by Sean Kennedy
“What the fuck did you say?” Boyd leaned in, pointing at him threateningly.
“You heard me. And get your finger out of my face.”
“You won’t be so brave once you get off the bus.”
“I doubt you will be either. You look like the type who’s only brave when the numbers are on his side.”
“The numbers are on my side, Nigel No Mates,” Boyd reminded him. He looked down at Jack. “Cat got your tongue, Bailey?”
Jack seemed to wake up. “Nope.”
“You not got anything to say?”
“Nope.”
Micah’s heart sank. Disappointed again. Fucking straight boys. Except good old loyal Carl.
“Wait, actually, I do.” Jack casually flicked Boyd’s arm off his headrest. “This is a fuckwit-free zone.”
Micah reined in the joyous laugh that wanted to break free and tell everyone on the bus that he wasn’t alone, he had an ally, and as long as he had one, it was a good start. But he kept on the detached mask, waiting to see Boyd’s reaction.
It came quickly. Boyd was practically hanging over the seats, his feet kicking in the air as he lunged for Jack, but Micah found himself on his feet, ready to block whatever blow tried to land.
But it never came, because Coach Marks appeared before them, rushing up from his seat farther along the front of the bus. Micah felt his presence rather than seeing him, and he could see Boyd backing down immediately.
“Is there a problem here, boys?” Marks asked.
“No,” all three said in unison.
“That’s what I want to hear.”
As he turned away, Boyd muttered, “There won’t be a problem once we reach camp. Later, fellas.”
The threat hung in the air after him like a decaying fart.
“Well,” Jack said, lost for words. And possibly amazed at himself.
“I thought we had come to fight club there for a minute,” Micah said, his voice steadier than he felt. “Turns out we’re at drama camp.”
Jack’s genuine laugh at Micah’s rather piss-poor quip made him feel a hell of a lot better.
IT TURNED out Boyd’s threats were as empty as Micah expected. There was simply no opportunity for a rumble to happen in the car park of the campgrounds as long as there was a steady stream of activity happening around them. Coaches were sorting kids out into dorm rooms, some boys were fetching their bags, and Marks had a canny knack of hanging around Micah and Jack whenever Boyd strayed too close. Maybe he wasn’t as bad as Micah had originally suspected?
Sleeping arrangements were called out, and Micah was relieved he was in the same dorm room as Jack—it meant he wouldn’t have to start all over again with a bunch of people who might not even speak to him. But with happiness comes sorrow—Boyd was also in their room.
There was always a catch.
They were given a half hour to get settled before lunch. Just before Micah followed the rest of his group, he saw a guy approach Coach Marks. He looked their age, but there was already something about him that showed he wasn’t one of the boys in the training camp. He didn’t seem to have the typical AFL build for starters—he had an athletic build, but it looked more like swimming, with broader shoulders and pumped arms. Micah knew he was staring, and he didn’t want to be caught doing it, so he quickly moved on.
“I hope you’re not this slow on the field,” Jack said, waiting for him at the door.
“Uh, me too,” Micah replied, still hung up on the good-looking guy he’d spotted.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.”
But that didn’t last long. As they entered their dorm room, they could hear Boyd saying, “I mean, it’s bad enough that he’s here at all, but to have to share a room with him?”
There were murmured agreements, which died away as Micah cleared his throat.
The other three boys at least had the decency to look guilty; Boyd just stared back without guile.
“You know, if you’re that scared of sharing a room with me, feel welcome to go and ask for a transfer,” Micah said. “I’d appreciate the extra space.”
“I’m not scared of anything,” Boyd said.
“Hey, weren’t you wanting to beat me up when I got off the bus? Well, here I am, no adult in sight. Here’s your opportunity.”
Boyd swaggered over to him, and his cronies immediately pulled him back.
“Are you crazy?” one guy, who Jack would later inform him was Lance, asked. “Do you want to get kicked out?”
“They won’t kick me out.” Boyd shrugged him off. “I’m one of the top picks.”
“What? For the arsehole category at the camp quiz night?” Micah asked.
“I’m not going to waste my time.” Boyd turned back to his bed.
“Such a brave man,” Micah said. “See you in my dreams tonight, pretty boy.”
Boyd whirled around, fury personified.
“Or maybe I’ll be seen in yours?”
Boyd was practically trembling now, struggling to contain himself. But he turned away again.
“We’ll all get along fine,” Micah said. “Nice to meet you guys.”
He gestured to the two empty beds. “Which one do you prefer, Jack?”
Jack sighed and chose the one close to the door. Maybe to have access to a quick exit if he needed to run. “I can see camp isn’t going to be boring with you.”
Micah wished it would be. He could do with a boring life every now and again.
MICAH DECIDED to go for a quick run before lunch and leave Jack alone, to at least give him a chance to speak to the other guys in the room. Micah was on the rocks; there was no need for Jack to be out there with him.
The “camp” wasn’t a camp so much as a closed-down primary school a hundred kilometres out of Melbourne, converted into grounds for sporting groups and school trips. It was chosen as a training base for the draft mainly because it had its own private oval and field with the old football goals still in place. As Micah made his second lap, running his hand along the goals as he passed them, he saw the guy he had scoped out earlier dragging a cart filled with equipment onto the green. He gave Micah a small wave as he ran by, and Micah returned it, his heart thumping even heavier than it should have been while exercising.
He was laying out the distinctive orange-and-white striped witches’ hats as Micah passed him on the third lap. They were probably for sprint trials later on in the day, which made Micah’s calves groan. Maybe coming out for a run was a really bad idea.
“Shouldn’t you be going to lunch?” the guy yelled at him on his next lap.
Micah ran toward him, taking it as an invitation for a chat. “Is it that time already?”
“You must be keen, to be running first thing.”
“Not so much keen as avoiding my roommates.”
The guy grinned. “Are you in trouble already?”
Micah wasn’t even sure how to broach the subject. “I don’t think I’m their ideal roomie.”
“Probably too scared you’ll crawl in next to them in the wee hours.”
Micah faltered, his sense of the situation immediately changed. “You seem to know me, but I don’t know you.”
“Relax,” the guy said. “I’m not the enemy.”
“How am I meant to take that except to say ‘prove it’?”
Grinning rakishly, the guy took off his cap and bowed with it. “I’m Kyle. The only other gay in the village.”
“That we know of,” Micah added automatically.
Kyle put his cap back on. “That we know of,” he agreed. He stuck out his hand.
“Nice to meet you, Kyle. But it still doesn’t explain how you know me.”
“What, you mean us who work in the lower echelons of power don’t know anything about the game and the players? That the guy laying out the equipment wouldn’t have heard of the great Micah Johnson?”
“I didn’t say that at all. But the great Micah Johnson? Someone’s been telling porkies.”
>
“Not from what I hear. They think you’re hot shit. They also think you think it too.”
Micah’s face burned. “What, is it a bad thing to know your skills?”
“Relax, Johnson. I’m just yanking your chain.”
On the defensive, Micah shrugged and tried to sound more laid-back than he actually felt. “Look, dude, I’m just surprised whenever somebody knows who I am.”
“Your reputation is well known, unfortunately.”
“Isn’t it just,” Micah said tiredly.
“If it makes you feel any better, I’m more in the know than most because of my dad.”
With Micah’s ongoing losing streak, this was probably the AFL president’s son. “Go on, tell me. Who’s your daddy?”
Kyle’s eyes, Micah would swear, were twinkling in the sun. “My name is Kyle Marks.”
“Marks?” Micah repeated.
Oh, even worse.
“Yes, my dad is John Marks. Coach Marks? I believe you’ve already met.”
“That’s why you were talking to him earlier.”
“He was telling me to set up the equipment for the sprints, yeah. But I knew about you before that.”
“And why would your dad tell you about me?”
“Like I said, I’m gay too. I guess he thought I’d be interested. You know, to know I’m not alone and all that shit.”
“Riiiight.” Micah didn’t feel at all in control of this situation, so he did what he always did—he decided to split. “I’m gonna be late for lunch.”
“Sure thing. I’ll be up later. Because you know, we’re both gay, so we’re supposed to be best friends now or something.”
It was a jibe, but there didn’t seem to be any heat to it. Micah nodded, turned on his heel, and ran back to the main buildings, his heart still thumping more than it should.
Chapter 8
“WHERE HAVE you been?” Jack asked as Micah sat down next to him, a tray of food in hand. “Oh, crap, no need to tell me—you stink!”
“Thanks, mate,” Micah said above the hubbub of the dining room.
“Seriously, you smell like a swamp.”
Micah tiredly picked through his tray. “I went for a run.”
“Across a swamp?”
“Okay, enough jokes about my hygiene. I didn’t have time for a shower.”
“You barely had time for a run. What made you do it, anyway?”
Micah hungrily wolfed down some potatoes. Carbs were needed. “I just wanted to get out of that room for a while. Didn’t exactly feel welcome.”
“And you didn’t even hear what they were saying about you after you left.”
“I can guess. Probably that I wouldn’t be able to control myself and would molest them in their sleep or something. And Draco Malfoy was probably going to tell his dad, who would be most unhappy and contact Dumbledore to make him switch dorms.”
“Draco Malfoy?”
“Boyd Davies. He looks a little Malfoyish, don’t you think?”
Jack scrutinised Boyd from across the hall. “Definitely has the rat face.”
“See?”
“You’re pretty spot-on about the whole conversation, really. I told them they were ugly enough to be able to withstand your advances as you probably had set your sights higher.”
“And what did they say to that?”
“They just said they were happy I’d finally found a boyfriend.”
“Charming.” Micah leaned back on his chair, testing if it held his weight. It did, and he rocked comfortably. “It’s always nice to know that no matter where you go, teenage boys remain the same and have the usual stupid comebacks.”
“I’m still hungry,” Jack complained.
So was Micah, but he at least had burned off a few calories earlier. Which reminded him again of his discovery on the field. “Hey, you remember that young guy who was with Marks earlier?”
Jack was trying to scrape every food molecule left on his plate onto his fork. “Vaguely. Why?”
“He’s Marks’s son.”
“Really? Guess he’s going to make the draft, then.”
“He’s not a footy player,” Micah told him. “He’s just here earning some cash by helping out.”
“You seem to have had quite the talk with him.”
“He’s also gay.”
Jack almost spat out his mouthful of water. “Fuck, two confirmed gays so far. Boyd’s going to shit himself.”
Micah had a momentary whoops sensation. Had he outed Kyle? Kyle didn’t seem closeted; after all, his father knew. But that didn’t mean he wanted everyone to know. Not that Jack was everyone. It seemed Jack was now just as much of a persona non grata, thanks to Micah.
“Three,” Jack said.
“Huh?” Micah asked. “Three what?”
Jack nodded over to where Declan stood, talking to Marks and a couple of other coaches, lunch tray in hand. “Did you know he was going to be here?”
No, Micah did not.
MICAH HUNG around after he finished his lunch, waiting for Declan to do the same. The room was almost empty by the time Dec got up from his table and went to put his rubbish in the bin. Micah was about to jump up and join him when Dec spied him and came over.
“What are you doing here?” Micah asked, without preamble.
“That’s nice, Micah,” Declan said. “Can I sit?”
Micah pushed a chair out with his foot. “All yours.”
“Didn’t I tell you? I’m just here as an assistant. And observer.”
“No, you didn’t tell me.”
“Well, if I didn’t it was because I thought you might freak out.”
“And why should I freak out that you’re here?” Micah asked.
“Uh, because generally you seem to freak out about anything.”
“Touché.”
“Besides,” Dec said, “I was afraid you’d think I was here to babysit you.”
“Are you?”
“Nope. You don’t think I have better things to do with my time?”
“Like watch Simon watching Game of Thrones?”
“I watch television too, sometimes, you know.” Dec smiled. “Besides, watching Simon is a good thing to do with my time.”
“Gross. But, okay, I guess you can stay.”
“Thank you for your permission, Micah. I mean, it’s not like this is a job I was asked to do because professionals in the field value my skills and my expertise. Although you might not be thanking me later.”
Micah got that familiar sinking feeling. “Why?”
“Because I’m giving a talk about homophobia on the field.”
Micah buried his face in his arms. “Oh fuck.”
“It’s not going to be that bad.”
“It means everybody is going to be looking at me, thinking this whole talk is on my behalf!”
“Micah,” Dec said gently, leaning over and lifting Micah’s head up so he would have to look at him. “Not everything is about you. There’s quite possibly some other kid, or kids, here wanting reassurance that they will be protected or helped if they need it. So it’s not about you. But you’ll benefit. Understand?”
When Micah didn’t respond, Dec manipulated his head in a nodding motion.
“Thank you,” Dec said.
“I bet you think this is funny,” Micah said through gritted teeth.
“It is pretty amusing.” Dec released his head, and Micah let it drop back down onto the table.
A SERIES of sprint trials were held after lunch. Micah was pretty sure if he’d stunk before, he was positively reeking now. The first thing he wanted to do was have a shower, but all of the boys were called back into the courtyard, which had a small open-air proscenium and a scratchy sound system set up.
Dec was standing off to the side with some of the other coaches, and his presence began to be noticed by the boys. There was a murmur of excitement in the air, which once again rankled Micah for all the usual reasons. He tried to imagine Dec at seventeen years of age,
at a camp not unlike this one—filled with excitement about the draft but dreading the secret he had to keep and would keep for many years to come. It helped him feel less shitty, as Micah couldn’t help but feel that neither of their situations were ideal.
And then he remembered something Simon, of all people, had said to him. That Dec had paved the way for people like Micah to find being openly gay in the AFL a little bit easier, and that although Micah would have some pretty awful experiences, he in turn would make things easier for the next gay kid to come along. That he had a part in something bigger. That he couldn’t just focus on himself.
So he bit down the bile and waited for Dec to take the stage. When he spoke he was confident, articulate, and clear. The boys were for the most part respectful, although Micah felt a few glances in his direction. Declan talked about the history of sledging, and how there were ways to taunt other players without being offensive, particularly when it came to race, sexuality, or family. How players like Nicky Winmar and Adam Goodes had challenged racist harassment, and now players knew that was unacceptable (even if the crowds didn’t at times). However, it still seemed to be open slather on gay slurs, and the issue had to be addressed.
“I can’t tell you not to sledge,” Dec said. “Nor can I claim that I never did it. But I was always careful to try and do it in a funnier way, rather than a personal or offensive way. Everybody has their Achilles’ heel, but it’s best to attack it physically through domineering on the field rather than emotionally. Also, when I say attack, I don’t mean to go out of your way to injure people deliberately. Football is dangerous enough as it is. I’m sure that a lot of you, even at so young an age, already have scars from a life in sport. Don’t add to them.”
He spoke with passion but also with grit. He talked about how sledging could personally target family, and how Simon had often been a target. That he’d tried to ignore it, but sometimes it had gotten the better of him, and he had lashed out.
Even though he didn’t speak about it, Micah knew it was generally believed Dec lost the Brownlow Medal one year because he had had too many fights on the field. He had been the main contender for the medal that year, until he came out. He wondered how many of the other boys knew that, and if anything Dec was saying was at all sinking in.