by Nicole Hayes
Tara and I head towards the footbridge. Under one end the entire Glenthorn cheersquad has gathered, a good fifty metres from where the Warriors fans mill about. We each have portable barbecues set up, alongside eskies of soft drink and champagne, and huge green garbage bags. I wonder if their flogger bags are similarly loaded with the illegal ‘snow’ that we’ve packed into ours, alongside the brown-and-gold floggers and streamers. We spent a good part of last week ripping up old phone books into small squares and loading them into the bottom of these bags.
Most of the cheersquad is huddled around the barbecue, trying to keep their costumes and paraphernalia out of view from prying Warriors’ eyes. The moment we arrive we’re greeted by Jim-Bob, Danny and Bear, who are covered head-to-toe in brown and gold. Even the Lovely Ladies have dressed up. Unlike Tara’s and my collection of hand-me-downs and op-shop rejects, the Ladies are wearing expensive-looking short brown skirts, tight gold tops, stockings and high heels. Their hair is sprayed gold like ours, but Tara and I look like derros while they look like cheerleaders. Their long hair is crimped and they have matching topknots, all brushed smooth and neat. Red is serving sausages and I can hear Sharon and Jim-Bob debating the condition of the ground and the effect it will have on the game, while their kids play kick-to-kick at the other end of the bridge.
‘It’s perfect for the forwards,’ Sharon says.
‘Yeah,’ Jim-Bob agrees, eyeing me knowingly. ‘Perfect for Eddie to kick a tonne.’
‘Let’s just hope he doesn’t stuff up,’ Sharon says, voicing my fears, the squawk of her tobacco-ruined voice particularly rough after the bottle of Great Western she’s been sucking on. She passes it to Jim-Bob and then to Tara, who helps herself.
It’s really going to be a long day.
We finish our second breakfast, then help tidy up the mess. Tara is already a little unsteady on her feet. She laughs loudly when she trips on a forgotten flogger. Danny catches her by the elbow, but he isn’t doing much better. They both collapse in a giggling heap on the hard patchy grass.
‘You’re not drinking?’ Bear asks me, when I wave off another warm bottle of Great Western that’s doing the rounds of the last remaining cheersquadders. Most of the committee people have disappeared to set up inside the ground, so it’s just a few stragglers picking up the leftovers.
‘I need to concentrate,’ I say.
He stares at me blankly, like he thinks I might be joking.
I force a broken laugh to make up for my weirdness. ‘Later. After we win,’ I say, remembering to make sure Tara isn’t in hearing distance. I have a moment of panic when I try to decide if I’ve mozzed us by saying that out loud, but decide with the blind certainty of all superstitious people that it’s only a problem if Tara hears me say it.
When the area is cleared and the last couple of bags are taken into the stands, Tara and I are free to find our seats. Fifth row this time, three rows behind Danny and Bear, who have plum seats I’d die for. But at least we’re in front of the Lovely Ladies. Tara has managed to smuggle a bottle of Spumante in under her coat, and although it’s barely eleven, she’s drunk half of it by the time we sit down.
It’s hot. The weather report predicted a top temperature in the high twenties, but it’s already hotter than that. I start to unravel my layers, wishing I’d chosen a T-shirt to decorate rather than this stiff cotton shirt.
‘Go North!’ I yell as the North Yarra reserves run onto the ground for the last quarter. They’re playing the Warriors in the curtain raiser, and we don’t want the Warriors to get a sniff of victory, even in the reserves. Dad always says it’s what’s in your head that wins grand finals. Not necessarily the better team but the one that believes it is, and keeps its head in the process. I don’t agree. I believe passion wins grand finals – what’s in your heart. Simply, who wants it the most.
The game is close and the crowd is pumped. Everyone is getting into it and the champagne is flowing through the cheersquad like the game is already won. The problem is, the real game hasn’t even started yet.
‘Aren’t you worried you’ll get too drunk to watch?’ I say to Tara, who is draining the last dregs of the Spumante in between shouting abuse at the Warriors reserves.
‘I’ll be fine,’ she says, frowning at me. But she’s sweating and her brown-and-gold make-up is beginning to melt in the heat. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing her war stripes across her left cheek.
‘Uh huh.’ It’s not like I can stop her. At least that’s the last of her stash.
‘Go North!’ she shouts, the words running together so that it sounds more like ‘Gar-nawth!’.
‘Yeah,’ I say, rolling my eyes. ‘Gar-nawth.’
Despite our efforts, and even with the Glenthorn Cheersquad on their side, North loses in a close match. My heart constricts as the siren goes. The Warriors fans have gone berserk watching their second side snatch victory in those last minutes. They’re so pumped up I’m scared the senior players will feel it when they run onto the ground. The Warriors’ Cheersquad is insufferable – shouting all kinds of abuse at us while cheering for their victorious reserves team.
This is not good. Winning is contagious.
Eventually, the reserves are herded up the race and the ground is cleared of all the streamers and snow that – as it turns out – the Warriors cheersquad also managed to smuggle in. And then we wait for what seems like the longest time while the banner is brought out, photographers are directed to key positions and the news cameras pan the crowd for interesting faces. They sit on the cheersquad for a moment, moving from war-painted kids to gold-hatted adults, settling on the Lovely Ladies for an unnaturally long time, if you ask me.
Then it starts. The Falcons burst onto the field, breaking through the enormous banner that screams ‘This is Glenthorn’s Year!’ as thousands of brown and gold balloons are released. The seat beneath me shudders from the weight of the moment. The weight of the noise. I’m screaming but I can’t hear my own voice over the chaotic din. Everyone’s gone mad and it feels fantastic. My head rushes with the power of that scream, blending with the hundred thousand voices that rise with it, letting go completely, not caring who can see or hear, not caring who I am or what I do. For those seconds, I’m all-powerful.
Then the Warriors run out and I watch them circle the ground warily, keeping their distance from their opponents, until they have to come together for the national anthem. In the seconds before the first notes of the band sound, the crowd falls silent, as though commanded. It feels like the whole of Melbourne has stopped moving and is waiting, breathless. Those seconds before the grand final starts are probably the quietest in this city. There is nothing else like it.
The crowd rises at the emcee’s request. All the faces around me, some painted in brown and gold, others bare but rapt and glowing with something I can’t identify . . . Pride, maybe? Devotion? ‘Advance Australia Fair’ kicks in, and my heart swells and pounds. Listening to more than 100,000 people in the greatest stadium on earth sing the anthem – or most of it anyway, since nobody knows the second verse – is awesome. And the whole stadium shakes when the band plays ‘Waltzing Matilda’.
The players take their positions on the field. The umpire raises the Sherrin up high and the roar from the crowd is the loudest sound I’ve ever heard. It’s so deep and all-consuming that it seems to swallow everything whole. Well beyond not hearing my own voice, I can’t hear my own thoughts.
The umpire bounces the ball, the crowd ratchets it up a notch higher again, and just like every year, the players start a blue. It’s like a small explosion has been triggered; the noise of the crowd and the burst of activity on the field all combine in a frenzied mess of voices and whistles and screams. I usually hate seeing men fight. But on the footy field, watching the players push and shove – especially on big occasions like this – it’s incredibly exciting. I can’t get enough.
I scan the field for Mick, but he’s way down in full forward, still stretch
ing and jogging on the spot. Nervous. I can see it from here.
‘Go for it, Rocky!’ Jim-Bob screams.
‘Get off him, ya thug!’ Sharon yells at Paul Weston, who’s sitting on top of Blackie.
‘Somebody get in and help him!’ Tara shouts.
By the time the umpires have calmed the players down, the crowd is on its feet and we’re dying, more than ever, to see some football. The game starts again and Brendan O’Reilly runs towards the ball with the passion of ten men. He is solidly met by Daniel Ladd and is left in a heap on the ground, bloodied and dazed, but still holding onto the ball.
‘Too high, ump!’ I yell, nudging Tara for a response. But Tara ignores me, her eyes riveted to the game. Her face is white as a sheet, and I wonder if she’s sick. ‘You okay?’
She doesn’t even look at me. She shakes her head and says quietly, ‘This doesn’t feel right.’
‘We’ll be fine. It’s barely started.’
The look she gives me would make the demon girl from The Evil Dead cry. I wonder if it’s the alcohol that’s messing with her. At least she’s stopped drinking for the moment.
I decide it’s best to leave Tara alone for now. Red is in the row behind us so I spend the rest of the quarter directing my comments at her.
David leads us in his typically bizarre chants:
‘Warriors smell terrible!’ (Clap-clap-clap.)
‘Go home, you pretty boys!’ (Clap-clap-clap-clap-clap.)
At quarter-time Glenthorn is two goals up but we’re only slightly ahead of the Warriors in the play. It feels like we haven’t really let loose yet. Danny climbs over the seats towards us and I move over to make room between Tara and me, but he continues past us with a wave, and squeezes in between Kimberly and Lisa at the back.
‘I’m getting something to eat,’ Tara says, and without waiting to see if I want anything, climbs over the benches and disappears into the crowd. I don’t know what she’s thinking – she’ll never make it back before the next quarter. Then Red disappears to the toilet, and I find myself watching Kimberly and Danny flirt, dread growing in the pit of my stomach.
Tara comes back before the break ends, despite my prediction, but she’s got a can of beer with her.
‘You’re going to be off your head before the game ends. You won’t be able to focus,’ I say, sounding a lot like someone’s mother.
Tara takes a long, deliberate sip of the VB and smiles, the foam glistening on her lips. ‘Yeah right,’ she says, and turns away.
The players scatter and everyone takes their place for the second quarter. I’m glad we’re ahead, but we have a long way to go. Mick started at full forward but he’s been moved to the forward flank. Killer is playing there instead. Neither Mick nor Killer is doing anything special, but Mick often starts slowly, so there’s time. He needs to do something in the second quarter or . . . No, there is no ‘or’. He just has to.
In the second quarter, the Falcons pick up. By half-time we’ve just about doubled the Warriors’ score. By the end of the third quarter, we have a twenty-three-point lead which, in a grand final, is about as good as you can hope for without it being a total blow-out.
The sun is out in full spring force by the time the last quarter starts. I peel down to the bottom layer of my costume. I have the sleeves rolled up to try to let some cool air in under the cotton shirt, but I refuse to take it off because I don’t have any Glenthorn colours underneath. My face is starting to burn and the morning’s breakfast is rolling around in my stomach.
Tara scoffs the rest of Jim-Bob’s champagne and moves onto Bear’s cask riesling. Even the smell is enough to drive me to take deep, slow breaths to stop myself revisiting breakfast. I steal a look up at the Lovely Ladies to see Danny and Kimberly laughing like old friends. Tara has not looked back once but there’s no way she hasn’t seen them. Everyone else has.
Two minutes into the final quarter, Mick heads down the ground to full forward, and I watch Jury run off the ground and wrap himself up in a gold robe. ‘Tara! Tara! Look!’ I yell, unable to stop the shriek in my voice. ‘This is it! Mick’s going to seal it for us.’
Tara looks at me like she’s seeing me for the first time. I don’t like what I see there, me reflected in her face like that. I look away, turning my focus back to the footy. I need to keep my mind on the match, make sure it all goes to plan.
The pressure is definitely on the Warriors – we’re twenty-one points up – but you wouldn’t know it by the way they’re playing. We look tired and, frighteningly, the Warriors don’t. And then, as though something has ended, or perhaps it’s just about to begin, the play shifts, and I’m watching the Warriors control the ball. It starts with a goal by Paul Weston and takes off from there. A snatch here, a tackle there, and before my eyes the mighty brown-and-gold is looking lost and overwhelmed.
In six minutes the Warriors have closed the gap by three goals, then they score again and are, for the first time all day, equal to our score. The cheersquad is quiet. Stunned. The cask of riesling that was being passed around has now stalled in Tara’s hands.
‘Come on, Glenthorn!’ David screams, and the rest of the cheersquad rouses.
The players look exhausted, but there are no more than ten minutes left in the match and we desperately need a goal.
Eventually, Blackie gets possession for the Falcons and sends a healthy pass towards Brendan O’Reilly, who takes an easy mark dead in front of goal. I watch Mick drop back as soon as O’Reilly lands and, although the Irishman isn’t much more than forty metres out and something near a sure thing, Mick is jogging on the spot, preparing for a short kick. He’s about thirty metres from me and the sun is bright, but I’m convinced I can see his expression – the concentrated frown, the narrow eyes focused on the ball and his opponent, and I feel a strange sadness go through me, a mixture of longing and loneliness. And then it’s gone and it’s all I can do to concentrate on breathing.
O’Reilly’s kick is high and long and looks like going all the way through, except suddenly there are two brown-and-gold arms reaching for it, touching it, stopping it, and what was sure to be a clear six-point goal, is suddenly, unbelievably, a touched behind. One point, not six.
And now the Warriors get possession of the ball. Everyone just stands there for a minute like they aren’t sure what they saw, then one Warriors player gives Mick, the owner of the brown-and-gold arms, an ironic clap and goes to lead his teammates back to position for the kick out.
For a long second, Mick looks like he’s going to shrug it off. He stands there in silence, immobile, until another Warriors player passes by, nudging Mick with his elbow, pointing at the scoreboard with a wide, taunting grin.
Don’t do it, Mick. But he can’t hear me and I see his arm rise even before his opponent does. I see it in his eyes, in the shift of his body, and then there’s the crack of fist on cheek and the thud of the Warrior hitting the deck.
Players flock to the crumpled heap on the ground. For a second I think there’s going to be an all-in brawl but Mick stands alone, his teammates running back to position when they see what’s going to happen. The whistle blows. The umpire shouts. The crowd cries out in horror. The Warriors fans boo and then cheer as the umpire awards them a kick down the ground, setting up the play right in front of their goals.
Mick stays where he is, his face crumpled in anguish. His whole body is closed in on itself, and I think he might curl up on the ground and cry. But he doesn’t move. He just stands absolutely still, staring at the goals like they’re about to give him another chance. And then O’Reilly comes by him, says something in his ear and they both run to pick up their opponent.
The Warriors kick a goal. Then another. And within three minutes they’re eleven points up. Mick is dragged off the ground, and the Warriors go on from there. One more goal and it’s time-on, five minutes and they’re four goals up. There’s nothing we can do. Not me. Not the players. Certainly not Mick, a gold-robed, solitary figure on the bench. The sound
of the final siren tears through me like a canon.
It’s over. The Warriors have won.
I sit down. Shock and disappointment are thick in the air. The cheersquad is no longer chanting or cheering. No one speaks. Then Sharon starts to shriek as though she’s been stabbed, and the people around me slowly come to life. ‘I can’t believe it!’
‘What just happened?’
‘What the hell was Eddie thinking?’
I feel responsible, guilty. A couple of the cheersquad kids shoot me a disbelieving look as though to say, ‘And you like him?’ Behind us, Red is sobbing.
Tara doesn’t move, but her face is white and stiff like a mask, the smeared war paint like dried blood across her cheeks. ‘Fucking sandgroper,’ she says finally. She doesn’t look at me. She just sits there clutching the empty bladder from Bear’s cask of riesling and stares at the devastated Glenthorn players, some of them tucked into a ball on the ground, others wandering dazedly or staring at the heavens, lost. Mick is off to the side, refusing to join the group.
After what seems like an hour, Tara turns to me. ‘It’s all about fucking ego.’ And even though I know she’s talking about Mick, I suspect she’s talking about me too and, as unfair as that seems, I can’t think of a single thing to say in my defence.
I watch the ceremony, numb and disbelieving. Everyone drinks and drinks to take away the pain, but I’m so sick with disappointment that even the smell of champagne turns my stomach. I watch Paul Weston hold up the cup with their coach, Magic Jones, and I notice Mick sitting alone on the ground, his head and legs tucked in like he’s trying not to take up space, the Glenthorn robe wrapped tightly around him even though it’s thirty degrees. He doesn’t move even when Stretch Davis taps his shoulder and waits beside him. Every part of me aches to watch this.
Midway through the third rendition of the Warriors’ victory song, Tara stands up. ‘I’m going home,’ she says.