The Whole of My World (22 page)

 

 

Tara is already awake when I open my eyes. Her hair is all mussed-up, her face even paler than its usual pasty white, and her eyes have neat, dark circles under them, stark against the strange blue of her irises. I don't have to ask her if she slept well.

‘Morning!' I say, forcing a brightness I don't feel.

‘Don't even talk about it,' she says.

Okay
. ‘How about breakfast?' I suggest, ignoring the double-backflip-with-pike my stomach is doing at the idea of food.

‘I mean, not at all,' she says, as though I haven't spoken.

‘What?'

‘You'll jinx us.'

She's talking about the game. I can't mention the game – at all. It's going to be a long day.

‘Silence is golden,' Tara adds, without even a hint of laughter.

During the finals, she's taken her superstitions to a whole other level. The rules are simple enough. I am not to mention winning or losing or the opposition team. All conversation is restricted to the ground where we're playing, the plan to get there and the chance of rain. More detailed discussions of the weather are okay but not encouraged, while possible food choices at half-time are the best option. That's until we get there. Once the players run out onto the ground, the rules change and we –
I
– am free to measure and gauge, criticise and applaud whatever I want to. I just can't declare us winners, no matter the margin, until after the final siren. That's the new amendment, in honour of our finals success: even if we're one hundred points up and there are only a handful of fit players left on the opposing side, no victory cries until the final siren sounds. Given how well we've travelled this year under her rules, I'm happy to go with it, just in case.

Mrs Lester is setting the table for breakfast. It's the first time I've seen her since the afternoon we met and I'm relieved to see that she seems sober. She must have come in some time during the night. Tara and I had picked up some Chinese take-away from around the corner and eaten our dinner alone.

‘Hello, dear,' she says to me like we're old friends.

‘Hi, Mrs Lester. Thanks for inviting me over.'

She waves this away, a chunky diamond ring flashing in the morning light. ‘No problem. Tara doesn't ask her friends around much,' Mrs Lester says. ‘It's good to finally meet you, Shelley.'

I look at Tara, wondering if I should correct her mother. But there's no need, Tara's on it. ‘She came over weeks ago – remember?
After the Redbacks game?
'

Mrs Lester raises an eyebrow at her daughter. ‘
Tone
, Tara,' she says. ‘Well, Shelley, I hope you enjoy the game.'

‘We'll be late tonight,' Tara says, munching on a piece of Vegemite toast. ‘Don't wait up.'

I manage half a slice before the salty tang is too much for my dry mouth. I gulp down some orange juice, then try again, with more success.

Two slices of Vegemite toast and half a litre of orange juice later, we're ready to go.

The two-block walk to the train station is uncomfortably warm. It's going to be a gorgeous day – hot for this time of year. I'm wearing gold pants several sizes too big that are held up with Dad's gold suspenders, Glenthorn socks, a brown shirt with a gold spray-painted collar sticking out over my Glenthorn jumper, capped off with Glenthorn beanie, brown jacket (with player badges and name tags, and a huge number 5 on its back) and brown-and-gold spray-painted tennis shoes that, I suddenly discover, are probably a little on the small side. Fifteen minutes later, the train being late and the station seats all taken, I decide they're a
lot
on the small side.

Tara is wearing brown pants in a better, more Glenthorn kind of brown than my shirt. I'd wanted to buy them but she'd spotted them first at the Silverdale Salvos. She has a gold skivvy under her Falcons jumper and scarf. On her feet she's got Dunlop Volleys that didn't look all that old before she spray-painted them in brown and gold stripes. The outfit is finished off with her duffle coat, covered with every sewable or pinnable piece of memorabilia available in brown and gold. To top it off, our faces are painted and our hair sprayed gold.

We catch the 7.12 from Silverdale and sit among the private-school kids, who are all on their way to Saturday sport. I notice a bunch of Celtic boys in their tracksuits, around the same age as Josh, and I wonder what he's up to now that the junior footy season is over.

I haven't spoken to him since the Ginnie incident, although he's called a few times. He's probably worked out I'm angry with him by now. But that's his problem, not mine. I can't forgive him for telling Ginnie about Angus. He, of all people, should understand that. But I can't worry about that now. Today is
not
about Josh McGuire. Today is about Glenthorn and football and Mick. Or, really, today is about
me
.

Finally, today, I get to win.

 

The MCG almost glows in the light of the bright, sunny day. The light towers glint in the sun and the busy traffic noise fills the air. The mood is electric. The only people around this early are the ground officials, some club people, the police and both cheersquads, but everyone driving past toots their horns or yells out the window, marking the day hours before the real fun begins.

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.