by Tony Wilson
‘C’mon, my boys. Pasta on the table!’
All four brothers yelled, ‘Coming!’ Adam fetched the footy from behind The Street team’s goal. He stab-passed it to Troy, without looking at Mum. ‘I want you to come now! Otherwise you’ll lose points.’
Troy threw the ball up in the middle. ‘Remember,’ he whispered to the other players. ‘Maintain the mischief!’
‘Okay, you all lose a behaviour point for keeping on playing,’ Mum scolded. ‘I asked you to come in. I asked you very nicely. And, Joel! What happened to your shirt? That’s another point off for ruining your school shirt.’
Joel was about to protest, but Troy interrupted. ‘Remember, Joely,’ Troy whispered. ‘We don’t care about the points.’
‘Oh yeah,’ Joel said, ‘I forgot. It’s just — it’s just that I was in front.’
‘Joel,’ Troy said. ‘We’re freedom fighters. We don’t care who’s in front. Our aim is to break those powerful banks.’
‘Okay, Troy,’ said Joel, kicking the footy. ‘Break the banks. Forget about the points. I can do that.’
‘Happy birthday, Joely! Double figures!’
Adam and Scott leapt onto the top bunk to give him a birthday wrestle. Troy, of all people, was at the bedroom door balancing a food tray.
‘Breakfast in bed, Joely!’
It was two pieces of ripped raisin toast, lumped with unmelted butter, and a glass of orange juice. Not exactly the nicest-looking breakfast, but Joel figured it was the thought that counted.
‘Thanks, Troy, that must’ve taken you, like, three minutes,’ Joel said, grinning.
‘You’re most welcome,’ Troy said. ‘The butter was in the fridge. That’s why it didn’t spread.’
Joel thought he might start with the orange juice. That actually was a birthday treat. Joel loved freshly squeezed orange juice more than any other drink. This one was very orange looking.
The room went suddenly silent as he grasped the glass. Maybe that should have been a clue.
‘Enjoy that, Joely,’ Adam said with a grin, looking like he was waiting for something.
Maybe that should have been another clue.
He took a sip.
It was cold, thick and sludgy. It stuck to his lips like paste.
‘Uuuuuuuuuurgh!’ shrieked Joel. ‘What is that?’
The twins were high-fiving each other and laying skin like they were members of the West Indian cricket team. Scott waved an empty macaroni cheese packet in Joel’s face.
‘We made it,’ Scott beamed. ‘I helped. It was my job to fix the glugginess.’
‘Happy birthday, bro,’ the twins wheezed. ‘Sorry to suck you in. Just a joke. Happy birthday.’
Joel looked at the cold toast and the horrible jar of orange cheese paste he held in his hand. Almost without thinking, he leaned across and poured half the glass on Adam, and half the glass on Troy.
‘Sorry, guys,’ Joel said, leaping out of bed. The element of surprise had bought him a few seconds. ‘My hand just slipped,’ he yelled and started sprinting. He needed a parent — fast!
‘Yuuuuuuck! Cheese in my eyes!’ Adam yelled.
‘It slipped!’ Joel hollered, without looking back. ‘Muuuuuum, I promise you, it slipped!’
Mum placed her body between the birthday boy and two identical fourteen-year-old lunatics with identical cheese-sauce splodges dripping from their heads.
‘They fed me macaroni muck as orange juice,’ Joel babbled.
‘You lose two points each for playing a mean trick,’ Mum said to the twins. ‘And you lose two points for retaliating,’ Mum said to Joel. ‘Do you realise how hard it is to get macaroni cheese out of carpet?’
Mum bent down and gave Joel a big hug. ‘And happy birthday, Joely. Ten years old! I can’t believe my baby’s ten.’
Joel celebrated his birthday morning by going on a five-kilometre run with Dad. Dad ran marathons, as well as competing every Saturday in cross-country races. Although all his brothers had inherited Dad’s running talent, Joel was the keenest of the lot. He loved the soothing rhythm of their breathing and the thud of their feet. He loved the tired but good feeling in his legs and lungs afterwards. He loved seeing water birds flying over Kennington Reservoir or a random kangaroo hopping across the track at One Tree Hill. And he loved this time with his dad, snatched at the start of the day, before Joel went to school and Dad went to work.
It was often a quiet time. Dad would talk when he had something to say, but Joel was also happy to just run. Today, they were running the Power Lines, a rough dirt road under steel electricity towers that cut through the Strathdale bush. Joel was concentrating on stride length. His athletics coach, Mr Sexton, had told him that if he lengthened his stride, he could increase his speed and endurance. He was trying to land on cracks in the old concrete path when Dad surprised him by speaking.
‘Ten, hey, Joel? Double figures. What’s been the best thing in your first ten years?’ Dad asked.
‘Footy,’ Joel said. ‘Definitely. Playing footy for the Sharks.’
Dad wiped some sweat from his forehead and smiled. ‘What’s been the best day you’ve ever had?’
Joel thought for a moment. ‘Maybe the day I kicked four goals and the Sharks won the grand final?’
‘Apart from footy, what’s been your favourite day in your first ten years?’
Joel thought for longer this time. ‘Probably Round two last year, when Geelong beat West Coast by six points at Kardinia Park and Peter Riccardi kicked six goals.’
Dad laughed out loud this time. ‘I said apart from footy — you really are a footy nut, Joel.’
Joel felt embarrassed. ‘I thought you meant apart from my footy. Apart from all footy? I dunno. Maybe …’ He really was struggling to think of something. ‘Maybe the day I met Gary Ablett and he signed my ball.’
Dad laughed once more. ‘Isn’t that footy again?’
Joel picked up the pace as he turned the corner for home. ‘No. That wasn’t a footy game … that was meeting somebody …’
Dad grinned. ‘You’re right. Meeting a footballer, while holding a football, at the football.’ He gave the birthday boy a friendly slap on the back. ‘I’m just teasing. Loving footy is treating you well, kiddo. You’re playing beautifully.’
‘Do you think I can make it?’ Joel asked. The words were out before he even realised it. He never spoke about his dream of an AFL future. He worried that if he said it out loud, maybe he’d jinx it and the dream that kept him going would float away and die. Joel wasn’t sure he could handle that.
Dad stared straight ahead as they ploughed up the Harley Street hill. ‘The twins are going really well, Joel. They’re jumping every hurdle when it comes to representative footy. And I look at you at only ten and think … well, you’ve got even more ability. You can make it, Joel. You just need a bit of luck, and you need to keep going.’
Joel felt like he was floating on air. He powered to the top of Harley Street, and beat Dad home by five metres.
‘Hey, Joel,’ Dad said as they drew in some big breaths at the bottom of the drive at number fifteen. ‘What’s going on with you boys? The points that were in Mum’s Behaviour Bank are leaking everywhere. We don’t want to have to up the punishments.’
Joel shrugged. ‘Dunno.’ He paused. ‘Maybe the Behaviour Bank is a bit stupid and annoying.’
Dad raised an eyebrow. ‘I wouldn’t take us on, Joely. Your mum and I like to win, too.’ He patted Joel on the back and went into the house.
‘These clothes are ridiculous!’ said Scott.
Scott was new to being an altar boy. Joel had a bit more experience. ‘The black dressing gown thingy is called a cassock,’ Joel said as he pulled his gown over his head. ‘I don’t know what the girly smock thing is called —’
‘A surplice!’ boomed Father Bowden as he stormed into the little room at the side of the church, where the altar boys were getting ready. ‘It’s called a surplice, and it is neither girly nor smocky. Y
ou!’ he said, pointing at Joel. ‘I don’t want you wearing footy boots under your vestments, okay? This is a very important mass.’
‘I won’t,’ Joel promised. He’d only worn his footy boots the one time, about eighteen months earlier, because he’d forgotten his church shoes. Father Bowden wasn’t one for forgetting, though.
‘You, new boy! Polish the bells!’ Father Bowden said to Scott, without asking his name or saying please.
‘You!’ he said, pointing at the third altar boy — a lean, dark-haired kid called Ryan McIntosh. ‘Polish the vessel for the sacrament. You do realise that the wine becomes the actual blood of Christ don’t you, lad? Do you want the actual blood of Christ to reside in a dirty vessel?’
Father Bowden whirled out of the room, leaving the boys to get everything ready.
‘Why are we altar boys again?’ Scott asked.
‘Because Nan likes it,’ Joel replied. ‘And because there’s a decent pizza night at the end of the year that the church puts on.’
‘He’s very bossy,’ Scott said.
‘He sure is,’ Joel replied. ‘You get used to it, though. Just do what he says. The important thing is to make sure his bells are shiny. He loves those bells. I think he only became a priest to boss kids around and ring bells.’
Scott picked up a cloth and started polishing. He turned the bell upside down and checked out the dangly clapper thing.
‘Joely,’ Scott said. ‘Have you got a screwdriver?’
‘Er, no. Why would I carry a screwdriver on me?’ Joel said.
Without a word, Ryan McIntosh whipped out a screwdriver from under his cassock like a cowboy drawing his weapon.
Joel and Scott stood open-mouthed. ‘Why have you got a screwdriver?’ Joel asked, confused.
Ryan shrugged. ‘Dunno. I’ve got a hockey stick, too, if you need one.’ Joel and Scott stared at Ryan. He was an odd kid. Joel watched his brother take the screwdriver and set to work.
‘Are you tightening the screws?’ Joel asked.
Scott grinned. ‘Nope.’
‘Scooter you’re not … Scooter!’
‘Mischief, Joel!’ Scott was unscrewing faster now. ‘Keep a lookout! Tell me if Father Grumpy Bum is coming.’
‘Scooter! He loves his bells. You can’t take them apart. You’ll get into so much trouble.’
Ryan McIntosh sniggered excitedly. Scott kept his head down. ‘I’m not going to take them apart,’ he said. ‘I’m going to take them almost apart.’
And that’s exactly what Scott did.
Half an hour later, Father Bowden reached that part of the mass and stepped forward to pick up his beloved bells. He grabbed the first and gave it a big shake. It made a strangled ding and then the clapper flew off into the first row. A kid ducked just in time. He tried with a new bell. Again, a weak ding and a flying clapper. It was the same for the third bell. And the fourth. Joel crossed his legs and chewed his cheek to keep the laughter from exploding out of him. It must have looked like he was busting to go to the toilet.
Scott stood calmly, the perfect picture of an altar boy. When Father Bowden rang the fifth bell and the clapper flew up and hit the priest in the face, Joel couldn’t hold it in anymore. He grunted, sounding like an excited billy goat.
Father Bowden spun around and stared at Joel. Joel’s face heated up to melting point and his cheek began to twitch. Scott stood as still as a statue. In the front pew, Joel could see Mum whispering to Nan and patting her on the knee. Joel could tell they had worked out that something was up.
‘You,’ Father Bowden whispered, pointing at Joel. ‘Afterwards.’
Although Father Bowden lectured and questioned Joel for a good ten minutes after the mass, Joel didn’t dob on Scott. But he didn’t own up either. ‘The screws must have loosened themselves,’ he argued. Father Bowden had him sweep the path outside the church as punishment.
Mum and Nan waited on the footpath outside the church.
‘Five points off, Joel,’ Mum said. ‘You mucked around with those bells, didn’t you?’
Nan shook her head. ‘The Lord’s bells. The good Lord’s bells.’
‘I did not!’ protested Joel.
This time Scott did laugh.
‘Scott!’ Mum said, turning in surprise to her youngest son. ‘Were you involved in this? Five points off for you, too, unless one of you tells me what happened.’
Neither Joel nor Scott spoke.
‘The good Lord’s bells,’ repeated Nan, disappointed.
Mum looked stern. ‘No allowance this week, and no going out to friends’ houses this weekend.’
Joel stared at the ground, trying to look sorry. Troy and Adam were right. Their punishments were never too bad. His allowance was only two dollars, so there wasn’t much to lose. Apart from his footy game, there was nowhere he needed to be for the rest of this weekend. Besides, the street always came to them.
Joel tried not to smile. Troy and Adam were right about another thing, too. Mischief felt quite good.
Even if this time it was actually Scott’s.
After church, Joel played the game of his life against the Kennington Kangas.
Both the Sharks and the Kangas were undefeated going into the game. Mr Gallus had put it all on the line in his pre-game talk. ‘The hardest thing for kids your age is to run when you don’t think you’re going to get the ball. I want you to run and run and run and run. I want you to make it to contests you don’t even know are about to happen. I want you to chase down these Kangas, even when you’re certain they’re going to dispose of the ball. I want you to come off exhausted. If you run harder and further than they do today, we will win.’
For two quarters, it hadn’t looked good. The Kangas were doing plenty of running of their own, and they had a big kid at centre half-forward called Silberberg who looked like he was about twenty-five years old. But the Sharks were following Mr Gallus’s instructions. The Sharks’ other midfield star, Max Wilson, laid six tackles in the first quarter. Joel laid four. The Sharks were getting more numbers to the ball, even if the Kangas were using it better, and kicking straighter at goal. Joel went into quarter time with sixteen possessions. He’d never felt more tired. He ran like a crazy person in the second quarter and had twelve more. Twenty-eight possessions and three goals at half-time. It was his personal best. But the Sharks trailed by eleven points.
Joel was lying exhausted on his back in the change room when he saw a familiar round tummy and slug moustache.
‘Joel Selwood! You’re having a blinder, kid!’
‘Hi, Nugget.’ Joel recognised the smiling man straightaway — he was a state selector for the Vic Country Under 12s. Joel had met him when the twins had played representative footy two years earlier.
‘Do you know how many touches you’ve had, Joel?’
Ignore the stats sheet. That was one of Coach Gallus’s favourite things to say. Ignore the stats and play the game. Joel was doing his best to do just that.
‘No, I don’t count stats,’ Joel said.
‘Nearly thirty.’ Nugget beamed. ‘In a half! I’ve never seen anything like it.’
Joel could feel some of his teammates looking at him. He sat up on the cold concrete of the change room.
‘Are you going to pick him for Vic Country?’ Harry W asked. Harry W was a pacy winger with wild blond hair. He’d been having a pretty good game himself.
‘We can’t yet,’ said Nugget. ‘We don’t pick Under 10s. But I reckon we’ll want to pick him next year. And Wayne Baker, our head selector, is coming from Castlemaine to watch the great J. Selwood play next week. We can’t pick him, but we all want to watch him! You’re the talk of Central Vic region, kid!’
Joel picked at the dried mud on his stops. He was really embarrassed now. Nugget had a loud voice and wore his Vic Country tracksuit. All Joel’s teammates were listening. Finally, Coach Gallus saw Joel’s scarlet face and came to the rescue.
‘Sorry, Nugget. I need it to be just me and the team now. We’ve go
t to think about how we’re going to approach the second half.’
Nugget threw Joel two big thumbs up. ‘Keep it up, Joel. And put in another blinder next week, will you? I’ve been raving to Wayno about ya!’
It was a shame this selector called Wayno couldn’t have been there that day. Firstly, it was an amazing, close game. The Kangas and the Sharks were tied with scores level for much of the last quarter.
And also, Joel didn’t slow down at all. He might not have been counting stats, but some kids on the bench were. As he approached fifty possessions, they started yelling the numbers out, ‘Forty-seven!’, ‘Forty-eight’ …
Joel had never been this tired on a footy field. His legs felt as heavy and useless as chopped trees. Coach Gallus’s distant voice called, ‘Less than a minute, Sharks, one more effort! One more effort each! Scores are tied!’
Joel had his hands on his hips in the centre circle. Surely he couldn’t run one more metre? The ball was at centre halfback. Harry W with the flowing blond locks tried to get his kick away but was caught.
‘Play on, play on!’ the umpire yelled.
Joel started running and then sprinting into the backline. The ball spilled to Joel’s close mate Tarta, who handballed to Frul. ‘Baaaaaaaall!’ the Kangas players and parents cried as Frul was tackled to ground. Players piled on. Joel wondered how long was left. There had to be just seconds. Instead of becoming one more body in a giant pack, Joel sprinted for the empty goalsquare. There was nobody manning it. At that very moment, the primary school giant Silberberg lumbered clear of the pack for the Kangas. Joel felt his stomach clench. Even a point would win it for the other team. Silberberg lined up the goals. Tarta chased hard. Tarta couldn’t make the tackle. Silberberg kicked.
It was a beautiful kick. Joel thought it was a goal. But he had to at least try to touch it. He dug deep for that last burst of energy, and took off in a headlong dive. He flew like Superman, glancing over his shoulder to try to judge the ball.
The small junior footy crowd roared. Joel’s stomach and chest crashed into the turf with a mighty whoompf. The siren sounded. Joel opened his eyes. The ball was there in his outstretched arms, just centimetres in front of the goal line. Tarta and Frul were leaping in the air, like the Sharks had won. But they hadn’t. It was a draw. The first draw Joel had played in.