The Crush

Cover

Copyright

Imprint Page

Dedication

Title Page

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

Epilogue

Biography

Ravaged with broken and crippled bodies, the footy field looked like a war zone. Blood dripped from foreheads stomped on by spiked boots and hands clutched ribcages nearly blasted from their skins. Medics stretchered off two guys who had knocked each other out in a tackle, while a third staggered along the sidelines, still shell-shocked after a big hit. Each new onslaught brought more pain and destruction but every man stood his ground. The fear of being hospitalised was nothing compared to the hurt of losing.

Heads up! A bomb!

Leaping into the air, Matt Cassidy fought several players to snatch the ball spinning from the sky. The
kick was perilously close to his team's tryline. If he missed his opponents would score and the game would be over, not to mention his life.

Got it! With a thud, the ball exploded against his chest and knocked him off his feet.
Boom!
His skull bounced against the hard, dry turf, snapping his neck forward and rattling his teeth. It felt as though his head had shattered like a vase on cement. Probably looked like it too. But he didn't care. He'd saved a certain try.

There was no sympathy, however. Three bodies slammed on top of him, pinning him under a shadowy grave of limbs and hot angry faces. A fist pounded into his guts and an elbow grated his face into the dirt. A knee smacked him in the chin and sent his head bobbing again.

Wanting to scream, he bit down on the pain. He couldn't show he was weak. Men didn't carry on like sissies anyway. Especially tough footy players like him.

A whistle sounded and the referee called a penalty for holding. His opponents reluctantly shifted off him to complain, but not before one last sly punch to the ribs. Matt's teammates rushed to his side and hauled him to his feet; not to see if he was okay but to reclaim the ball.

‘Great catch, Matty,' one said. ‘Good to see you can still stand. We can win this, you know.'

Win what? A new head? He hoped so. His current one was doing a Cyclone Tracy on him.

Wonky on his feet, Matt tried refocusing as his team kicked for touch. They jogged to the forty metre mark then took the tap. The ball changed hands twice before an opposing hulk steamrolled the guy with the ball. From the other side of the field, Matt could hear his tackled teammate's brain pinball around his head.

The second and third tackles were just as brutal. The fourth was horrendous. One of their smallest players was knocked unconscious by a beefy guy packing more meat than a slaughterhouse worker. The crowd loved it. Three hundred teenage spectators sitting in the grandstand cheered and screamed for more pain and blood. Painted in school colours and shouting insults, the feeling was almost tribal.

Matt's teammates argued with the ref for a penalty while the volunteers stretchered off their third body for the day. They said the tackle was unfair and too high. But the man with the whistle shook his head and waved play-on.

Typical. If he was any more biased he'd be tri-ased.

The injury reduced the Bankstown Central High Mongrels to just twelve players—one short of full strength. It was no good calling on the reserves. They were already on the field or sitting on the bench, making sure their busted limbs didn't fall off. Twelve men would have to do.

Catching his breath, Matt glanced around his team waiting for the next play of the ball. The fellas were doubled over, clutching stitches or wincing as they hobbled into position on their own twenty metre mark. They were all but destroyed. For seventy-seven minutes they had thrown themselves at the opposing tryline but each time they had been driven back. They could still steal a win, but the clock was tick, tick, ticking down.

The score was 12–14. The Mongrels were losing by two with three minutes of play left. A defeat or a draw would be disastrous. Only a win would see their school reach the finals for the first time ever.

Playing the competition's best team didn't help. The Princes Boys College Lions had not lost a match all season. And it wasn't hard to understand why. They had the biggest forwards, the best backline, a coach who was an ex-Australian captain, a fully fledged gym to train in, personal trainers and testosterone that dripped from them like sweat.
Generation upon generation of the state's best footballers had gone to Princes. The school's overflowing trophy cabinets testified to their success. Losing a premiership was equal to treason.

For the first time, the Mongrels had blue and white jerseys. Some of them even had numbers. The ‘gym' was a couple of aluminium benches beside the dusty school oval that the guys used to stretch their legs. And then there was Steve Evans' mum. She was a personal trainer, in a way. She always warned the fellas that if they smashed another of her windows, she'd chase after them and skin their hides.

But the Lions didn't intimidate Matt. He was determined to reach the grand final. And if that meant beating these silverspoons, then so be it.

‘C'mon, you Mongrels!' he shouted, clapping his hands together. ‘Let's show these rich boys how to play footy!'

One of Matt's teammates rolled the ball underfoot into his hands. Matt dummied right, then off-loaded the ball to the left. The ball swapped between fast hands before the winger grabbed hold of it. He made a twenty metre break but was abruptly cut down by the Lions captain.

Matt glanced at the clock. Ninety seconds to go. One tackle left. They would have to kick. The crowd
was already celebrating. The Lions were going to be remembered as the most successful high school football team in the district. Matt's Mongrels would be quickly forgotten.

Eighty-nine. Eighty-eight. Eighty-seven …

The ball whizzed Matt's way. A big front-rower charged at him and he shot it to his right. It headed towards Chris Pearce, the team's fullback, who readied himself to kick. He could easily boot a ball forty metres up field. Arrogantly, the Lions slowed their momentum and waited …

But the Mongrels had one last ploy. Chris never caught the ball. Matt did. Their teammates reversed the play at the last moment and hurled it over players' heads. Matt easily grabbed it and bolted forward. When the Lions discovered the bluff there were too many gaps to fill. One guy dived at Matt's ankles and another at his waist but he easily palmed them off. A third tackler lunged at him but ate dirt.

Legs firing and heart hammering, Matt powered up the sideline, zeroing in on the Lions tryline. Sixty metres. Fifty. Forty. The Lions fullback was in front of him and their captain chasing ten metres behind him.

On the thirty metre line he dropped the ball and grubber-kicked it ahead. The Lions fullback tried
taking him out with a shoulder charge but missed, Matt zigzagging out of the way. But the manoeuvre had cost him ground. The Lions captain caught up with him and the race was on.

The ball rolled into the in-goal area, the two captains desperately trying to reach it first. One had to touch it for a try. The other, to punch it over the dead ball line. Whoever did so would win the match.

Together they crossed the tryline and pounced, their hands outstretched. Frantic fingers crunched down on the ball.
Bang!
Their bodies skidded and slammed into a sideboard.

The final siren shrieked and Matt clamped down on the pain tearing through his nerves. Filled with doom, both he and the Lions captain looked at the ref, begging to know who had touched the ball first.

Dressed in white, the ref looked at both of them as the crowd rose to its feet. The shouting and pleading died down as the ref looked at the two touch judges for any help. None came. The decision was his alone. Raising the whistle to his lips, he breathed in, pointed to the ground and blew shrilly: try!

As one, the Mongrels leapt into the air and howled. They'd won! 16–14. They were through to the finals!

Blokes came from everywhere, screaming and piling on top of each other. Shortly, the pyramid of bodies caved in and guys hugged and laughed with their mates on the grass. Watching from the in-goal area, their wounded captain wasn't forgotten. A couple of fellas lifted Matt onto their shoulders to salute his great solo try.

The Princes Boys College team and their home crowd were a different sight. Beaten, they cursed, booed and clawed at their faces. They'd been robbed of being the district's first team to finish a season undefeated. Their own captain couldn't believe it. He shouted at the ref and blocked his way when he tried to leave. Two of his teammates were forced to drag him away before things got nasty. Shaking himself free, the captain swore at the ref again before grabbing the ball and throwing it at the ground in disgust. He stormed away, vowing revenge.