by Laney Cairo
The concrete gave way to carpet, and a security guard inspected Dale's corporate membership card before waving him past, out onto the stadium terrace that housed the corporate boxes.
Another security check, and a waiter held out a tray of drinks to Dale. Dale took two beers off the tray and pushed open the gate to the box he and Frank owned.
The padded plastic seats were all empty, so he'd beaten Frank to the game. Damn, he thought. Now he'd have to drink both of the beers himself.
The front seats gave a wonderful view across the oval; the bounce down circle in the centre, larger centre square for controlling opening play around it, the goal areas marked out by an arc, fifty metres from the two tall central goal posts, the shorter posts for minor scores beside them. Kids in team colours were playing demonstration mini-matches on the oval, while the terraces below Dale filled steadily, the dominant colours of the supporters red and orange, since it was a Hammers home match. Pockets of blue and red marked groups of Devils’ supporters, who were braving the parochial Hammers’ crowd.
For years, Dale had lived for Australian Rules Football and the national Australian Football League matches. Eighteen players a side, plus four on the interchange bench. Eighty minutes of high impact, full contact football, spectacular leaps to catch the ball, and bruising contests for possession of the ball. Based on many years watching the game and a couple of seasons playing at amateur level, Dale figured the use of ‘rules’ in the name was probably ironic.
The code really did have very few rules; no contact from the neck up, no tripping, and if a ball was kicked and travelled more than fifteen metres with no bounces at all, then the player catching had uncontested possession. It was a gladiatorial sport, one that made Dale's blood sing, and he had missed it unbearably.
Just as the gate to the box opened and Frank clambered down to sit beside Dale, the siren sounded, reverberating around the oval and stadiums, warning the match was about to start.
"Mate,” Frank said, solid hand on Dale's shoulder, and Dale handed Frank the second beer he'd collected. They touched plastic cups and drank a long draught each, while the kiddies cleared off the oval, leaving it empty for a moment.
"Mate,” Dale agreed, leaning forward over the balcony, watching the enthusiastic fan club members carrying out the huge banners and setting them up directly opposite the corporate boxes.
'Congratulations Digger! 200 Matches,’ was written in orange and red tissue paper, on a banner three metres tall. ‘Happy Birthday, Snaggy!’ was on the Devils’ banner, in lurid blue and red.
Digger, real name Ian Miner, played full back for the Hammers. He was getting on for a league player and wasn't as quick as he used to be, but he was rock solid in defence, never letting a ball past without making the opposition pay for it.
Martial music blared, the crowd roared, and the Devils came through their banner, accompanied by the obligatory kiddie mascots in team colours, but Dale didn't care. He had binoculars pressed against his face and was trying to locate Shane in the Hammers squad, milling out of their clubroom.
Then the orange and red banner tore as the Hammers squad burst through, Digger at the front, a little kid in team colours holding his hand proudly. The rest of the team ran behind him, beginning their pre-game posturing by tossing footies around.
There Shane was, taller than most of the players, blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, tossing the ball back and forth with a player Dale didn't recognise, dodging the kid mascots as they were led off the oval.
Dale had seen plenty of photos of Shane over the past eleven months, in the newspapers, on cereal boxes and on billboards. He'd seen him being interviewed on the TV, but this was different. Shane was right there, no more than a hundred metres from Dale, looking amazing. Tall, athletic, all bone and muscle. As hot as ever in sleeveless guernsey over tiny shorts, flesh-coloured hamstring protectors peeking out below his shorts.
Dale's memory headed for treacherous ground, but Frank whacked him on the back, bringing Dale back to the present. “No moping,” Frank shouted in Dale's ear, over the sound of the siren and the cheer of the crowd.
"Deal,” Dale shouted back.
The team captains tossed a coin, and the Devils’ captain pointed into the breeze, making sure his team would have the advantage of the prevailing wind in the final quarter.
The siren sounded, the centre umpire bounced the ball, sending it sailing up into the air, and the ruck and ruck rover from each team were up in the air, leaping impossibly high, arms swinging, fists curled. Shane got solid contact on the ball, his wrist rotated in a way that seemed almost magical but that gave him complete control over the ball, and he punched the ball out of the tangle of arms, directly to the Hammers’ rover.
The rover grabbed the ball on the run, bolting out of the pack, dropping the ball onto his boot as the Devils’ defence threw themselves at him, kicking it forward, inside the fifty metre goal line.
The Hammers’ full forward soared into the air, hair flying, knees planted on one of the Devils’ half back's shoulders so he towered three metres over the ground, and snatched the ball out of the air.
The umpire whistled, calling possession, as the full forward and half back hit the ground in a bruising welter of limbs and mud.
The full forward took a moment, shaking his head and breathing hard, to get back to his feet.
He walked back ten paces, turned around, then began his loping run up, dropping the heavy ball onto the top of his boot perfectly, right at the peak of his stride. With the ball lined up to the boot, power was transferred from the full forward's momentum, and from his massive thigh and calf muscles, exploding out of his body into the ball. The ball flew up, higher and higher, angling across toward the goal posts, tumbling perfectly through the two tallest posts for a six point goal.
The crowd erupted, Dale and Frank leapt to their feet, screaming too, and the ball spun into the crowd in the stadium behind the goal posts.
The goal umpire, dressed in fluoro green to stop the players from hurting him accidentally, stuck both hands out, index fingers extended, then dashed to the goal post and grabbed the white flags. He gesticulated with the flags, an extravagant flourish designed to be clearly visible down the entire one hundred and sixty-one metres of the oval.
Seventeen seconds of play, one tap, two possessions, an airborne tackle and mark, and a goal. Six points on the score board for the Hammers, the game clock frozen for fifteen seconds as the teams regrouped. The goal umpire retrieved the ball from the crowd and kicked it half the length of the oval. Then the rucks and rovers were in the centre circle, ready for the next bounce down.
Four quarters of twenty minutes each. Aussie Rules was impossibly fast paced and demanding for the players, brutal and hard, played without body armour, but right then Dale's pulse was pounding as adrenaline poured into his system, and it was the best bloody game in the world.
* * * *
Second quarter, and the Hammers were kicking into the breeze. Kingston was rucking, dealing with contesting the bounce downs and throw ins. Coach Gordon had sent Shane to the wing, replacing Ant, who'd split his forehead on the Devils’ centre half forward and was being sewn up again.
All of the sudden, the extra training runs were looking like a good thing. The Devils’ winger, a rabid little man Shane didn't know, was lunging randomly at Shane, tagging him. At the next assault Shane swung his elbow, connecting with the winger's ribs solidly.
In the Devils’ goal square, the ball went up in the air high, and Shane sighted for the Hammers’ winger on the other side of the paddock.
His opposite number pointed back, toward the Hammers’ goal, then took off toward the action, so Shane bumped against the winger hard with his shoulder, knocking the smaller man off-balance, and bolted in the direction he'd been told to go. The Devils’ winger was right behind him when Shane craned his head over his shoulder to check for the passage of the ball.
The crowd roared, an umpire shouted, “Play on,” a
nd the ball soared up in the air, travelling fast down the paddock. It was a gorgeous kick, travelling seventy metres, a true torpedo punt, spiralling through the air in a graceful arc. Only Digger kicked like that. Shane dodged around one of the lumbering Devils’ defenders, twisting around, losing the winger, so he was running back toward the ball.
Someone grabbed Shane's guernsey, but he struck at the player's arm, escaping their grip.
He was completely out of breath, running on lactic acid, his ribs heaving and thighs burning, so it was pure adrenaline that powered his leg muscles, sending him leaping into the air to meet the flight of the ball as it descended.
Someone tackled him, but he got some anchorage on their thigh, pushing himself higher, over the heads of the other players converging on him.
The ball smacked into his outstretched hands, at the top of his flight, and he hung on tight, falling hard.
Shane had read something dreadfully pretentious once that took the idea that nothing was as quiet as a telephone that wasn't ringing and applied it to footballers, claiming there was no stillness as great as a footballer at repose.
Lying facedown in the mud, crushed by several other players, too winded to draw breath, with the ball trapped underneath him, Shane did not feel reposed. What he felt was agonising pain.
Umpires’ whistles blew, the weight was lifted from his back and he was rolled over roughly. The umpire peered down at him, took the ball off him, then whistled, signalling the free kick Shane had earned with that aerial mark. Deano retrieved the ball from the umpire's hands, and Shane watched Deano's feet pound past as he took the free kick in Shane's place.
Shane mentally counted the seconds—one, two, three—that it took the ball to cover the fifty metres to goal, then the crowd roared as Deano converted the free kick to a goal.
One of the Hammers’ runners, dressed in fluoro yellow, knelt down beside Shane, one hand on Shane's diaphragm to check he was still breathing.
The runner's hand moved to Shane's arm, where it felt like it had been wrenched off, and Shane had to bite his mouth guard to stop from whimpering.
"C'mon, Davis,” the runner said, then Lindon's face appeared over the runner's shoulder.
"Need the cart?” Lindon asked.
The cart was a modified golf cart, fitted with a stretcher, for removing incapacitated players from the paddock, but the code of honour of the club required that it was only used for fractures, complete unconsciousness and spinal injuries.
Shane spat his mouth guard out and shook his head. “No way,” he said.
The runner and Lindon grabbed Shane around his chest, with handfuls of his guernsey, and Shane stuck the arm that would work into the mud and forced himself up, the other arm hanging uselessly. He knew that TV cameras would be trained on him, recording his every move, so he shook the runner's hand off his back, gripped his injured arm against his chest, and managed a trot across the paddock, Lindon's hand securely latched on the back of his shorts, holding him up.
The jog to the club bunker, directly ahead, seemed further than any of Lindon and Gordon's crazed endurance training runs ever had.
Inside, out of sight of the TV cameras, Shane stumbled against a bench and almost fell onto it, waves of darkness breaking over him. Someone cut his guernsey off, and hands held him steady.
"Wrenched shoulder,” one of the match medics said. “Shane!"
Shane forced his eyes open.
"Here,” he said, blinking at the bright lights and the faces peering at him.
"Want to go to hospital to have your sub-luxed shoulder put back in? Or do you want me to do it here?"
Hospital ... anaesthetic...
Something jabbed in his uninjured shoulder, and bliss spread through his veins.
"Gotta play,” Shane said.
"Righto,” the medic said. “Someone grab Shane's other arm, and give the man a mouthguard to bite on."
Plastic was shoved into Shane's mouth, hands gripped him, and the medic grunted and wrenched.
The stretched skin and ligaments in the injured shoulder let go as the top of Shane's humerus slipped smoothly back into the shoulder socket, and Shane almost wet himself as shock rattled his bones.
Another needle, guided by the medic's fingers, slid into his shoulder joint, and he yelled around the mouth guard as something burned into him.
"Strap it and ice it hard,” the medic said. “He's out for the rest of the game."
Lindon wound wide adhesive tape around Shane's shoulder, then around his torso, stabilising the joint. “Just think,” he joked. “Rugby players think they're tough because they have to use tape to hold their ears on through a game. Aussie Rules players have to tape their arms on."
The ice cocoon went over the tape, and someone draped a team jacket over Shane's shoulders.
"Back to the bench,” Lindon said. “Let's go show the huddled masses you're not seriously hurt."
Shane nodded, the world feeling a long way away.
* * * *
Frank pushed another beer into Dale's hands. “Here you go,” he said. “Shane's back on the bench, you can stop panicking about him now."
Dale nodded, dragging his gaze away from the Hammers’ interchange bench, where Shane was hunched over, looking pale. He'd watch the game, not fret about Shane.
It had been like that when he and Shane had been lovers. Each match injury, each torn tendon and corked thigh, had been painful to watch, though never as painful as they were for Shane to sustain. Each time Shane had shrugged, his eyes twinkling. “All I've ever wanted to do is play footy,” he'd said. “People love watching footy, I love playing it. What does it matter if I get a few bruises?"
The beer slid down Dale's throat, and down on the oval, the match umpires waded into a particularly messy tackle, whistles tooting over the top of the crowd's roars.
* * * *
Frank pushed newspapers off Dale's couch and slumped down on it. Dale kicked a pile of clean clothes off the armchair and sat down too.
"To the Hammers,” Frank said, lifting his glass. “Go the Hammers."
"The Hammers,” Dale said, lifting his glass, slopping the whisky a little.
The late afternoon sunlight filtered weakly through the open French doors to the deck, the ocean murmuring in the distance, and Frank sighed contentedly.
"I do like your house,” Frank said. “Be even better once you get around to unpacking."
Dale picked a pair of balled up socks off the coffee table and tossed them at Frank. “If I unpack, I have to put everything on the shelves, after I've put shelves up. Then I have to dust everything. It's better like this."
"Loser,” Frank said. “You're letting the rest of the gay community down. We're supposed to have fabulous taste."
"Do I look worried?” Dale said. “Besides, if I unpacked, I'd just have to pack it all back up when I moved again."
"You could stay in one place,” Frank said, then he removed the underwear Dale tossed at him from his chest.
"You know I had to move this time,” Dale said.
"Dreadful break-up, blah blah,” Frank said. “Bad memories. You're such a fragile thing."
Dale poked his tongue out at Frank. “I can always count on you for sympathy."
"Three months, that's all you get from me,” Frank said. “After that, it's tough love."
Dale couldn't help but smile at Frank. For all Frank's gruff words, he'd been incredibly patient with Dale in the aftermath of Shane leaving.
"That's better,” Frank said. “You didn't look like a man whose team had thrashed the Devils and secured a position in the top four on the ladder."
Dale grinned. He was mellow from the beer and the afternoon shouting himself hoarse, the Hammers had won, and he'd survived seeing Shane in the flesh for the first time.
"Life's sweet,” Dale said. “I'm ready to get rid of that damned apartment."
"I'm not helping you clear it out,” Frank said. “I don't love you that much."
*
* * *
Madison, wearing full make up, painted-on jeans, and a floaty blouse that showed the bones where her cleavage should be, slid behind the steering wheel of Shane's car.
"Sure you want to go out, babe?” she asked.
Shane, having got the seat belt done up one-handed, nodded and then regretted moving his shoulder at all.
"It'll be fun,” he lied. “And I owe it to Digger and the team.” That bit was true.
While Shane was a professional footballer, he still appreciated that there was magic to be found in elusive team spirit, and sometimes that magic was all that got the team over the line for a win.
Madison patted Shane's knee through his jeans, her hand tiny against the bulk of his thigh.
"Got your analgesics?” she asked, starting the car.
Shane touched the pocket of his shirt, feeling the vial of pills rattle.
"Can I have one? And if you want to fuck tonight, I'll get on top,” Madison said. “You know, later."
Madison was busy backing out of the parking bay and through the garage, so all Shane had to do to hide his face was look out of the passenger window.
"I'm pretty sore, hon,” he said. “Not sure if I'll be up to it."
The look from Madison was pure poison when Shane glanced across at her.
"Do you know how long it is since we've had sex?” she asked. “Do you even care?"
"Don't,” Shane said. “I'm hurting here."
His shoulder was mottled purple, his arm strapped in a sling. Lindon had plastered another ice cocoon over Shane's shoulder before he'd left the clubroom, and he had an appointment for the following morning at the club rooms. Gordon had lined up some sports shoulder injury specialist to review Shane's shoulder then.
It hurt, but so did Shane's knees, thighs and back. Just another match injury.
Budgie and Denise lived in a three storey monstrosity of a house, over-looking the river, with a spa and a lap pool. Thanks to his ex, Dale, Shane understood exactly how badly Budgie had over-borrowed, exposing himself unnecessarily to interest rate changes.