The Whole of My World (8 page)

I hunt around for my pass as the connie calls for our tickets. He stops before us and takes in our gear – my Glenthorn jumper with the number 5 still shiny and new on the back, and Tara's duffle coat – and says, ‘Think the Gorillas might get you today.' It's only then that I notice the red, blue and yellow fringe of a Smithwood scarf poking out from under his M&MTB blazer.

Tara eyes the conductor steadily. ‘May the best team win.'

The connie smiles and moves on to other passengers.

I turn to Tara, waiting for her to laugh or make a joke about the tram conductor, but her eyes are serious and flat. ‘And
never
argue with the opposition before the game.'

 

Tara told me to join the cheersquad because they have the best seats, right behind goal and, during the finals, they get a separate allocation of seats exclusive to members. It virtually guarantees you a ticket for the grand final, assuming the Falcons make it, of course. Plus, you get a free copy of
The Falcon's Nest
mailed to you every week. A no-brainer in my mind.

When we get to Queens Park, Tara points me to David, the cheersquad president sitting in the front row. David doesn't look like the other cheersquadders. He has pointy shoes, slicked-back hair and wears a tweed jacket and slacks, rather than the usual jeans and footy jumper. He looks closer to thirty than twenty. I've never really spoken to him before – the committee members keep to themselves at training while the rest of us hang out on the other side of Fernlee Park, near the press box or the Mayblooms Stand.

I hand David five dollars and he gives me an Official Glenthorn Cheersquad badge, a receipt and a small flogger to wave at important moments. ‘When we're lining up for goal,' he says, ‘you wave it like this.' And he shows me the happy wave: up and down in a steady rhythm, like a salute. ‘But when
they
are,' he says – which I take to mean any team that isn't Glenthorn – ‘especially when they're up our end, you do it like this.' He holds the flogger up to eye level and waves it from side to side in what seems an unlikely attempt to distract the opposition players. A lot like the players do when they're on the mark, and what kids do in the under 9s, minus the cries of ‘Chewy on your boot!'.

To be honest, I highly doubt the players would be able to see the difference from where they're standing, but I nod my understanding and thank David for the advice. Armed with my flogger and badge, I make my way back to Tara, who's found a seat in the fifth row alongside two of the cheersquad regulars: the tattooed monster of a bloke, ‘Bear', who looks more like the Hulk than the teddy bear he's supposed to resemble; and Danny, the Bono lookalike.

‘Jury's up for a big one,' Bear says as I squeeze into the seat between him and Tara. Up close, he's even bigger and more intimidating. To look at, anyway. I can just make out some of his tattoos creeping out from the sleeve of his Glenthorn jumper, a trail of teardrops decorating his left hand. ‘Milestone game,' he continues, ‘and he's been working on his upper body.'

Bear has finished school, though I don't think he stayed for Year 12. Tara says he works as a brickie and is as strong as an ox, which makes him really popular after training when they load the truck. He can carry three of the big floggers at once and the entire run-through banner all by himself. He's a bit of a bogan but has memorised every single player's stats, including their height and weight, which comes in handy way more often than you'd think. Despite his appearance, he's probably the gentlest bloke I know.

‘Fingers crossed,' I say, not really paying attention. I can't help staring at the way Tara's talking to Danny, like he's the only person at the ground – or in the universe. She hasn't even noticed I'm here. She's turned away, her attention entirely on him, so I can't really hear what she's saying except for bits and pieces that float up from the noisy crowd – ‘. . .
so
funny . . . nearly
died
laughing . . .' And something about a shower curtain. She's talking a mile a minute and grinning a little crazily. This is not the Tara I know or think I know. Nowhere in sight is the painfully self-conscious and prickly girl I spend most days trying not to annoy. Instead, there's this flirty, giggly schoolgirl who keeps throwing her head back with an energy I didn't know she possessed.

In contrast, Danny isn't saying much of anything. Actually, he looks bored, only occasionally nodding and running his fingers through his Bono mullet. Is he even listening? But Tara doesn't seem to mind, blushing and babbling loudly, her laughter coming out jerky and harsh because no one else is joining in.

It hurts to watch. I try to get her attention to distract her, hoping she'll stop or just slow down a bit. But she won't even look at me. I find myself torn between wanting to stop her and just staring in fascination at this Tara I've never seen before. I sit there, absorbing the mind-blowing news that Tara Lester has a major crush.

Danny is studying the ground now, but Tara barely skips a beat. I feel a sharp twisting in my chest. Either he's clueless or he's not interested. And it's looking like the second option.

‘I haven't seen you at the games before,' Bear says, pushing Danny's boom box along to make more room for me.

‘Huh?' It takes me a second to drag my attention away from the disaster playing out beside me. ‘Uh, yeah. I usually go with my dad,' I say, too distracted to realise my mistake until it's too late. That was the least cool answer I could have given and it's out there for Bear and the rest of the cheersquad to hear. ‘I mean, when I was a kid,' I add quickly.

But Bear doesn't seem to care. He just nods and says, ‘Cool dad.'

There was a time I would have agreed with him.

Out on the ground, the cheersquad leaders are fighting to hold the run-through banner steady, the wind and gravity doing their best to defeat them. But as though summoned, the Falcons burst out of the race, and are met with the crowd's roar. In the lead, Chris Jury, who really does look stronger up top, breaks through the middle of his ‘100 GAMES!' tribute, and suddenly none of the other stuff matters. To anyone. The players run around a bit, forming a group in the middle before starting a slow warm-up while we wait for the Gorillas to show.

Three rows down, Jim-Bob and his girlfriend, Sharon, are trying to get a chant started. Sharon's voice could probably break glass if she put her mind to it – but Jim-Bob is too distracted by two scrappy kids between them whose tight black ringlets are identical to Sharon's. They couldn't be more than eight, but they're brawling over a packet of Twisties like their lives depend on it.

‘I reckon he's pushing eighty-five kilos,' Bear says, admiration thickening his voice.

He's still on about Jury. ‘Yeah,' I say, ‘could be.' The little girl looks like she's strangling her brother. Jim-Bob is physically pulling them apart, while Sharon gives her chant one last go.

‘Give us an “H”!' she cries, her broken pitchy voice already cracking under the strain.

A half-hearted ‘H!' ripples across the crowd.

‘We can't be too strong up forward,' I continue, unable to look away from the bickering kids who should seriously consider careers at the World Wrestling Federation.

‘Or down back,' Tara adds, her attention back where it belongs.

I smile at her, genuinely relieved she's given up on Danny for the moment.

‘Let's go, Falcons!' Danny yells as the players take position, grinning at Tara for the first time since I sat down, prompting Tara to squish even closer to him. Maybe he likes her after all.

In the front row, David stands up and, as though directed telepathically, the entire cheersquad rises to meet him. Dad says some people are born leaders and that John Kennedy Snr and Allan Jeans are perfect examples. People always seem to be waiting for them, ready to act without being asked. I think I know what he means now.

The chant picks up and soon we are clapping and cheering, breaking up into individual calls, yelling instructions or advice – to our team and theirs – about what we think will happen and what we think
should
happen. All of us self-appointed experts, directing play from the sidelines even though the players can't hear us and probably wouldn't listen if they could. But no one seems to care. It's not for them anyway.

I sit there, surrounded by these people I barely know, wondering what my place is here. Wondering if this will do, this thing that's happening. My heart flutters, my palms are clammy. Tension and expectation form knots in my chest. And then the Gorillas run out onto the ground, bursting through the banner, their supporters screaming just like we did, and the first pangs of panic take hold. As the Falcons players find their opponents I take a moment to look around: brown and gold stretches as far as I can see – on the oval, across the stands, all around me – and I know that it will be okay. A wave of something I can only call happiness passes over me. I think that's what it is, because it's warm and smooth and fills me completely.

I can just make out Mick heading to full forward down the far end. He bounces the ball a couple of times before kicking it back to the centre, waiting for the first whistle to blow, ready to take on the world – or the Gorillas anyway – and I know suddenly that it will be enough.

This, right here, is enough.

 

When Mick kicks the last of his amazing seven goals, minutes before the final siren is due, he pumps the air. And a split-second later the rest of the forward line mobs him. Tara and I are screaming and hugging and high-fiving everyone around us. I turn back to the ground in time to see Mick leap onto the fence right in front of us, into the arms of the madly cheering cheersquad. They adore him, finally, and he's loving it.

He stands up, looks into the brown-and-gold mob and catches me in his gaze. For a long second I can hear nothing. The whole world has fallen silent, and I'm only dimly aware of the chaos around me. He points his finger at me and smiles. I feel the weight of the cheersquadders looking at me, including Tara, who, incredibly, doesn't get angry but is leaping about in sheer delight. Bear hoists me onto his shoulder like I weigh nothing. Danny is grabbing Tara, then Bear, and reaching across the seats to perfect strangers who are clapping each other on the back.

The siren blasts in the middle of this and the crowd explodes. And everyone around me is glowing with the sort of elation that only winning can bring. I grab Tara in the tightest hug I can manage, not caring if I've broken one of her rules or if I'll have to pay for it later. The last couple of years it's felt like I've been split in half, the better part of me gone alongside Mum and what used to be my family while I'm stuck with what's left over: the smaller, weaker, broken version of me. Always alone and less than I used to be.

But that feeling is slowly starting to fade. Something good and strong is building up around me and it's here, right now. Today. I have a friend beside me who's feeling every ounce of the same excitement, the same joy, pure and simple. There's a whole crowd around me who are as delighted – as
completed
– by the experience as I am. And there's Mick out on the ground, sharing it with me.

I'm surrounded by happiness and it's infectious. No thinking. No reasoning. Just passion and feeling, like how I imagine falling in love would be. I had no idea it would turn out like this. I don't have to measure my words or analyse the game, highlight the errors of our opponent, assess what needs to be done next. I don't have to list the Gorillas' best players or identify Glenthorn's weakest. Not yet – not until I'm home with Dad. Today I am free. No guilt for who's missing, who should be here, what's been left behind. Apart from Fernlee Park, there isn't a single place I'd rather be right now. My face aches from smiling in the wind and my voice rasps from all the screaming, and I know that it's been forever since I've felt so completely alive. No longer half of something left behind – suddenly I feel whole.