by Nicole Hayes
Marriage is the only thing that can mess with the system. We didn’t have that problem, though, because Dad isn’t normal. He let Mum win without putting up a fight. Still, once it was decided, he wouldn’t let me bail on the Falcons even if they sucked. He says no matter how bad your team plays, no matter how many grand finals you lose or wooden spoons you win, you don’t give up on them because ‘You don’t change teams mid-season.’ But what he means is: you don’t change teams ever.
Thank God Mum gave me the Falcons.
We make it most of the way through Finkler Road and are just about to pass the Christies’ house when we run into Josh on his way back from school. I try to ignore my pounding heart and remind myself it’s just Josh. No one special. It’s not like I haven’t seen him lately – we’ve gone running together twice since I saw him at the station three weeks ago, and he’s called a few times, too. So this should not be a big deal. But still my hands are clammy and there’s a lump the size of a golf ball in my throat.
I can see the purple and blue stripes of the Glenvalley High footy jumper under his tracksuit, which means he’s come straight from their game. He still has a smear of dirt on his face where he’s pushed the hair out of his eyes with muddied hands. Josh plays for the Raiders too – Saturdays are the school team, Sundays are the Raiders. Our whole family used to spend every Sunday throughout the footy season watching the Raiders; the Browns and the McGuires almost part of the furniture at the club. But Dad and I haven’t been back since the accident, not even to watch Josh play. You’d think Josh would be sick of it – the same people, the same clubs, the same coaches, but there’s no such thing as too much footy in Josh’s world. Probably in my world, too, if I could still play.
‘Hey, Josh,’ I say, while Dad shakes Josh’s hand with that awkward gravity he saves for anyone who knew us before the accident. The old us, when we were still a proper family. I notice Dad glancing over Josh’s shoulder to make sure he’s alone. I do too. It takes an almost physical effort to deal with Josh’s mum – for both of us – and once again we’ve dodged a bullet. She’s nowhere in sight.
Josh’s grin is as wide as a Mack Truck. Seriously, you can spot it a mile off. And it’s infectious, too, that grin. Even Dad gives in to it once he relaxes a bit. ‘Big one today,’ Josh says, nodding at my Glenthorn scarf. Although he barracks for Eastern Panthers, I don’t hold it against him. His dad played for the Panthers’ reserves for a few years and would’ve made the seniors if he didn’t destroy his knee on a swampy Punter Oval during one particularly brutal game. So of course Josh barracks for the Panthers – it’s a McGuire family tradition. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love watching the Falcons thrash the Panthers senseless every time they play. What I’m praying will happen today.
‘You want to come?’ I offer.
‘You should, Josh,’ Dad says too quickly. ‘The Panthers are due for a big one,’ he adds, nudging Josh stiffly, cajoling him with too much enthusiasm for the careless offer it’s supposed to be. Dad needs him as much as I do.
Josh has the good grace to shrug it off and laugh. ‘Love to, Mr Brown. Can’t think of anything I’d rather do than watch the mighty Panthers flog the willies out of those brown-and-yellow losers.’ He winks at me, daring me to bite.
‘Gold,’ I correct him, unable to resist. ‘Brown and gold.’
‘Right, right. Brown-and-gold losers,’ he says, cracking himself up and earning a grateful grin from my dad. ‘Can’t though – got to help Mum with some stuff.’
I know mentioning Mrs McGuire will hurt Dad even before I see his face crumple. A wave of pain washes over his face but it’s gone almost before it appears, and if you weren’t watching and knowing it would hurt, you’d never know it happened.
Josh blanches and forces a brittle laugh. He saw it. ‘I mean, I have to do homework,’ he says, as if that would undo the pain.
With a heroic effort, Dad manages something like a smile, shakes Josh’s hand again and says goodbye. ‘Say hi to your parents for me,’ he adds, like he’s any other dad and the McGuires are any other friends.
‘Sure, Mr Brown.’
‘See you, Josh,’ I say, ready to get my head back into football.
‘Shell?’
I stop, ignoring the flip my stomach does when he says my name. ‘Yeah?’
‘You promised you’d come to a Raiders game,’ he says, his steady gaze giving me nowhere to escape. ‘You haven’t made it to one all season.’ I haven’t made it to one in almost two seasons, actually, but the details are kind of irrelevant right now. Fact is, I promised I would.
I watch Dad continue his walk – shoulders hunched, head straight. In his own world. So completely alone, it aches to see it. ‘Sure, okay,’ I say to Josh, knowing that I’ll find a way to get out of it easily enough when the time comes. Josh will understand.
As I turn to go, Josh catches my hand, and a hot stream of electricity shoots up my arm. ‘Sorry,’ he says. For a second I think he knows what I’m feeling, but then he nods at Dad, and I realise he’s apologising for the weirdness before.
I smile it away, too confused to speak, unable to look at our hands even though it’s all I can think about. Josh lets go, and my whole arm seems to go cold. For a long second I stand there, incapable of speech. Then he winks and walks off, the grin on his face all the proof I need that he knows exactly what his touch did to me.
Shame surges through me, hot and thick. It’s enough to get my limbs moving again, and to kill any desire to watch Josh leave. I chase after Dad, who seems almost to be running, those long, powerful legs outpacing my short nimble ones. I’m so out of breath by the time we get to the station that I don’t give Josh a second thought. Not once.
‘The better team won,’ Dad says as we head home, his obsession with sportsmanship robbing me of a chance to whine. We take the stairs to the front door, side by side, his steps long and determined, mine slow and heavy, loaded with disappointment. Eastern Panthers crushed us by thirty-nine points. I’m so glad Josh didn’t come.
‘Hold your head up, Shell,’ Dad says as we enter the cold, dark house.
I wish he’d left a light on, and the heater. The fluorescent lights flicker in the kitchen, blinking quickly before catching. I go straight to the kettle to put on some tea, hovering over it to warm my hands.
He disappears into the family room and turns on the telly. I know what that means and feel the dread building at the thought. I stand in the doorway, gathering the courage to object. Dad eyes me from his chair across the room, eyebrow raised, expectant.
The music to the replay kicks in, its cheerful tones about as depressing as the final siren was today. The pain of losing is still sharp in my chest. Everything feels raw and open. And now I have to watch the whole thing all over again.
When we win, I love it. When we lose, I’d rather have a tooth pulled.
‘Come on, Shelley. A true sportsman takes the wins and the losses. No point investing unless you can lose respectably.’
Easy for him to say – he doesn’t care who wins. ‘Do I have to watch?’
There’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Sympathy? Concern? But it’s gone too soon to be sure.
The kettle starts whistling and I glance hopefully back to the kitchen.
Dad’s beside me before I realise. ‘Anyone can win, Shell. It’s losing that makes you strong.’ For a second I think he’s going to hug me. Instead he squeezes my shoulder then heads into the kitchen. ‘I’ll make the tea.’
I’ve heard all this a million times before. Losing builds character. Anyone can win. Blah, blah, blah.
The commentators start the introduction to the show – the Falcons and the Panthers are up first. Brilliant. No time to warm up.
Awkwardly, I sit on the arm of the couch, as far from the telly as I can be. Dad reappears, hands me a steaming cup of tea then returns to his chair, where he puts up his feet and gets comfortable. I slide into the couch properly, set my tea on the table beside me and take
a deep breath. Resigned to my fate.
Dad nods his approval and smiles that mischievous smile he hardly ever uses anymore. ‘You never know,’ he says with a wink, ‘you might get up and win this time.’
And even though I know the result and have heard this tired old joke a thousand times before, as the game draws to an end for the second time today – the same kicks, marks and goals replayed before me – my chest tightens and a lump forms in my throat all over again. It’s like, somewhere in my heart, I hope Dad’s right about winning the second time around, even when I know it’s impossible.
If that’s what it takes to build character, I’m not up to it.
‘Contact!’ Mrs Hodge cries out as Anna Barnes slams into Melanie Hauser, giving Melanie a clear shot at goal. I suck in air and rest my hands on my knees, struggling to catch my breath before the ball comes back into play.
Tara is watching from the sidelines because she has a sore ankle and can’t play netball. Or that’s what she told Mrs Hodge, who raised her eyebrows and nodded curtly, having heard this a hundred times before. Tara never does P.E., no matter what sport we’re doing or when we’re doing it.
‘I don’t know why you bother,’ she says to me at the half-time break. Despite the cool air, I’m sweating bullets and my lungs ache with the effort to breathe. I’m playing on the wing and against Ginnie, who, to add to her already stupendous number of accomplishments, is a state-level netball champion. I’ve managed to avoid netball until St Mary’s, and my footy skills are only able to take me so far. She’s beating me and I hate that.
‘It’s fun,’ I lie, returning to my position. It’s anything but.
The whistle blows and I leap forward just as Ginnie’s foot catches mine, knocking me off balance. ‘Sorry!’ says Ginnie, as I stagger for a step or two, just managing not to fall over.
‘Tripping!’ I call out, and point to Ginnie, who smirks discreetly. ‘She tripped me.’
Mrs Hodge does the eyebrow lift. ‘I didn’t see it.’ She doesn’t believe me. She thinks I’m a bad sport. Between Mrs Hodge and my dad, I’m starting to think they may be on to something.
I shake it off and get ready to go again. Ginnie knows the game, but I’m faster. So I think through how to make this work. I fall back from the centre line and hang outside the ring, on my toes, circling a bit as we wait for the centre pass. Seconds before Elena Irving releases the ball, I jog towards the line, then sprint at it, breaking through a split second after the whistle blows, timing it perfectly. The ball slams into my chest and I’ve left Ginnie several paces behind play. I pass it forward, run to meet the next pass on the top of the circle, then slot it into Kathy Doyle’s waiting arms. She shoots and scores, and Ginnie is left panting behind me. Tara cheers like it’s the footy.
I wink at Ginnie, rubbing it in. Somewhere deep down I’m ashamed of my gloating, but it’s pretty deep and easy to ignore.
After the game, which, despite a slight improvement at my end, we lose, Tara and I head to the lockers to get our lunch.
‘So Saturday morning at the Burke and Wills statue at eleven?’
I look over my shoulder. Is she talking to me? Tara’s face is buried in her locker and I’m the only person around, so she must be. Except I have no idea what she’s talking about.
‘I can only wait fifteen minutes max because we have to catch the eleven-twenty up Elizabeth Street.’ Tara closes her locker and looks at me. ‘Saturday trams are dodgy,’ she adds, as though I’ve asked her a question.
‘Are they?’
She nods. ‘I always watch the reserves first. That’s why I go so early.’
And then I get it. She’s asking me to the footy. Not just training but to an actual game. On the weekend. This weekend. ‘Okay,’ I say, shock doing a very nice job of flattening my voice despite my excitement. I’ve never gone to the footy just with a friend before. It’s always been a family thing – with my parents or Josh’s or both. Going with Tara alone feels important, somehow, for all kinds of reasons.
Dad seems pleased when I tell him that night and offers to drive me to the station. But as I get dressed to go on Saturday, the doubts kick in. Will Tara even turn up? Or what if she does show up and ignores me for the whole match? I let all the horrible and excruciating possibilities pile up in my head even as I rush Dad to get to the station early.
Josh is on the platform when I get there, but the train isn’t. Vic Rail is as bad as the trams on a Saturday – actually, every day. I take a seat beside him on the bench. ‘We need to stop meeting like this,’ I say, yanking my scarf out from under my leg, where it threatens to choke me half to death.
‘Go Gorillas,’ he says predictably.
‘Loser,’ I reply. He’d already called to gloat about the Panthers’ win so at least I’ve got that out of the way. ‘You got a game?’ He’s wearing his tracksuit and there’s an Adidas sausage bag by his feet, its corners frayed and torn.
‘No,’ he grins. ‘Thought I’d go fishing today.’ He digs out his footy, raising it like a trophy. ‘My fishing rod,’ he says, spinning it in his hands.
I knock it out of his grip and we both leap up to grab it before it falls off the platform. I get there first.
‘Idiot!’ he says, laughing.
‘What?’ I offer an innocent smile and handball it to him at close range. Hard. He fakes injury, coughing and spluttering, then handballs it back, neat and straight.
The train finally pulls up and we find seats in the middle of the third carriage. I always choose the third carriage from the front – for good luck.
‘So much for running after school,’ he says, not looking at me. He’s called twice this past fortnight to organise a run, but I’ve fobbed him off. The whole hand-tingling thing is messing with my head. I think he knows I’m avoiding him but he probably thinks it’s about the Raiders. I feel bad about that, but better he think it’s about football than the other stuff. Everything would be easier if we kept it all about the footy. ‘Mick’s up for a big one today,’ I say, changing the subject.
‘Bloody Edwards again?’ Josh says. ‘What’s so special about him?’
‘He’s cool.’ I shrug. ‘And really nice.’
Josh tilts the footy onto the tip of his finger, spinning it before it falls and lands on my lap. I grab it before he can. ‘Nice? How would you know if he’s nice? He could be a mass murderer when he’s not playing footy.’
I laugh. ‘Yeah right.’
‘Or a devil worshipper. Or a . . .’ Josh looks around for inspiration. ‘A secret Warriors supporter on his days off.’
It’s really hard to hate Josh. Seriously, I’ve tried. ‘I talk to him at training,’ I say, unable to stop the chuckle that escapes. ‘They’re all nice.’
‘You get all that from how they sign your autograph book?’
‘We talk a lot. About all kinds of stuff.’
Josh grabs at the ball, but I baulk, holding it just out of reach. ‘What stuff?’ He looks away, acting all cool, but I can tell he’s mad.
I don’t know why exactly, but it feels good. ‘You know . . . footy, of course. And WA. School. Lots of stuff.’
‘So instead of training – the reason they’re actually there – they hang around chatting with the fans. About school. And stuff.’ His tone has changed, and suddenly it’s not funny anymore.
‘It’s no big deal,’ I say, lying. It’s easily the most important thing that’s happened to me all year. The best thing.
‘Does your dad know you’re mates with these guys?’ Josh snatches the ball back from me with more aggression than needed, if you ask me.
‘What?’ I rub the back of my hand theatrically, making sure he knows he was being too rough. It didn’t hurt. But it could have.
‘Sorry,’ he says, looking like he means it.
I nod but am too annoyed to ease the moment.
‘You didn’t answer my question,’ he says eventually.
‘What question?’ I refuse to help him.
&n
bsp; ‘So your Dad’s fine about you hanging out with these . . .’
He trails off, searching for a word. ‘These . . . men?’
His attitude reminds me of things I don’t want to remember. ‘Of course he is,’ I snap. ‘Mick’s just a friend. They all are.’ But my voice is unnaturally high and thin. I look out the window, hoping he’ll get out soon.
We pass two stations before anyone speaks. ‘Shell?’ Josh says softly.
I slowly face him, prepared to fight even though the kindness in his voice almost undoes me.
He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but seems to change his mind. ‘Just . . . be careful, okay?’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, Joshua.’ And even though it means I’ll end up at the wrong end of Flinders Street Station, I get out at the next stop and switch carriages. I keep an eye out in case Josh comes looking for me, but when I see him get off at Yarra Station, he only briefly looks back at the train before disappearing into the swell of disembarking passengers.
The City Square is basically empty but for Tara, who is standing under the Burke and Wills statue, clearly waiting for someone. I cross my fingers, hoping that someone is me. The first thing I notice is that she’s wearing the most amazing duffle coat. It’s dark brown with gold trim and is covered top to toe in Glenthorn colours. All the players whose faces are now so familiar to me smile in the same stiff pose they save for our cameras, their faces pressed into round, shiny badges. But it’s not just all those badges that impress me. It’s the whole thing. Her total and absolute dedication. Every centimetre is devoted to brown and gold in all different forms: name tags sewn neatly in rows, premiership insignias for each year we’ve won, rosettes and ribbons and flags in the gaps between. I have to stop myself from gushing at her when she notices me. ‘Cool coat,’ I say, as evenly as I can manage.
Tara sticks her hands in the coat pockets and stands a little straighter. ‘Dad got it for me,’ she says.
I struggle to picture her dad. She’s never mentioned him before. But the idea of a dad sewing badges on a duffle coat amazes me. I like him already. I wait for her to say something, encouraged by the fact that she seemed to be looking for me only moments ago. She raises her eyebrows and frowns. ‘You right?’