Part I
T
Good chase Nicolai – carn Enzo. Get in there – keep on your man. Back em’ up boys – watch for the counter.
The Hamersley Rovers hadn’t won a game since Terry began coaching her son’s team at the start of the season. They were in the black and white strip of the Pies. Terry was glad about the uniform – at least something about the game looked familiar. They were playing away against Kingsley, in the blue and black stripe who only had two wins under their belt – a good chance to notch up their first win.
Terry’s dad was a competent AFL player in his younger days — played reserve grade for the Lions in the early eighties. The club president warned Terry not to take things to seriously with the age group when he spotted her holding a book borrowed from the local library in the first weeks of practice. He said they’d lose most of the youngsters in the following two years to Aussie rules. Terry couldn’t work out why her boys played so badly. They were often a lot bigger and skilful than their opponents. Growing up, Terry had consumed a plethora of television sporting biopics. She knew mental impediments were the hardest to break. She silently hoped she wasn’t to blame for her kids becoming acclimatised to defeat.
Kingsley camp erupted with jubilant cheers and shouts. Each parent hollered congratulations and encouragement deeming their kid played the integral role in scoring another goal. Terry swore under her breath, Ewan McManus, Robbie’s dad swore out loud and Mr Jovic, Nicolai’s dad, a gangly figure all spectacles and neck threw his folded arms down by his side in frustration. Terry had never spoken to him because he stood alone deep in the Rover’s offensive half every game. Despite play rarely getting that far, Terry presumed it was to have a good view when his son scored.
Bad luck Yuli – nothin’ ya could do. Terry clapped the boys back to the centre of the pitch. Don’t worry ‘bout it boys – carn keep ya heads up – ‘member to man up.
At least none of the lads on the sideline bench appeared bothered. Perched on plastic eskies, Marc Jefferies, the substitute goalie nicknamed Milo was between excited short gulps of breath re-telling Bret Fletcher, Terry’s son about his dad’s heroic efforts that foiled an armed robbery of his pharmacy in Mirrabooka last Thursday night. Terry looked around for her other players. Jessie, an eight-year-old giant, and Laurie, a curly-haired spring were wrestling on the grass behind their temporary bench which consisted of a row of eskies and a rubble of the team’s gear. After mutually conceding to a stalemate, they rose in a dignified manner as if to handshake on a draw, but instead decided to start kicking each other in the shins because they had guards on.
Thompson, Graham! Quit acting like children.
But we are children, Laurie quipped, and they carried on tussling.
Cheeky lil’- Well done Yuli! Great save kiddo.
Terry clapped a couple of times in encouragement.
It was the fifth save from seven shots on goal so far in the first half. Corner kicks and throw-ins had kept the opposition parked in Rover’s defensive half. The Kingsley goalie and a defender had already been reprimanded twice for sitting down during play. Terry walked over to Robbie, a natural midfielder who tripped over the ball early in the first half.
Robbie was cut from the same slab of rectangular clay as his old man. A pallid, deep breather with a red turf growing on top. Ewan, his father, was the quintessential ancestor of Northern immigrants. Industrious, passionate, and hardened with a grimace in the kiln of outback Australia as a youth. He was at every one his son’s practices and games — shadowing him ruthlessly up and down the pitch along the boundary line, and like Robbie, instant exertion flushed Ewan’s blousy complexion with a salmon bruise.
Robbie rested on the grass with his legs outstretched and hands behind him keeping his back upright. Ewan had his son’s kit bag open, which was about the same size as Robbie. An ice pack was on Robbie’s left ankle and Ewan was deeply massaging Dencorub into his quads.
How’s our lightin’ right winger doin’?
Ar ‘ees gowna be fine Terre, Ewan said in a gruff voice. Just a wee twist to the ankle. Ijts ‘es weak one ye know – not the righ’ ankle so ‘e’ll be righ’ as rain.
Good ta hear.
Some ah’em laddies are starten’ to look a wee bit flat there Terre.
Terry knew eighteen minutes had elapsed. She glanced at her Fitbit to make sure. Only a couple of minutes and half of the game was over, Terry mentally sighed.
Almost halftime. I’ll substitute then – make sure they all get a dinkum run about.
Fair enough.
That was some good runnin’ kiddo – keep it up, Terry added and awkwardly ruffled Robbie’s hair.
Thanks coach.
Victory cries broke free once more from Kingsley supporters. A miss kick from the scrum of players packed in front of goals deflected innocuously off a bewildered Enzo and rolled past the unsuspecting Yuli Semynoych and between the red witches’ hats to notch up their third.
The half-time whistle blows sweet relief from a tall, athletic teenager. He strides past Terry along the boundary line, and she can’t help but to try guess his age. A whisper of regret seeds a voice that is vanquished by a piercing choir of whistles. They stagger into dissonant unison as half-time breaks resound from the matrix of games around Timberlane Park.
The boys sprint off the pitch and guzzle from sport bottles filled with Sportade, Gatorade, Powerade with isotonic flavours as colourful as their names like Blue Blizzard, Red Storm, Orange Crush, Green Power. All are way more enticing than water. Terry watches her kids like they’re a zoo exhibit. They rip the lids off the eskies and shove orange quarters in the mouths like pacifiers then collapse on the grass by their gear.
Terry occasionally wondered what people without children would make of the Saturday morning chaos. She couldn’t imagine how the heck she never noticed this world before Bret started played rooball last year. When she started, it overwhelmed her. A medieval affair of miniature knights and jesters, jousting, fighting, running, screaming foul play. Banners and flags, shields, and crowns of all colours of the county, and mascots in droves. A carnival put on by little people in honour of their ruling giants lining the side lines, barracking war cries and bloody murder ‘till they’re horse in the throat.
I’ve got some cut up oranges if ya want Robbie.
We’re fine Terre. Where’s ye drink bottle?
Finished it dad.
That’s a good laddie. Ewan looks back up at Terry. Got ‘em soluble glucose mixture. Energy formula I invented it me self, Ewan beams.
I’ll put Robbie back on the second half then – give him a decent run.
Forget about the first half lads – ya all much better players than them. Ya doin’ well but ‘member ya training – keep a strict defensive and midfield line and ya’ll do fine. Robbie’s coming back on so Kuan you take a break.
Kuan obediently nods.
Jessie, Laurie? You’re in defence for Eric and Enzo. Nicolai take up Kuan’s position, but I need you coming forward in support. And Yuli you sit out the first ten minutes so Marc can have a go.
Terry squats down beside Bret who has sat on the grass next to Eric and Milo. Eric Hammond was Bret’s closest friend. He lived on the same street, was in the same class at Carine Primary and joined under 7’s rooball with Bret. Eric was a natural athlete who took to the game quickly and was a good defender. Bret was a small, acquiescent child – a strong kid Terry thought. Earnest with a good heart. She just couldn’t understand how he filled up so quickly at such a young age with self-doubt. Belief and wonder is being a child, Terry thought so she took the blame. Bret also struggled to improve in the under 7’s and his initial enthusiasm to go down to the park to practise with his dad eloped. His father stopped coming to watch him play (not that he attended regularly) and Bret thought it was because of him.
Bret shrunk even further in Milo’s garrulous, over-sized personality. Milo was repeating the story he told Bret to Eric. He took after his Pakistani mother, Ima in appearance but neither of the parent’s personalities combined could match their son. The fact the heist was a failure was mainly contributed to the thieves’ own incompetence. Don was badly beaten in what Milo boasted, according to police was a race-related crime. Terry overheard Milo’s loud, fanciful details and said nothing. He knew Don and Ima spent a lot of time at work and thought it was important a child believes their parents are safe when they are away for them.
Feel like gettin’ out there and havin’ a go kiddo.
Bret shakes his head.
Go’n Bret, Eric urges.
Nah I’m right mum – I mean coach.
Maybe we’ll get ya out there in a bit hey? Put you in the back line with Eric. You two’d make a bonza defensive team.
Deafening whistles from around the park signal the resumption of play.
Part II
O
Laurie and Jessie passed Terry ankle-tapping one another and pushing and shoving and laughing.
No foolin’ round out there you two and ‘member you’re shooting in the opposite direction.
Laurie and Jessie acknowledged their coach with mock salutes, hooting and making dur sounds to showcase their stupidity.
Spoilt bastards.
It wasn’t long before Milo let an easy grab trickle between his legs for Kingsley’s forth. From the kick off Norman sheared clear like the wind. He was a Yamaji kid who came down from the north three weeks ago to stay with aunt so he could be schooled in Perth. He ran as if the earth and wind propelled him, his feet controlling the ball like it was attached by an invisible yo-yo string.
Go Norm.
Robbie swept out to the far right in support.
Robbie’s on ye right sonny, Ewan called out while scooting down the sideline after the boys, shouting competitively against Terry’s instructions.
Pass the ball laddie – Robbie’s open.
All the way Norman, Terry shouted.
Play finally reached Mr Jovic who had transported himself to the other end of the pitch. He saw Nicolai streaming down, unmarked and in open space and yelped in discord to both Terry and Ewan’s cries.
Before Norman could reach the goal square he was brought down by the opposition.
Carn ref, Terry cried.
A free was awarded and Norm quickly took it, floating the ball effortless across field, taking the goalie out of position and selflessly landing it at Robbie’s feet who only had to touch it into score.
All the players huddled together in celebration. Ewan howled with delight and Mr Jovic punched a fist in the palm of his other hand. Norman’s big Aunt Tyrell who watched his games from her white Datsun with a bottle of creaming soda, family-sized Samboy cheese and onion chips, and binoculars, tooted her horn and flashed her headlights from Woodvale Drive. The individual effort and elegance of the goal was so rare at junior level, Terry was struck by an epiphany of emptiness and momentarily left dumbfounded and speechless. The shrill of the whistled restart launched Terry back into focus.
Kinglsey pushed forward and Milo nervously quivered between the witches’ hats. Dimitri, Yuli’s Polish-born father wandered across from Yuli’s twin brother’s match. He stood behind his son with his hands affectionately jockeying on his shoulder. Dimitri purposely put his sons in separate teams and watched a half-game of each of their matches, which he then reversed in order the following week to be fair.
You put Yuli in soon?
Aye, I think ye need Yuli back in goal there Terre.
Terry flinched, not realising Ewan was back standing close beside her.
I will Ewan – have to be dinkum ‘bout it you know and give Marc a fair go.
Jessie, then Nicolai and Norman scuffled the ball forward. Laurie was tripped but no free was awarded.
Carn ref – call it, Terry screamed.
Play scratched about in front of Rover’s goal. Boys bullied each other, tripped and wrestled and stood on the ball and fell all over in the congestion. An indiscriminate kick by Jessie ricocheted off a player and ballooned into the air. A theatrical header by Laurie sealed their second.
Laurie was off, arms out doing the aeroplane like he’d seen on TV. Jessie ran up behind him and jumped on his back and instantly they both collapsed under Jessie’s weight near the corner marker.
You should have Yuli in now, Dimitri called from a few yards away.
Terry heard Ewan’s silent affirmation. She looked at her watch. Nine minutes into the half. That’d do I guess, thought Terry.
Sub!
Yuli cuts an anxious stare
Yuli, go take over for Marc.
Dimitri slaps his son on the back as he bolts onto the field.
Terry looks around.
Enzo, an Italian thoroughbred of the Gabrozini small goods chain is trading cards with Kuan, a tightly wound spring of sinewed muscles and spirit. Terry had never met his parents. The Tau’s never watched their son’s matches, but were punctual – always dropping him off on time, always waiting to pick him up.
Kuan give Norman a rest. Eric, Bret, you’re in for Laurie and Jessie.
Bret thrusts a frowning stare of dissent and disapproval at the coach, but quickly realises it’s one of those times his mother wasn’t asking.
Why are ye takinin’ the darkie off Terre, ‘es ye fastest boy?
Let’s go, let’s go, Terry chants to ignore Ewan.
It’s obvious Ewan was eager to inherit next season’s coaching mantle and Terry wasn’t fussed to lose it if it wasn’t for Bret. He wanted to quit two weeks into the season and Terry refused. The irony was not lost on Terry that by providing an example to her son, she had shackled both of them with assignments they despised.
Milo runs fastest off the pitch with a ruby face glowing sweet relief. Jessie and Laurie collapse, panting on the grass. Norman jogs with athletic poise to an open space between the playing fields and the treelined edge of the park where he lowers himself into a cross-legged seated position.
Well done laddies, Ewan trumpets with encouragement.
Bret’s first touch is uncertain, coming from a rogue ball spat out of a scrum in the middle of the pitch. He steps on the ball trying to pass it too quickly away, loses his balance and stumbles before raking the ball back into his possession.
Good recovery, Terry yells.
Bret indiscriminately passes the ball directly to an opposition number. Play quickly moves upfield. Bret is overtaken by speed and the simple overlap scores another goal for Kingsley United. Bret’s shoulders slump like he’s McEnroe — the way young kids shoulders do when they experience defeat because their bodies haven’t yet learnt to hide their emotions.
Jessie’s mother, a pointed, immaculate looking woman dressed in a seamless ensemble of active wear, approaches from her gleaming blue Beemer. Her husband, Roy Thompson was a prolific billboard face in the neighbourhood, and from what Terry gleaned from other parents was a moderately successful and wealthy real estate agent. Audrey sidesteps Jessie and Laurie rolling around on the grass like they’re someone else’s embarrassment.
How are the boys doing?
Not bad.
A wee chance at winnin’ this one, Ewan adds.
Why aren’t we then?
Like wolves Kingsley sense a weakness and start to punish Bret. They claim possession and jostle up the near side of the ground. Brett is bowled over without much effort.
Carn ref, call it.
Who’s that terrible player?
That’s our team Audrey.
The wee fighter is Terre’s kid, Ewan interjects.
Audrey’s gauche feminism has no room for subtlety or weakness.
Why don’t you take him off? You’re torturing the poor thing.
Ewan audibly swallows his words and refrains from responding.
Terry watches Eric shift instinctively drift across the pitch, almost directly behind Bret to protect his next mistake. Kingsley spots the hole created on the far side and pierce the feeble defence. Yuli does well to get a foot to the ball but the force of the shot slots it between the cones for another. Their sixth goal. The mirage of a victory or at least the glimmer of a draw vanishes as quickly as it levitated.
Not Yuli’s fault, Dimitri scolds, he no help out there.
I know.
Mr Jovic furiously flaps his arms at Terry from down the end of the field. Yuli starts shouting at Bret and so Eric shouts at Yuli who then shouts back at Eric.
Carn boys, Terry implores. No one’s ta blame – ya all on the same side.
Bret’s eyes turn red and fill with water.
I think ‘es ‘ad enough Terre.
Strewth Ewan, don’t you think I know that.
What about Jessie?
Not now Audrey, Terry snaps and motions to the boys play fighting behind her.
Audrey turns around and chastises Jessie and Laurie into submission with brutal finesse Terry can’t help but admire. Ophelia Gabrazini arrives at the same time as Jackie Graham and both mothers slide into competition either side of Audrey. Terry tries to keep her attention on the game but a lurking sense of entrapment garners a crippling weight. It reminds her of marriage. She questions if all the team’s parents have some preternatural sense of failure, compelling them to suddenly gather and besiege her with a solid defensive wall along the boundary line. Jackie is complaining about how discontented her life is. Terry realises the mothers’ attention divert like the weather to personal gossip and relaxes slightly.
Norman, Ewan beckons.
Norman quits juggling the practise ball on his feet, grounds the ball and jogs out from the shade to attention.
He’s not coming off Ewan. Terry turns to Norman, sorry son it’s okay. Keep practising.
The game degrades in the final minutes. Nicolai makes one last charge at the Kingsley goal. Players converge in the penalty area. The ball frees itself from the melee and rolls softly to Bret’s feet.
Shittt, Terry whispers to herself.
Bret hacks at the ball, misses, spins around on himself and falls over. Terry watches his eyes swell with tears. The final whistle blows.
Thank Christ, Terry mutters under her breath.
Players stream from the field in unified relief. Bret dashes towards the Rover’s camp, eyes to ground, passes Terry, slumps to the ground and curls up, knees high in a tight-fisted silent defence.
Bad luck boys. Don’t worry ‘bout it – ya all played well. See ya at practise. Terry adds, we’ll get ‘em next week, feeling her voice fade away.
There’s an agricultural efficiency in the manner all the kids are herded back to their respective sideline camps before being quickly transported away in cars with engines still running. After all the on-field drama and mayhem, Terry finds the speed to solitude satisfying. She playfully wanders over to Bret and tries to whisk him to his feet but he refuses.
Don’t be like that kiddo.
I told you I hate it – and I hate you.
Ya gotta grow up a bit Bret – ya tried ya best, just had a bad game is all.
Dad would have let me quit.
I told ya – you gotta finish what ya started son. Ya nan and pop would agree with me on that.
Bret’s sullen head and shoulders slump farther.
Tell ya what – help Eric pack the gear away and we’ll swing by McDonalds the way home.
Bret’s face fails to light up like it ordinarily did at the mention of fast food.
Eric can come too if ya like, Terry adds, avoiding the question in his son’s eyes.
