Out of His League

by Pat Flynn

  “Wow.”

  Ozzie looked at her. “You takin’ the piss?”

  “What?”

  “You know. Makin’ fun of me?”

  “No. Now hurry up!”

  “All right.” Ozzie paused, trying to remember where he was up to. “Anyway, in the old days there was this bloke working on a real big property, mustering cattle. Something like a million acres. And there were so many cows that the bloke realized that even if a thousand head went missing, the owner wouldn’t know. So he decides to steal ’em. Trouble was, he couldn’t sell them in Queensland or New South Wales, ’cause the cows were branded and people’d know. So he drove them all the way to South Australia, right through the middle of the desert.”

  “Drove them? In a truck?”

  Ozzie laughed. “No. On horseback. I’m talking years ago.”

  “Was it far?”

  “Bloody far. There’s these famous explorers, Burke and Wills, who died trying the same thing. And this fella wants to do it on his own with a thousand cows.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, the bugger made it. He sold the cattle, but the owner of the station missed his prize white bull and realized what was going on. The bloke got arrested and brought back to Yuranigh.”

  “Did they hang him?”

  “Let me finish and I’ll tell ya.”

  Unity slapped his arm.

  Ozzie gave her a look but kept going. “Everyone knew he was guilty. There were witnesses and everything. But the jury was real impressed with what the bloke had done. He’d survived in the desert, so he was a real bushman and that means a lot where I’m from. So when the judge asked for a verdict, the jury guy said, ‘Not guilty’ and the judge said, ‘What?’ ‘Not guilty,’ said the jury guy again, and the judge said, ‘Well, better you than me.’ The bloke walked away scot-free.”

  “I like that story,” Unity said.

  “Apparently I’m related to the bloke who stole the cattle. Pop says he’s my great-great uncle or somethin’. ”

  She wriggled closer. “I knew you’d be interesting, once you actually said something.”

  “Oh, thanks.”

  She laughed. “No, I mean you don’t talk about yourself much. Not like the guys around here. With them it’s all me, me, me.”

  “I’ve got to live with me all day. Why would I want to talk about him?”

  Unity rested her head on Ozzie’s thigh. “Do you mind?”

  “Nah.” And he meant it. His powers of resistance were severely depleted.

  “You and Jose seem close,” she said.

  “He’s a good bloke. Same with Mal and Tex.”

  “I love Malivai. And Jose.” She smiled. “I love Tex, too.”

  “You tell Sam that?”

  “I don’t tell Sam everything.”

  Ozzie couldn’t stand it any longer. He placed his hand in her hair and lightly stroked, all the way down to her neck. Unity looked up at him and smiled, and goosebumps invaded his arms and legs. It wasn’t cold but he shivered, and the beer in his bladder suddenly screamed to be let out. Somehow this girl was so perfect that his mind and body rebelled.

  “We should get home,” he said.

  “I’m just getting comfortable.”

  Ozzie could see her open lips, soft and full, and wanted more than anything to hook them between his and not let go.

  “We’d better,” he said.

  Climbing off the water tower was the last thing he felt like doing, but Ozzie scurried down like he was being chased.

  Once hooked, you could spend your whole life chasing a dream like Unity.

  SECOND HALF

  chapter 23

  At the Friday morning pep rally, the teachers wore black and white, the band played “Deep in the Heart of Texas,” and cheerleaders sprang cartwheels down the gym floor, showing off their underwear. Everything was the same as last week except for the mood—which was more upbeat than it had been in years—and the seating arrangement. This week Ozzie was moved to the front row.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said Principal Fraser. “Before I call Coach McCulloch up here to address y’all, I thought I’d let our newest star say a few words. I just want to say how lucky we are to have an athlete of his ability at Hope, and I guess it shows that our international recruiting scheme is starting to pay dividends.”

  Mr. Fraser paused for laughter, but there was none. The students probably thought he was serious. “Anyway, here he is. Austin Eaton!”

  The students whistled and cheered like they had for Sam at “The Beginning,” and Ozzie broke into a sweat. Angela had mentioned something about this but he thought she was joking. He’d been up at the front of school assemblies before, nearly always to collect a sports award, but he’d never had to say anything.

  Ozzie took a breath, got out of his seat, and wandered over to the microphone. On the way Mr. Fraser pumped his hand.

  “Yeah, thanks for all that,” he began, surprised at the sound of his own voice through the speakers. “I’d just like to thank everyone for being here today … although this is school so you probably don’t have a choice, eh?”

  A few people laughed. Mr. Fraser wasn’t one of them.

  “Yeah, well, umm, I want to say that I’m havin’ a good time here in America. The team’s real good and, umm, everything’s goin’ … real good. I hope we can score a couple of tries, umm, I mean touchdowns tonight. That’d be good. Yeah, thanks.”

  He walked back to his seat wondering if that was the worst speech of all time, but everyone was clapping so he didn’t feel too bad.

  “The Mickson Bulls are big and tough and they’re gonna be comin’ after us. But our boys are ready.” Coach McCulloch pointed at the players, sitting tall in their seats. “They know that one good game doesn’t make a season, and tonight’s a chance to get y’all excited about Hope football again.” The coach spread his arms wide, as if embracing the entire student body. “But we need y’all to help out. If you can do your part, I’ve got a feeling tonight’ll be something special. This is your team, the Hope Shooters!”

  He sure knew how to pump up a bunch of kids. The male students—football players, soccer players, cowboys and musicians—started making animal noises.

  “So, you think y’all will win?” a boy asked Ozzie after the rally.

  “Dunno, mate. Whadda you reckon?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Me name’s Ozzie, anyway.” He put out his hand.

  “Excuse me?” said the boy, shaking a hand and his head. The other quarterback always ignored him, but this one didn’t speak American. The boy wasn’t sure who he liked less.

  There were fourteen thousand people at Mickson Stadium that night, and among the crowd were eighteen reporters, here to see the innovative new offense that the Shooters were running. The last one to squeeze into the press box was a small man with a slightly crooked goatee, whose looks belied his reputation as a football scribe.

  “Well, blow me down if it’s not the Chip Paskell,” said Brent Sherlock, the Hope Times sports reporter. “Must be a slow news night in Dallas.”

  Chip grinned. “Just passing through and thought I’d catch a ballgame.”

  “No one passes through this part of the country unless they’re running from love or the law.” A few journalists chuckled. “Admit it, you’re in West Texas to see how football should be played. Hard.”

  “I’m sorry, are the Armadillos playing tonight?”

  The fourteen reporters who weren’t from Hope laughed. “Ooohh,” said Brent. “That’s a low blow. Laugh all you want, men, but this just might be Hope’s year.”

  The reporters took Brent’s advice. For the next few seconds they laughed all they wanted to.

  “I’m not here to see Hope win,” said Chip. “I just want to see a crocodile hunter play quarterback. Now there’s a story.”

  A few reporters raised their pens in agreement.

  Down on the field, Coach McCulloch started with Sam as quarter
back and kept him in for the whole first quarter. The reporters became restless.

  At training that week the Shooters coaches had never seen Sam work harder. Instead of complaining about the linemen who couldn’t protect him or the receivers who couldn’t catch his passes, he shut up and did what he was told.

  “This boy might make a soldier yet,” Coach Wright had said.

  “Sam doesn’t give a damn about the team,” Coach McCulloch replied. “He’s doing it for himself. But I don’t really care, as long as it works.”

  It was working. Sam hit Jose on a comeback pattern and Malivai on a down and in. At the end of the quarter Sam had already made considerable gains. The trouble was that only one pass was caught in the end zone, after the double-teaming of Jose and Malivai left Billy-Joe Powers open to score the first (and probably only) touchdown of his career.

  With the score locked at 7–7 in the second quarter, Coach McCulloch put The Line Formation into action. Now that other teams had seen and studied it, the coach was nervous as to how it would go. After the first play he got even more nervous when the Bulls’ backfield blitzed and hit Ozzie for a five-yard loss.

  Most reporters in the press box guffawed as Ozzie was driven into the synthetic grass and piled on by half the defense. “Welcome to America,” said Chip Paskell. He’d driven 250 miles to see what the fuss was all about, and now the Australian couldn’t even make it past the line of scrimmage.

  On the next play he got enough material for an entire story.

  A Change for the Better

  by Chip Paskell

  In the wide-open spaces of West Texas, life unfolds more like a book than a movie. Whether it’s words, crossing the main street, or change, nothing much happens in a hurry. The Hope Shooters football team has won over 200 games running the same offense for 30 years. That’s what you call tradition. But this year, when head coach Ben McCulloch knew his team lacked the size to compete, traditions were broken and change rolled in like a thunderstorm.

  An Australian thunderstorm named Austin Eaton—exchange student and expert rugby player. He and Coach McCulloch have invented a new style of offense called The Line Formation, and if all this sounds strange, that’s because it is.

  In Friday night’s game against the well-regarded Mickson Bulls, the Shooters scored one of the finest touchdowns that this reporter has ever seen. It was simple yet brilliant, and in order to understand it you need to forget everything you thought you knew about football.

  Eaton got the ball and immediately lateraled it left, to Jose Garcia. Then, instead of blocking for Garcia, Eaton ran behind him, receiving the ball back from a short pass. Eaton faked another pass back to Garcia (you’d be excused for thinking they were playing basketball) and cut through a hole opened up by a block from Tex Powell, one of the few big men in the Shooters’ lineup. Eaton scooted over twenty yards, but rather than be content with the first down he lateraled the ball again, this time to star receiver Malivai Thomas, who scored without a hand being laid on his black-and-white jersey.

  The brilliance of The Line Formation is in using the no-limit backward pass rule to its full effect. You think the above touchdown was a fluke? Then you should have witnessed the three more scored that night.

  “It’s something that came to me on a hot, sleepless night,” said Coach McCulloch, describing a style of offense that may revolutionize football in this country. “I got together with Austin and talked it through and it’s working real fine.”

  Real fine, indeed. According to Coach Stewart of the Mickson Bulls, “After that first touchdown I started getting nervous. By the end of the game I had ulcers. Unless you break the Australian’s leg, I think it’s near impossible to defend against this Lion (sic) Formation.”

  Coach McCulloch isn’t convinced that’s true. “We’ll keep refining it but I’m sure the defenses will keep adjusting. We’re just going to take it one game at a time.”

  One of those games will be against the Denham Armadillos, currently ranked the number one high school team in Texas and third best in the country. If The Line Formation can get Hope its first win against the Armadillos in fifteen years, then it, and Coach McCulloch, are definitely for real.

  Before the story was published, Chip e-mailed a copy to the Hope Times.

  To: Brent Sherlock

  Subject: My most humble apologies

  Message: I still think Denham will kick your butts.

  A few minutes later Chip received a reply.

  To: Chip Paskell

  Subject: Apology accepted

  Message: A chicken fried steak you’re wrong.

  chapter 24

  Angela cut and pasted the story into a leather-bound scrapbook with AUSTIN painted on the spine, which almost completed her weekly duties as a Hopette. Last night she’d baked Ozzie a special batch of brownies, plus made a sign to celebrate his Most Valuable Player award. She’d done this rather than attend the postgame party at Curtis’s place, although it wasn’t her choice not to go. After last week’s bash, her parents had been waiting when she’d arrived home.

  “Angela, are you all right?” Her mom had peered into her eyes and panicked when she saw how red they were. “Oh my goodness, don’t tell me my little girl has been drinking!” She put her nose near her daughter’s shirt. “And I can smell … smoke!”

  Mr. Janus grabbed his daughter’s shoulders. “Did any boy take advantage of you?”

  Tears welled up in Angela’s eyes. “I’m fine, Daddy.”

  “Angela?” said Mrs. Janus. “We need to hear what happened.”

  Angela started quietly sobbing. “Okay, there were alcohol and cigarettes at the party. But I didn’t touch either. I actually tried to get people to stop, that’s why my clothes smell.”

  “Is that the truth?” asked Mrs. Janus.

  Angela started crying more vigorously. “I can’t believe you’d even ask me that!” She looked at her father. “I swear on the Bible, Daddy.”

  Mr. Janus took her in his arms. “Of course we believe you, pumpkin. And we’re proud you tried to be a good, Christian influence on the other kids. But no more parties with alcohol. There’s an old saying, ‘If you dance with the devil, he’s gonna do the leading.’”

  Fresh from an early night, Angela spent Saturday morning making herself beautiful. It wasn’t a difficult job. Lots of people were saying that she had a good chance of being crowned homecoming queen later in the year.

  Once she was finally ready she kissed her mom and dad. “I have to go visit Austin.”

  “You seem to really like this boy,” her mom said.

  Angela held her arm. “Mom, he’s becoming so popular. I’d love to show him around. Maybe I could borrow your car?”

  “What’s wrong with yours?”

  Angela screwed up her face.

  “If you want the Beamer,” her dad piped up, “he’d better be a Christian.”

  “We were talking about God just the other night.”

  “We’ll think about it, dear,” said Mrs. Janus. “Have fun.”

  “But not too much fun,” said Mr. Janus.

  Angela waited till she was behind the wheel before she rolled her eyes at her dad’s comment, and waited till she had turned out of her street before she lit her first cigarette of the day.

  There was a knock on the door and Ozzie put down his pen. All he’d written so far was “Dear Jess.” He’d promised himself he’d get this letter finished and posted today, but the morning had been taken up eating (pancakes, eggs over easy, and hash browns) and endlessly replaying last night’s victory with Dave. Then he’d shot some baskets with David Jr. and after that Alison had some friends over for lunch. They’d giggled and talked to Ozzie for ages and even asked him to sign their stomachs, which was pretty embarrassing. But they insisted, so he did it.

  “You have a visitor,” said Nancy.

  Angela appeared, a short cream skirt emphasizing her long brown legs, her crop top revealing a stomach tightened by gymnastics and hours
on the latest abdominal machine. A beaming smile lit up the red, white, and blue on her face—not the American flag but lipstick, eye-shadow, and medically whitened teeth (which wouldn’t turn yellow even if you smoked). Ozzie had noticed that American girls (and boys, for that matter) took their looks a whole lot more seriously than the Aussies did. Heck, Jess would chuck on an old pair of jeans and a T-shirt and be ready to go to the movies. Here, girls dressed up to go to school.

  Nancy shut the bedroom door after Angela. “I’ll give y’all some privacy.”

  “What’s up?” asked Angela, sitting on the bed.

  Ozzie put the letter in a drawer. “Not much.”

  “For you.” She gave him the brownies.

  He tapped his stomach. “You’re making me fat, you know.”

  “There’s a sign as well; it’s in the front yard.”

  Ozzie looked out the window, and above a wooden stake stuck in the turf was a large drawing of a player wearing number twenty-two—Ozzie’s number. He was running with the ball and the letters MVP were above his head, with lots of other messages and drawings that he couldn’t make out because his bedroom was on the second floor.

  “Geez,” said Ozzie. “People’ll think I love meself.”

  Angela looked down.

  “You okay?” said Ozzie.

  She didn’t say anything.

  “What is it?”

  “Well … I spent all last night making you cookies and a sign and you don’t even say thank you.”

  Ozzie grimaced. “Oh, sorry, Ange. It’s just that … I’m not used to all this. Where I’m from people don’t give you squat-diddly.”

  Angela looked up. She stared at Ozzie with puppy-dog eyes.

  “So … thank you,” he said. “For the great sign and the unbelievable bikkies.” He pulled one out and took a bite.

  “Can I at least have a hug?” said Angela.

  Ozzie moved over to the bed and wrapped his arms around her. He was still chewing. Her breasts pressed against his chest until, after what seemed like hours, she leaned back and looked into his eyes, her left hand behind his head, her right stroking his neck. He took a last swallow of brownie.