in their attempt to outdo him, would land awkwardly, injuring a shoulder, or twisting an ankle. Specky practised his high marking by kicking the ball onto the roof of his house, and then timing his run to jump at exactly the split second the ball came bouncing down off the tiles and spilling over the guttering. It improved his marking dramatically, but got him into lots of trouble with his dad for breaking the odd tile here and there. And it annoyed his sister, Alice, who claimed that she couldn’t hear whoever it was she was talking to on the phone with his football constantly banging on the roof.
With a confident grip on the ball, the mark was taken directly in front of the big sticks. Specky landed on the ground with a thud and grinned to himself as he heard the umpire’s whistle sound the end of the game. Specky was allowed to take his kick for goal. If he missed, his team would lose. He took a deep breath and lined up his kick.
2 FOOTY BLOOD
‘Chewy on ya boot…woo, woo, ya gonna miss!’ The full-back and his team-mates waved their arms, teased, and did whatever they could to distract Specky. But Specky ignored them all. Determined not to get flustered, he even blocked out the excited screams of the coach and his team-mates’ parents. There was no way he was going to miss this goal. Specky was 15 metres directly in front. It would be a simple straight kick.
But just as he was about to connect his boot to the ball, the full-back player shouted out, ‘Too bad your dad can’t see this, huh?’
Specky’s concentration was instantly broken. The full-back’s comment ran over and over in Specky’s mind as he executed the kick. The ball made contact with the side of his boot and veered in a wobbly, sharp-right direction—away from the goals. Specky had missed! The unexpected ‘shocker’ resulted in scoring only a measly single behind. It was the worst kick of Specky’s life. He had lost the game for his team—he couldn’t believe it. Nor could his team-mates, who stood there stunned as the opposite side celebrated their victory. Specky was so embarrassed. He couldn’t bear to look at his team as they sadly dawdled back to the changing rooms.
‘I’m sorry, Coach, I didn’t mean…’ Before Specky had a chance to apologise, Coach Pappas stopped him.
‘Don’t worry about it, kid, even AFL champions can have their bad luck moments. That’s what makes footy so great—it’s always so unpredictable. So let it go. You played a great game. In fact, I’m happy with everyone’s game today.’
Specky was slightly comforted by his coach’s sympathetic compliment, but he still couldn’t help feeling disappointed in himself, and sorry for his team.
‘See ya, Speck. Have a good weekend. Carn the Pies!’ shouted Danny Castelino.
Danny and his dad, and all of Specky’s other team-mates, were leaving to get on with the rest of the weekend. Danny was a die-hard Collingwood supporter, and most Saturdays after the game he and his family would go and barrack for their beloved black-and-white team. They were proud paid-up members.
‘You mean, “Go Swans!”’ shouted Robbo, an avid Sydney supporter whose family had moved from the harbour city to Melbourne a few years ago.
‘Did you want a lift home?’ asked Robbo’s father. Robbo’s family lived only two streets away from Specky’s house.
‘No thanks, Mr Roberts. Dad shouldn’t be too much longer,’ said Specky.
But Specky may have spoken too soon. He watched everyone leave, until he was the only one left, waiting patiently for his father to collect him. The time ticked by—ten, twenty, thirty minutes passed and still no sign of his dad. Specky decided to read a newspaper that one of the dads had left behind. He naturally turned to the sporting pages first and read up on the AFL weekend games. But a particular article caught his eye. He slowly read it. It was all about some university research which speculated that having a talent for playing football could be genetically passed on from one generation to the next. Specky reread part of the article:
Football blood. How deep does it run? If your father and his father before him were footy champions, then it’s likely that you are destined to be a champion yourself—either at school, the local club or at a professional level. Look at the great champion families in AFL: the Hudsons, the Lloyds, the Silvagnis, the Fletchers, the Cloaks, the Abletts…
Huh? thought Specky. His mind was racing. He thought about his own dad and himself. They were total opposites. His father wasn’t into sport, especially football. He hadn’t even played it as a kid at school. He absolutely hated footy.
‘Football runs this city and state—it’s on most nights of the week nowadays. There’s footy TV shows on
network and cable, you can’t get away from it!’ his dad would often whine.
In fact it was no surprise that when Specky expressed his interest in playing the game several years ago by wanting to be a part of Auskick, his dad had forbidden it. ‘Football’s a barbaric sport! I’m not allowing my child to get hurt on purpose! What about if I arrange tennis or badminton lessons instead?’ he suggested. But Specky had persisted. He pleaded with his dad for weeks on end, until eventually it paid off. He was finally permitted to play. Since then, there had been many times when Specky privately yearned for his father to just join him in the backyard for a friendly kick-to-kick game, or come and watch him play for his school. Even his team-mates’ parents thought it was kind of sad that Specky’s dad hadn’t made any effort to support his son—especially since he was one of the team’s best players.
Specky knew his father loved him, but he was never going to share Specky’s enthusiasm for football. Specky was finding it increasingly difficult to get used to the fact that his father was a non-footy dad. Even his mother and his older sister couldn’t care less about the game. Not once did his family get excited about things like the Brownlow Medal or that special ‘one day’ in September.
Specky glanced down at the newspaper article again. He wondered if he had any footy-blood in him at all. If he did, it certainly wasn’t from his mum or dad, he thought.
One hour later, Specky’s father finally turned up. Specky moped over to the car and got into the front passenger seat.
‘I’m sorry I’m late, son. I have to blame work again.’ Specky’s father was the owner of an art gallery. ‘I was stuck at the airport waiting for this incredibly talented Peruvian artist to fly in, and his plane was late. So, how did my front-forward man play?’
‘Full-forward, Dad, not front-forward!’ Specky sighed and gloomily dropped his head against the car window.