The Whole of My World (9 page)

 

 

 

By the time the last week of first term comes around, I've visited Fernlee Park thirteen times – every Thursday since that first time and six Tuesdays too. I've marked each trip in my scrapbook and have recorded all my observations about how the players train, who looks good and who doesn't, unreported injuries and any new game strategies I've identified.

I've also set aside a new section just for Mick and have written down every conversation we've had, because sometimes it feels like I've dreamt the whole thing. All the kids love him now; everywhere I look neat, shiny number 5s have been stitched on to Glenthorn jumpers, old and new. And yet, every time I see him, he still looks me straight in the eye and speaks to me like I'm more important than anyone else.

I got to training early today. Sister Brigid was sick and we had a substitute teacher who didn't bother to take the roll. Tara didn't show up at school, and I haven't seen her all night. She does that sometimes – disappears from school for a couple of days, only to turn up at training or at the Burke and Wills statue before the footy like nothing's happened.

I asked her once why she'd missed school.

‘Didn't feel like it,' she'd said, like it was a perfectly normal reason.

Bear was early today too – an RDO for brickies, apparently – so I've been testing my memory against his. I told him about my scrapbook and about all the stats I've been keeping, the stuff that no one else cares about. I was nervous telling him in case he thought my scrapbook was lame – I haven't mentioned it to Tara because I
know
she will – but he was so impressed he made me promise I'd bring it along to training one week. I just have to make sure Tara doesn't see it.

By the time training ends, Bear has provided me with a breakdown of every single senior player's fitness level and potential to improve, and I've given him my predictions for Best and Fairest and leading goalkickers, first, second and third. (Mick Edwards winning both, obviously.)

‘You ready?' Mick asks across the heads of the other cheersquadders as Bear and I finish our sausages. It's been raining on and off since I got here, and the damp, musty smell of wet carpet is thick in the air.

‘See you later,' I say to Bear.

‘See you Saturday.' He says it naturally, like we've been friends for ages, and he doesn't even blink when I leave with Mick. No one does. This ritual is so accepted by everyone now that I don't have to explain it. And with Tara away today, I don't have to feel guilty either.

Mick takes the usual route down Fernlee Park Road, weaving quickly in and out of traffic. He's really rushing, and has to brake suddenly to avoid running a red light at Riverglen Road. We're halfway across the pedestrian crossing, and two men in business suits have to avoid an oncoming car to walk around Mick's Holden. One of them yells something at us on the way, but thankfully keeps walking.

‘You late for something?' I ask, loosening my grip on the car seat to stretch my sore fingers.

He glances at me like he's forgotten I was there. ‘Sorry.'

When the light changes, he accelerates gently and we resume something closer to a normal speed. ‘We were meant to be going out to dinner,' he says, his eyes squarely on the road. I think he means with his wife but I can't be sure because he's never mentioned her before.

‘I can get out here if you like?' I twist around to see how far we've travelled from the Riverglen Road tram stop. Not even a block. I could easily make it before the next tram.

‘We're almost there,' he says lightly. ‘I don't mind.'

I'm relieved. I hate waiting at the tram stop alone. It's always empty this time of night and the one by the oval is right outside the Fernlee Park Hotel. Drunk idiots yell stuff out the pub window or stagger past, slurring insults. I know they won't do anything, but I hate the way they make me feel. All exposed like that with nowhere to hide from their sleazy jokes and leering eyes. It's not so bad when Tara's there. She tells them where to get off or just turns that hard stare of hers on them and they shrink before our eyes. But I can't count on her showing up. Not like Mick.

‘School holidays already, hey?' he says, as we pull into the Stonnington Station car park. There are hardly any cars left but I can make out some people waiting on the platform.

‘Yeah, thank God.' I say this because I know I should. It's what everyone expects. But being alone at home for endless hours every day, those big empty rooms large enough to swallow me whole, is awful. Finding a way to keep busy when Dad comes home on top of that . . . I shudder just thinking about it.

Mick laughs. For a second it's like he's read my mind. But then I realise he thinks I'm horrified by school, not home. ‘Brendan keeps asking if he can visit his teacher, like he's worried if he disappears for a fortnight, they won't let him back in.'

‘Brendan's your son?' He's never told me their names.

Mick nods. ‘He's in prep. First year of “big school”, not kinder. He loves it.'

‘I did too,' I say, trying to picture what Mick's son would look like – a tiny version of Mick, I suppose. But I draw a blank. There are some people it's impossible to imagine were ever children. My dad's like that. Mum used to joke that he never got to be a kid – he was born a miniature adult and just grew into it. ‘Everyone loves school at first,' I continue. ‘But he'll get over it.'

Mick laughs.

I see a flash of something young and childish in his face, and a picture of Mick as a boy emerges. I bet he was cute. And tall, too. Scruffy hair and those warm brown eyes. ‘What school does he go to?'

Mick hesitates. ‘It's near the house . . .' He does a half shrug, half smile. ‘His mum takes care of that. With training straight after work and matches every weekend . . .' Mick falls silent.

I'm not sure if I should leave or say something else. I slip the shoulder strap of my schoolbag over my head and open the car door. I've got a minute or two before the train's due. It will probably be late – typical Vic Rail – but I like to have time to pick the right carriage. ‘Where are you going?' I ask as I get out.

He frowns, confused.

‘To eat?'

‘I don't know.' He checks the clock on the dashboard. ‘It's probably too late.'

‘I'm sorry.'

He shakes his head. ‘See you next week?'

‘Of course.'

He nods, like he's thinking hard about that.

‘Okay, bye.' I shut the door and wave before I sprint across the bitumen, towards Platform 2. A string of passengers arrive from the tram stop across Fernlee Park Road. I peer along the tracks as far as I can see but there's no train in sight. Late as usual.

Finally, several minutes later, my train pulls up and everyone boards, leaving the platform empty and quiet. As I take a seat by the window, I notice a young family in the aisle across from me; a mother and father, and two little girls, the youngest asleep in a pram. The father has a pretty pink doll's bonnet propped absurdly on his head, while the older child, clutching the doll that presumably owns the bonnet, is lost in a fit of giggles, squirming so hard she can barely stay in her seat. Her dad acts like everything is perfectly normal while her mum shakes her head in amusement.

I tear my eyes away to focus on the passing houses, my attention drawn to those with brightly lit windows. I picture similar scenes to this one playing out with different families inside, a little boy here, a teenage daughter there, and wonder what it is they wish for at night in those last moments before they fall asleep.

 

 

The next week, Tara and I arrange to meet on Monday at the footy clinic at Punter Oval. The clubs run the clinics during the school holidays, so when we get there the crowd is huge. There are kids from all over Melbourne, although, as the games kick in, it's obvious that only the boys actually participate. There are a handful of girls among the littlies, but no older girls playing at all. They mostly hang around to watch the players, taking photos of the better-looking ones and flirting with them over the top of the other kids' heads.

I recognise two of the girls from the cheersquad. Tara calls them ‘The Lovely Ladies' because they always have immaculate hair and fingernails that are long enough to be registered as lethal weapons. They're more interested in the players after the game than during it – or that's what Red says. Kimberly is the leader – the prettiest and most popular, but Lisa, the only one not here today, is definitely the nicest. I'm not sure what Renee is – she's actually a Carringbush supporter, which is unforgiveable, but says the Glenthorn players are better-looking.

We've chatted to all three girls at training before, but they're so focused on the players that it doesn't seem worth the effort. Tara and I have decided to avoid them, which isn't difficult because all they do is follow spunky Irishman Brendan O'Reilly everywhere he goes. Mick's the only other Glenthorn player at the clinic, so Tara and I follow his group to a corner of the Punter Oval.

I hardly play footy anymore, except some backyard mucking around with Josh, and even that's happening less and less. It's been two years since I last played anything that resembled a real game, back when I was still playing for the Raiders. The club hadn't taken me seriously at first. But it all changed when I took a mark at centre half-forward over Cam Evans, who was twice my size, and suddenly I wasn't just Josh's friend or ‘the Brown girl' but was one of the team. Or as much a part of it as I could be. Girls aren't allowed to play in any real games so, instead, I trained with them twice a week and played in all the practice matches and lightning tournaments that I could get away with. Stealing every minute of game time the coach, Jacko, would give me. He always included me in drills and even gave me an award at the end of the under 10s' season, after the Raiders lost the grand final.

At first I thought he was just being nice, but then when I was about to turn thirteen, Jacko asked Mum and Dad if he could go to the tribunal to challenge the rules on my behalf. He said I was almost as good as any of the A team on my best days and way better than all of the Bs. There was no reason I shouldn't play, he'd told Dad, as long as I wanted to.

And I wanted to, more than I could say.

Josh wanted me to play, and Mum too. But Dad didn't think it was a good idea until Mum gave him a nudge, and he eventually agreed. Then the tribunal said no, offering all this ‘scientific evidence' as proof that it was dangerous for girls to play in real games. Anyway, it freaked Dad out. He'd said it wasn't right for me to play football now that I was ‘becoming a woman', that I could get hurt, as though my body was suddenly softer and weaker than it used to be. Josh stuck up for me, but he was the only one. Even Mum stayed quiet.

So I had to quit playing footy, even though I still had to do the family thing and watch the Raiders play every single week. It hurt in a way that nothing else had until then. Josh got it. But everyone else – my family, the rest of the team . . . It was like I'd never played at all.

And then our world ended, and none of that mattered anymore.

Tara and I lean against the low boundary fence as they divide all the kids into age groups. I watch the kids mill about having no idea what to do, my feet itching to get into it.

‘Stuff this, I'm playing,' I say abruptly. I wave to get Mick's attention and am about to head over when Tara steps between us.

‘What?' I say.

‘If you play, I'm leaving.'

‘What's the big deal? We're here, aren't we?'

‘You're not twelve.'

‘There are other girls playing.'

‘They're all in
primary school
,' she mouths, through gritted teeth.

I think about the tribunal, Dad's words and the silent acceptance by the one person I thought I could trust the most, and shake my head. ‘I'm not going to stand around and do nothing.'

‘Why not? Why can't you just . . . be normal like everyone else?' People are staring at us now.

‘You can do what you like,' I say, my voice as even as I can make it.

‘Okay, I will,' she says, and leaves. Just like that.

I watch her back fade into the distance with a strange mix of anger and awe. That's the thing about Tara – she always makes good on her promises –
and
her threats. She does everything she says she's going to do
exactly
like she says she's going to do it. A part of me appreciates that, while another part of me wishes I'd picked an easier friend.

I walk over to Mick's group of boys, who are all about my age. Some of them are small like me, others look like miniature men with square jaws and gangly limbs – all elbows and knee joints and shoes like tennis racquets. On a pure strength test, they'd cream me. But they'd have to catch me first. I still have pace.

‘I'll play here,' I say, louder than I mean to.

Mick looks surprised, like he doesn't know if I'm joking. ‘Maybe you should go with a younger group. Those kids over there,' he says, less gently than I'd have liked, pointing to a bunch of ten-year-olds. What he means is
somewhere else
.

‘No,' I say, aware that everyone is standing around watching. ‘Here's good.'

‘Fine.' Mick shrugs and handballs the brown-and-gold football to me. I think he might be angry until I notice he has a bit of a smile near his lips. Not quite on them but right around the edge.

We go through all kinds of drills, from handball target practice to marking, tackling and sprints. Each time Mick sends the ball towards me he deliberately keeps it softer, slower, like he's worried I won't get it. But it doesn't take long before he stops treating me differently to the boys. I'm not the best kid playing anymore, but I can hold my own. Whenever it comes to running or ball handling, I manage to beat most of them, though nothing feels the way it used to. After the accident it felt as if I'd lost a limb, like the fearless and capable part of me was amputated in an instant. But today it feels like I've got a completely different body. A slower, heavier one that won't do what it used to.

‘Okay, listen up!' Mick is pacing in front of the kids, like a schoolteacher taking a class. Or a dad who's used to handling little kids. I'm surprised. He's actually pretty good at this. ‘Goal drills. Defence and attack.'

Dread settles low in my stomach. I'm a terrible kick, even worse when goalposts are involved. The Raiders boys knew it. They made sure I knew it too. In fact, if I'd been a better kick, I reckon Jacko would have tried harder at the tribunal.

There are temporary goalposts set up about twenty-five metres away. We're supposed to work in pairs but of course nobody wants to go with a girl, so Mick takes me.

‘All right, know what to do?' he asks me.

I sigh, long and deep. ‘Yeah, I
know
what to do . . .' But knowing isn't the same as being able to do it. Then it hits me. ‘I'll defend,' I offer, even though any normal kid wants to be in attack.

Mick squints at me, confused. ‘Nah, my knee's a bit tender. You shoot, I'll defend.'

I don't answer. I can't. For a tiny second I watch the goalposts shrink before my eyes at the same time that my dread grows large enough to smother me. Then I picture Tara smirking at me. I got what I asked for, and this is exactly what she wanted to avoid. I shrug, like someone's asked me a question. I stare into the yawning goalmouth and set my body into the starting position.

‘Ready?'

I nod, and Mick waves me free. I bolt from the starting point and manage to get to the ball ahead of him. He isn't kidding about his knee. I turn, avoid his tackle, then go for goal without much resistance at all. I know he's playing it down for me, but he's definitely favouring the dodgy knee again, and half of me feels sorry enough to let him win.

Well, maybe not
half
.

I twist and shoot, but the worm-eater that comes off my foot undoes all the beauty of my turn as the ball dribbles pathetically until it stops in front of goal.

We all look at it for a second, none of us quite believing what I just did. And then a pimply boy with hair that looks like steel wool says, ‘Nice kick.' And laughs.

For confidence, I cling to the memory of my magical blind turn, which was easily the best one all day, but I'm obviously the only one.

‘Wow, that really sucked,' the boy behind me says matter-of-factly.

Mick shoots him a warning look but doesn't argue. ‘You need to work on that,' he says after an excruciating pause, then moves on to the next kid.

 

After the clinic, I'm wishing Tara had hung around. I think I see Danny across the oval, but I don't feel like I know him well enough to call out. He's never been as friendly as Bear. I'm even regretting my decision to avoid the Lovely Ladies, because at least they'd be someone to talk to.

On the way to the station I notice Mick waiting by the gate, his bag on his shoulder, keys in hand. I stop and wave, but he doesn't see me among the crowd. He's searching for something or someone. I watch him scan the faces of the people in front of me, the cars that move through the car park, then the crowd again. He looks lost. Or lonely.

I make my way over to him, zigzagging against the crowd. ‘Hey. Did you lose something?'

Mick looks up, distracted. ‘Hey, Shelley.' He shifts about uncomfortably, moving his bag to his other shoulder and crossing his legs as he leans back on the fence.

‘Are you okay?' I wonder if his knee is worrying him and decide that's probably it. He's clearly got something going on there.

‘You going home?' he says, ignoring my question.

I nod and force a smile, hoping he didn't notice I was on my own. ‘O'Reilly left already.' Who else would he be looking for? There's no way he's friends with any of the other players – the opposition – and he's not important enough for the Lovely Ladies. Not yet, anyway.

‘What? Oh. No, I saw him.' He looks away, searching with less energy. Whoever it is, he's not expecting to see them.

‘I have to catch the train,' I say, turning to go.

‘My kids were going to come . . . with Wendy.' He smiles but it doesn't reach his eyes. ‘She said she might bring them down.'

I put my bag down and make an effort to help him look. I'm not sure why because I have no idea what they look like. But we stand there for a few seconds, watching the tail end of the footy clinic crowd make their way out of the park.

‘It's okay,' he says, shrugging like it's no big deal. ‘I don't think they're coming.'

I nod. ‘Next time, maybe.'

He offers a half smile that disappears before it settles. ‘Yeah. See you at training.'

The first drops of rain fall, round and fat and cold. I swing my bag over my shoulder and tug my collar high against my neck. ‘See you Thursday.' I head off again, the rain coming down heavier. I start to jog towards the station underpass, my feet squelching in the soft, never-quite-dry mud, catching up to some of the others on the way. I see Jim-Bob and Sharon wrangling their squabbling kids on the Frankston line platform, and the Lovely Ladies picking their delicate way up the platform ramp just ahead. I'm tempted to approach them but have no idea what I'd say. I reach the cover of the underpass and am about to head up the ramp to Platform 9 when I feel an overwhelming need to look back.

Across the oval, in the wet, muddy car park, Mick is still leaning against the fence exactly where I left him. Even though he's getting drenched in the steady rain, he seems to be scanning the last few faces around him just in case.