Authors: Maria Boyd
Jock was reaching his grubby mitts out toward my eye.
Does it hurt?
I pushed him and his hands away.
Back off, Jock, go put your fingers in your own eye
.
Then Tim started.
So how’s Elizabeth? She’s hot, man!
There was no way they were going to hear that sad story.
Yeah, she’s great
.
I just had to figure out a way of letting her know I still thought that.
Jock was looking at me really strangely. I looked at him as if to say
What?
and then it finally came to me. He wanted me to ask him about the girls.
So how about you, Jock? Any luck
?
Funny you should ask, Willo, but there was a certain chorus girl who caught my eye. Mark said he’d get her number for me
.
That’s great, Jock
. I turned to scan the quad.
So have you seen Mark?
Nah, I don’t think he’s in yet
.
I knew St. Andrew’s well enough to know that things could get a bit messy for Mark, especially if the tuckshop boys started again. And not just that, what happened on Saturday night would be around the school by morning admin. But I reckoned he’d handle it. We’d handle it. Even Tim and Jock. I had to remember to ask Mark to invite me when he let them in on the fact that he was dead serious when he told the thugs that he was indeed a poofter.
Andrews’s assignment was weighing as heavy as twenty bricks in my bag. The boys reminded me we didn’t have English until tomorrow but I didn’t care. Andrews had gone on and on about Monday and I was going to make a special delivery just so I could see his face. I went and knocked on the staff room door and asked for him.
Andrews came to the door carrying his trademark mug of coffee.
Nice eye
.
I nodded. I wondered if the news had made it to the staff room.
I heard there was some trouble. Did things turn out OK?
And they reckon us kids are bad for gossip.
Yeah, sir, I think so. I haven’t seen Mark yet, but yeah
.
I didn’t want to go on about it. After all, it was really Mark’s business and he knew Andrews well enough to tell him himself if he wanted to.
I reached into my bag.
Sir, I wanted to give you this
.
I handed him the assignment. I wish I could have taken a picture of his face, he was so shocked.
But, Will, we don’t have English today
.
I know that now, sir. But did you know that, sir?
Whatever it takes, Will. Whatever it takes. We called a truce, remember?
Yeah, I remembered, but would he? I thought for a moment about telling him that I could see now how me, the musical and the special assignment were all part of his tough-love policy, but I wanted to suss out how that truce went first.
The best I could do was nod in acknowledgment.
I’ll see you in English, sir
.
And I walked away feeling that for the first time in ages
I’d
nailed
him
.
I came home that afternoon and for the first time in two months had nothing to do or nothing I should be doing but didn’t want to do. It should have felt great but it didn’t. I still
felt
like there was something I had to do. Something big.
I was so wound up I even went out and worked in the veggie patch voluntarily. As I pulled up all the crap that had grown since Mum had her last clean-out, I started to think about Elizabeth. I had to sort things out with her. I knew she was too special to lose, I just wasn’t sure how to go about it. Sure, every time I thought of her father’s handshake after the musical I broke into a cold sweat, but considering I could still barely see out of my left eye, I’d had worse.
As I picked some produce for the latest Patricia Armstrong extravaganza, I surveyed the veggie patch and for a couple of minutes I stopped stressing. It looked good. It was Mum’s and my first combined project and to tell you the truth I was proud of it. I was proud of me and Mum and it. And I know Dad would have been too.
I came in to find Mum setting the table for dinner like we used to. Since the success of the Middle Eastern feast she’d fallen back into it. I washed the veggies and looked around for something else to do. There wasn’t anything, so I started a lap of the house trying to figure the best strategy to use with the Zefferellis. After twenty laps Mum freaked. She told me to either sit down and watch telly or go
and walk around my own room and stop annoying her until dinner was ready.
I stopped lapping the house and started lapping the lounge room. As I lapped, the phone beamed out like a two-dollar shop’s bad flashing neon sign. The phone was the answer. The only thing for it was to ring the Zefferellis and leave a message. But I knew it couldn’t be on Elizabeth’s phone because the parents had to hear it. It had to be on the landline.
I made eight attempts and hung up each time. Finally on the ninth try I did it. I sounded like a complete loser, but I carried on about how I was really sorry about the other night and that it was an exceptional case and how I didn’t go around bashing everyone I met. Well, something like that anyway. I’d tackle Elizabeth tomorrow. She’d have to rate the fact that I left myself right open with the landline message, wouldn’t she?
Mum called me to have dinner. I put the posh serviette on my lap before Mum had a go at me and knew I’d played the Elizabeth and parents thing just right. But I still felt wound up. I figured food might fix it and dug into the veggie-patch feast. I looked across the table and watched Mum as she lit the candles.
We spent dinner talking about Andrews, the assignment, the veggie patch and stuff. I asked if she’d mind if I invited Zach over for dinner and she suggested I ask both the Cohens. I nearly choked on the mixed lettuce salad.
Three hours of bad television didn’t help. Around 10:30 I said goodnight to Mum and went to my room. I played my guitar, downloaded some music and was still completely wired. What was wrong with me? Mum’s Mr. Cohen invite wasn’t worth stressing over, there was no English assignment hanging over me and Andrews was off my back—for the moment anyway. I’d rung the Zefferellis.
But my gut was still churning.
I lay back on the pillow and tried to clear my brain. I thought about Mum and dinner tonight. She seemed so much happier, more like she used to be … freer. I know she was still in the I
have the best son in the world
mood because of the musical, but it wasn’t just that. Talking in the kitchen, talking about Dad had helped us talk more about everything.
Thinking about that conversation pushed my gut into overdrive. The feeling was familiar, but this time I knew I didn’t have to block it out.
I curled myself up in a ball. The screen and slide show projector started again and images came thick and fast—but this time I made myself watch them, made myself remember each moment, each time. It finished on a photo of Dad looking straight into the camera, straight out to me. I was surprised by how wet the pillowcase was as I moved my head to get a better look. I sat up cautiously, nervously, but this time I didn’t want him to go….
I tried to speak but nothing came out.
I tried again and found the words.
Hey, Dad. Hey, Dad, it’s me, Will….
Firstly, I find it incredibly ironic and just plain funny that I’m providing a guide to Australian football codes, because if you ask anyone in my life—my family, my friends, the boys I teach—they can all attest to the fact that I know nothing about any of the technical aspects of the games. Football, to me, whatever the code, means men chasing one another around a field in pursuit of a particular-shaped ball so it can be either kicked through goalposts or pounded down over a line as many times as possible in order to score as many points as possible.
So the technical aspects of the games mean not a lot to me but, from observing the different men and boys in my world, I am fascinated by how the supporting and/or playing of particular codes of football in Australia often defines what type of male you are: your class, your level of testosterone, your ethnicity, your level of education, your intelligence, your sexuality, what part of the country you live in and even what suburb.
In Will’s mind, Mark can’t be gay because he plays rugby union. Mark also comes from Victoria, which means he should be playing Australian rules football, but because he went to private school, he plays union. In his friend’s mind, Will shouldn’t be playing soccer because he isn’t Australian European or a “wog,” and soccer is thought to be “soft” in comparison to the other codes. And Jock should be playing league because, well, quite frankly, he is not very bright.
So what on earth is the difference between AFL, rugby union, rugby league and soccer? If I was to ask a league supporter to define “league,” or a union player to define “union” or an Australian rules supporter to define “AFL,” the rivalry between the codes would emerge. It seems that somehow each of the codes is defined in opposition to or with some reference to the other codes.
As you may know, the European colonization of Australia was carried out by the British, and along with them came their particular way of doing things, including their schooling system. They have a two-tiered system—private and state. Private schools are often considered elite schools, and state schools are primarily government-funded schools for everyone else. Rugby union was always played in the elite schools and, therefore, was always considered the “gentleman’s game.” It did not turn professional until the 1990s. Rugby league has always been played in the state schools and has always had a strong connection to the working class.
Rugby was born at the Rugby School in England. There was only “rugby” at this stage. The sport’s popularity grew and spread to the general public. Competitions were organized and clubs were created initially by men of the “ruling classes.” In the north of England, club membership was open to all classes, and the northern clubs became the strongest in England. However, matches were held on Saturdays, which was problematic for working-class men, who had to work that day. This was especially true for many northern English men who were miners. Players from the upper classes did not have to worry about this restriction.
Many of the clubs lost good men to this restriction, so it was decided that the players could be paid for their time. It was this decision that brought about a split in the code. The Rugby Football Union tried to enforce the nonpayment of players, which meant that working-class men would be excluded from participation, thus
keeping rugby the “gentleman’s game.” This affected the northern rugby clubs more than those in the south, so they broke away, forming their own Northern Rugby Union, which later became known as rugby league.
Australian rules football originated in Victoria, where they wanted to devise a game to help cricketers keep fit during the winter. Even though there is huge support for the Sydney Swans, New South Wales, where Will lives, is still pretty much a league state. Western Australia, South Australia and Victoria are known as Aussie rules states.
I have been told, in no uncertain terms, by many football fanatics that most readers who are interested would simply want to know the mechanics of the game. So for all you lovers of games played with the leather ball, here they are:
Rugby Union
5 points for a try.
2 points for a conversion.
3 points for a penalty goal.
Tackles allowed—unlimited. The ball changes only if there has been a mistake/offense or if the ball goes out of play.
When a tackle occurs, rucks and mauls occur as well. Continuous play with constant competition for the ball.
Unlimited rucks (when everyone jumps on one another).
When the ball goes over the sideline into touch, there is a lineout.
Rugby League
4 points for a try.
2 points for a conversion.
Sets of six tackles, then the other team is given the ball, unless a try has been scored.
The tackled player “plays the ball” (rolls it under their legs, thus play stops).
When the ball goes over the sideline into touch, there is no lineout.
AFL
Four goalposts rather than two.
There are no tries, only goals and behinds.
A “goal” is when a player kicks the ball between the two center posts—6 points.
A “behind” is when the ball does not go through the goalposts but goes through the smaller posts on either side of the main goalposts—1 point.
You are not allowed to throw the ball, you have to “hand the ball,” which means resting the ball in one hand and punching it with the other.
Soccer
To Zac, James and Alex, who were the first young people to meet Will and who continued to offer support throughout the journey.
To the boys from Holy Cross, who either unwittingly provided inspiration or knowingly shared great wisdom—specifically Ben Pullen, Simon Janda, Doug Evans, Andrew Gallagher.
To the OLSH girls, who offered the much-needed girls’ perspective: Stephanie, Jamie, Patrice.
To Eva Mills, Zoe Walton, Julia Stiles, Jenny Simons, Helen Young, Tony North, James Worner, Peter Duffy, Bec Smith, Felicity Castagna, Aaron Macdonald, Melina Marchetta, Melissa Williams, Joanna Farrell, Karen Oxley, John Marsden’s Tye Estate Writers’ Conference, Peter and Lynn and all the folks from Varuna. Thanks for sharing your expertise, skills and time.
To Timothy McGarry, who read every draft and gave invaluable feedback whilst offering unfailing belief and support.
To the Cathedral boys: Victor for his feedback and my current Year 10 and 11 English classes.
To my beautiful family of friends, thank you for your support and love—always.