Billy Slater 1

by Patrick Loughlin

  After an initial protest, which included Grandad claiming discrimination against the elderly, he finally agreed to leave. ‘When you’re finished, Josh, I’ll be waiting in the car. God forbid I should watch my own grandson play a game of football and show a little support from the sideline.’

  Josh closed his eyes and pretended he was invisible.

  It didn’t stop him from hearing his grandad’s final rant to no one in particular as he made his way to the car park. ‘You know you’re ruining it for the kids! The greatest game in the world and you’re ruining it. No wonder they all want to play soccer!’

  Josh wanted to shrivel up and disappear into the ground.

  Unfortunately, he didn’t.

  ‘Well, that was an interesting first half,’ said Coach Steve.

  Josh buried his head in his hands. The first half hadn’t improved after his grandad was asked to leave. Naturally, he’d found it a little hard to focus. In all, Josh put down three perfectly good passes. He didn’t even get his hands on them – one hit him square in the face, leaving a bright red mark. It was probably a big reason why the Ravens were still behind on the scoreboard.

  ‘But despite all the distractions,’ continued Coach Steve, and Josh wondered if Coach was looking at him, ‘we are only down by four. We can still win this. Sure the Comets have a few good players, but I think we can take ’em. Let’s just play as a team and hang onto those passes out there. If we do that, maybe we can notch up our first win of the season.’

  Coach nodded to the boys, and they all knew what was coming. ‘Ravens . . .’ Coach started flapping his arms wildly, and the whole team cracked up before joining in. ‘Let’s fly!’ yelled Coach Steve, and all the boys cheered and whooped. They could always count on Coach to make himself look ridiculous for the good of the team.

  Even Josh felt a little better, or he did until Coach called him over for ‘a chat’. Josh didn’t like the sound of that.

  ‘Listen, mate,’ began Coach, ‘you had a good run out there but I might get you to sit out this half so I can give Ravi a go, okay?’

  Ravi Rangarajan was the Ravens’ only reserve. He was a big football fan but had never played the sport before, and he was terrible at it. Ravi was the only player on the team who dropped the ball more than Josh.

  ‘You’re benching me?’ Josh asked glumly.

  ‘This is just a rest, mate. You did take a ball pretty hard to the head. Don’t worry, you’ll be back out there next week,’ said Coach Steve, ruffling Josh’s hair.

  But as Josh watched the second half from his spot on the wooden bench, he started to wonder if maybe this was his new position in the team – especially when Ravi managed to catch a pass. He did run in the wrong direction, of course. But after being shouted at by his teammates, Ravi eventually turned around and ran the right way.

  The Ravens gained the upper hand in the second half, scoring three tries to one by the time the final whistle blew. Coach Steve’s talk had done the job, and the Ravens won their first game of the season, no thanks to Josh.

  When Josh climbed into the car, he was beginning to think his footy-playing days were numbered.

  ‘So you had a win, hey?’ Grandad put aside his paper and turned on the ignition.

  ‘Yep, 16–10,’ mumbled Josh.

  ‘Good for you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Can you believe that club, kicking me out of the spectators’ area? It’s not like I threw any punches.’

  ‘Yep.’ Josh’s mind was no longer on his grandad’s sideline antics. He was too busy thinking about his own performance. His cheek still stung from where the football had smacked him in the face, and his lip was swollen from the boot he’d copped in the tackle.

  Maybe I’m just not cut out to be a footballer, thought Josh. As if to confirm this, the car hit a bump and Josh’s face vibrated with pain.

  ‘Blasted potholes!’ grumbled Grandad.

  Josh stared at the grey road ahead. All the way home he wondered one thing: What’s wrong with me?

  ‘I think it might be a case of the yips,’ concluded Billy.

  ‘The what?’ asked Josh, still a little dumb­struck that Billy Slater was giving him advice about football. This might just be the greatest day of his life, but it certainly hadn’t started that way.

  When Josh had seen that Billy Slater was there to train the team, he’d been both excited and completely terrified. Those dreaded elephant butterflies rose from the dead. But this time they were zombie-elephant butterflies.

  And that’s how Josh ended up spending the first half of training in the change sheds.

  ‘Um, Josh? Are you in here, mate?’

  Josh gulped. ‘Just a second . . .’ he called back, and quickly flushed the toilet. The truth was that his stomach had been fine for twenty minutes. He had been sitting in the cubicle for all that time wondering if he should go outside and face the barrage of Corey’s put-downs about stuffing up an easy pass.

  Josh sheepishly emerged, trying to think of an excuse for missing the first half of training.

  ‘How are you doing?’ asked Billy.

  Josh looked at the ground and gave a tiny shrug.

  ‘That good, huh?’

  Josh shrugged again.

  ‘Steve said you had a tough game on the weekend,’ Billy said with a concerned smile.

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘Feel like talking about it?’ asked Billy. He pointed to the narrow wooden bench on the sidelines.

  Josh nodded and sat down on the bench. Taking a deep breath, he explained everything that had happened in the game against the Comets. And after that, he explained what had happened at training the week before and when he had blown a certain try in the first game of the season.

  ‘Not much fun to stuff up when everyone’s watching, is it?’ asked Billy.

  ‘Not so much.’

  Billy nodded. ‘Yep, I know that feeling.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘But what? You don’t think professional footy players get embarrassed when they make a mistake in front of thousands of fans?’ asked Billy.

  ‘But you never make a mistake. You’re Billy Slater.’

  ‘Of course I do. Everyone has their bad days. Believe me, I’ve had some shockers,’ said Billy.

  ‘Not like me. I can’t even catch the ball anymore. Whenever I have to catch a pass I get nervous and my hands don’t work,’ said Josh, clenching his hands into fists.

  And that’s when Billy suggested that Josh was suffering from the yips. But Josh had no idea what Billy was talking about.

  ‘The yips are when you worry so much about not being able to do something that your body forgets how to do it,’ explained Billy. ‘It happened to me one season when I dropped a bomb in the very first game. Every time after that, when a bomb went up, I’d think about dropping it. And then I would drop it.’

  ‘So, how’d you fix it?’ asked Josh.

  ‘That’s the tricky bit. The key is to relax, keep a clear mind and eventually it just goes away.’

  ‘Just goes away? But how?’ asked Josh. The yips sounded like a terrible disease, and he had been hoping Billy would be able to give him an instant cure. This was like being told by the doctor to drink plenty of fluids and get some rest.

  ‘It just does. You just need one or two good passes to get your confidence back,’ said Billy. ‘Why don’t we chuck around the footy and see if some of the passes stick? It beats hanging out in the change sheds, right?’ Billy said with a grin.

  ‘Okay.’

  Josh and Billy headed over to the corner of the field while Coach Steve ran tackling drills with the rest of the team.

  ‘So, the trick is to never, ever, ever take your eyes off the ball,’ instructed Billy.

  He threw Josh pass after pass. Easy ones at first, then difficult ones – at
Josh’s hands, legs and over his head. Hard ones, fast ones, floating, spiralling passes and even flick passes. Josh didn’t catch them all, but he caught most of them.

  As the sun disappeared behind the hills and the sky turned pink, Josh began to feel better. He was having fun, and he knew that he could catch a pass. He could catch a lot of passes, in fact. He just had to remember this during the next game.

  That was going to be the tricky bit.

  ‘Wow, a one-on-one passing session with Billy Slater. Lucky you! If I didn’t hate his team so much, I’d be impressed.’

  Josh squinted at the blurry image on his mum’s laptop. ‘Dad, how can you hate the most awesome team ever? They’ve won nine of their last ten games!’

  ‘Well, son, it’s just like me and Grandad – he’s a dyed-in-the-wool footy fan and he’s never had much time for my team, either. I guess the three of us will never see eye to eye on footy, which is probably not a bad thing. It makes footy season far more interesting, if you ask me.’

  ‘Died in the woods? What does that mean?’

  ‘Not died in the woods. D-Y-E-D – dyed in the wool, as in the dye used to colour wool, which you can never get out. Once you choose a footy team, it’s for life. Mine might not be going too well at the moment, but I’m not about to switch to a different team just because they win a premiership. I’d rather die in the woods!’

  Josh groaned. ‘Dad, your jokes are terrible.’

  ‘All dad jokes are terrible. Speaking of which, how is your grandad? Mum said there was some kind of problem at the game last weekend.’

  ‘He’s okay, I guess. He’s just always yelling stuff from the sideline. Dad, it’s embarrassing.’

  ‘That’s your grandad for you. My ears are still ringing from the last game we went to. But no one knows more about footy than your grandad. You should spend some one-on-one training time with him.’

  Josh wasn’t really keen to spend more time with his grandad than he had to. He was just too grumpy.

  ‘I’d better go now, Josh. Look after your mum and Chloe for me, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’ Josh paused, not wanting to sound too much like a little kid. ‘Dad . . . when are you coming home?’

  His dad frowned and cleared his throat. ‘Soon, I hope. Good luck with the game on Saturday. Score a try for me.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ said Josh, but he wasn’t feeling very confident.

  Then the laptop screen went black and his dad was gone again.

  Josh, his mum and Grandad sat at the table and ate in silence. His mum seemed angry. Josh wondered if it was because his dad couldn’t say when he was coming home.

  The only one doing any talking was Chloe. But since Josh didn’t speak ‘baby’, he had no idea what Chloe’s various aahs, goos and gurgles meant. Maybe she had some good advice about beating the yips. She certainly looked relaxed, sitting in her highchair with a river of drool flowing freely from her bottom lip.

  As Josh sat there watching his baby sister drool and his grandad gnaw enthusiastically on a lamb cutlet, he couldn’t help but notice his dad’s empty chair. Josh wondered if he would still have the yips if his dad was around to take him to footy. He wouldn’t shout out embarrassing things from the sideline and be asked to leave the ground.

  Maybe it’s just as well that Dad’s away, thought Josh. At least he doesn’t have to see me fumble a try.

  ‘Lovely lamb cutlets, Annie,’ Grandad said, breaking the long silence.

  Josh’s mum smiled, but the smile dis­appeared when she glanced at Josh’s plate. He had barely touched his dinner. For some reason he didn’t feel very hungry.

  Josh woke that Saturday to the sound of rain. Great, that’s all I need – a wet, slippery football! This is not going to be fun.

  It was still pouring when Josh and his grandad pulled into the Ravens home ground for Round 3 against the reigning premiers, the Kingsville ­Destroyers.

  ‘Nice weather . . . for ducks,’ Grandad said with a chuckle.

  Josh winced. His dad was right – all dad jokes are bad, but grandad jokes are the worst.

  ‘Remember, Josh, wet weather means tough football.’ Grandad slid one arm and then the other into a weathered yellow raincoat. You just have to guts it out and tackle, tackle, tackle. There won’t be many tries today, so whoever gets over the line will probably win. Good luck out there, I’ll be cheering for ya.’

  That was the one thing Josh was worried about. Well, that and dropping the ball.

  The mini-league games had been cancelled but all other age groups were to go ahead as scheduled. When the Ravens Under 11s ran onto the field, the rain was still beating down. If anything, it was coming down harder than ever.

  Despite his fears of being benched again, Josh was in the starting line-up. That could have been due to the fact that Ravi hadn’t even shown up. His parents had probably assumed the game would be called off. But this was rugby league. If the council didn’t close the ground, it was game on.

  In the team line-up before the game, Josh could barely see two feet in front of him. But one thing he did notice was the size of the Destroyers players. Some of them were enormous. They looked like they were in Year 9, not Year 5.

  Josh couldn’t tell if it was just the rain, black clouds and bad light, but he could have sworn that some of the players had stubble on their chins.

  Once the game was underway, Josh realised that his grandad was right. It was nice weather for ducks. There was a family of them swimming around in the lake that was forming behind the in-goal area.

  And there wasn’t much chance of catching the ball in the blinding rain, let alone scoring. Not to mention the mind-numbing cold. Josh felt like his face was being stabbed by a thousand tiny needles and he could barely feel his feet in his waterlogged boots.

  Guts it out, Josh, he could hear Grandad’s voice in his head. Easy for him to say, thought Josh. He’s standing on the sideline in a raincoat.

  Of course, Josh’s grandad was the only supporter dedicated enough to brave the rain. Every other spectator or official was standing under the eaves of the tuckshop and change sheds, or waiting in their car. His grandad was out there all alone, yelling words of encouragement to get Josh through the toughest playing conditions of his very short footballing career. Things like:

  ‘Careful – don’t drop it!’

  ‘Courage, lad, it’s only mud!’

  ‘It’s not a tackle if it doesn’t hurt!’

  It wasn’t particularly helpful advice, so Josh thought about what Billy had told him. Relax. Keep a clear mind.

  But Grandad’s voice fought back. Guts it out. Tackle. Tackle. Tackle.

  Soon there was a war of words inside Josh’s head that was almost as loud as the rain smashing down on him.

  GUTS IT OUT.

  RELAX.

  TACKLE. TACKLE. TACKLE.

  KEEP A CLEAR MIND.

  TACKLE. TACKLE. TACKLE.

  EVENTUALLY, IT JUST GOES AWAY.

  But how?

  COURAGE, LAD. IT’S ONLY MUD.

  But . . .

  RELAX.

  But . . .

  TACKLE. TACKLE. TACKLE.

  I can’t.

  CLEAR YOUR MIND.

  Josh could see the giant Destroyers winger powering towards him. He had never seen a bigger player, and this wasn’t a forward, either. It was his opposite number.

  With only a split second to react, Josh decided the best thing to do was to listen to both voices in his head. He relaxed, braced himself for impact, cleared his mind and then launched himself like a human missile at the colossus running at full steam towards him.

  The last thing he saw was a very large set of kneecaps. Then everything went black.

  ‘Josh? Honey, are you going to be much longer? Lunch is almost ready.’

  Josh didn’t have the ene
rgy to answer his mother. He sat in the bathtub, looking down at his battered body and the mud mingling with the water. It had been a tough game, all right. He’d recovered from the tackle by the giant Destroyers winger, although he had been left with a large black bruise from colliding with a leg that had felt as hard as concrete. But the game hadn’t got any easier.

  His grandad was right about another thing. It wasn’t a high-scoring game. In the end the Destroyers won the day 8–0.

  Even though Coach Steve had told the boys how proud he was of them all for playing so well in such terrible conditions, Josh didn’t feel much pride. He’d hardly touched the ball, and when he had, it had slipped right out of his hands like soap. Maybe it was the rain or maybe it was the yips, but his ball-handling skills were still disastrous.

  His body was aching, his head was throbbing and he felt very, very tired. Was this what playing rugby league was really like? Maybe I’m not meant to play footy, after all, thought Josh.

  ‘Josh, did you hear what I said? Lunch is ready.’

  ‘I’m coming!’ Josh shouted back.

  ‘All right, no need to get snippy,’ his mum replied.

  Josh felt bad. His mum didn’t deserve to be yelled at. It wasn’t her fault he wasn’t good at football. She hadn’t wanted him to play in the first place.

  As he climbed out of the blackened bathwater, Josh realised what he had to do. He removed the plug and watched the water and sludge whirl down the plughole with a high-pitched groan.

  At training on Tuesday he would tell Coach that he was quitting the team.

  When Josh arrived at training, the sky was a bright, blazing blue and the only signs of the weekend rain were a few shallow puddles on the soft, squishy ground. The rest of the team was already out in the middle of the field playing a pre-training game of footy. They were running and yelling and calling to each other to pass it and kick it without a care in the world.

  How do they do it? Josh wondered. They didn’t look like they had any zombie-elephant-butterfly issues. They all just looked like they were having fun.