The Whole of My World (23 page)

The crowd rises at the emcee's request. All the faces around me, some painted in brown and gold, others bare but rapt and glowing with something I can't identify . . . Pride, maybe? Devotion? ‘Advance Australia Fair' kicks in, and my heart swells and pounds. Listening to more than 100,000 people in the greatest stadium on earth sing the anthem – or most of it anyway, since nobody knows the second verse – is awesome. And the whole stadium shakes when the band plays ‘Waltzing Matilda'.

The players take their positions on the field. The umpire raises the Sherrin up high and the roar from the crowd is the loudest sound I've ever heard. It's so deep and all-consuming that it seems to swallow everything whole. Well beyond not hearing my own voice, I can't hear my own
thoughts
.

The umpire bounces the ball, the crowd ratchets it up a notch higher again, and just like every year, the players start a blue. It's like a small explosion has been triggered; the noise of the crowd and the burst of activity on the field all combine in a frenzied mess of voices and whistles and screams. I usually hate seeing men fight. But on the footy field, watching the players push and shove – especially on big occasions like this – it's incredibly exciting. I can't get enough.

I scan the field for Mick, but he's way down in full forward, still stretching and jogging on the spot. Nervous. I can see it from here.

‘Go for it, Rocky!' Jim-Bob screams.

‘Get off him, ya thug!' Sharon yells at Paul Weston, who's sitting on top of Blackie.

‘Somebody get in and help him!' Tara shouts.

By the time the umpires have calmed the players down, the crowd is on its feet and we're dying, more than ever, to see some football. The game starts again and Brendan O'Reilly runs towards the ball with the passion of ten men. He is solidly met by Daniel Ladd and is left in a heap on the ground, bloodied and dazed, but still holding onto the ball.

‘Too high, ump!' I yell, nudging Tara for a response. But Tara ignores me, her eyes riveted to the game. Her face is white as a sheet, and I wonder if she's sick. ‘You okay?'

She doesn't even look at me. She shakes her head and says quietly, ‘This doesn't feel right.'

‘We'll be fine. It's barely started.'

The look she gives me would make the demon girl from
The Evil Dead
cry. I wonder if it's the alcohol that's messing with her. At least she's stopped drinking for the moment.

I decide it's best to leave Tara alone for now. Red is in the row behind us so I spend the rest of the quarter directing my comments at her.

David leads us in his typically bizarre chants:

‘Warriors smell terrible!'
(Clap-clap-clap.)

‘Go home, you pretty boys!'
(Clap-clap-clap-clap-clap.)

At quarter-time Glenthorn is two goals up but we're only slightly ahead of the Warriors in the play. It feels like we haven't really let loose yet. Danny climbs over the seats towards us and I move over to make room between Tara and me, but he continues past us with a wave, and squeezes in between Kimberly and Lisa at the back.

‘I'm getting something to eat,' Tara says, and without waiting to see if I want anything, climbs over the benches and disappears into the crowd. I don't know what she's thinking – she'll never make it back before the next quarter. Then Red disappears to the toilet, and I find myself watching Kimberly and Danny flirt, dread growing in the pit of my stomach.

Tara comes back before the break ends, despite my prediction, but she's got a can of beer with her.

‘You're going to be off your head before the game ends. You won't be able to focus,' I say, sounding a lot like someone's mother.

Tara takes a long, deliberate sip of the VB and smiles, the foam glistening on her lips. ‘Yeah right,' she says, and turns away.

The players scatter and everyone takes their place for the second quarter. I'm glad we're ahead, but we have a long way to go. Mick started at full forward but he's been moved to the forward flank. Killer is playing there instead. Neither Mick nor Killer is doing anything special, but Mick often starts slowly, so there's time. He needs to do something in the second quarter or . . . No, there is no ‘or'. He just has to.

In the second quarter, the Falcons pick up. By half-time we've just about doubled the Warriors' score. By the end of the third quarter, we have a twenty-three-point lead which, in a grand final, is about as good as you can hope for without it being a total blow-out.

The sun is out in full spring force by the time the last quarter starts. I peel down to the bottom layer of my costume. I have the sleeves rolled up to try to let some cool air in under the cotton shirt, but I refuse to take it off because I don't have any Glenthorn colours underneath. My face is starting to burn and the morning's breakfast is rolling around in my stomach.

Tara scoffs the rest of Jim-Bob's champagne and moves onto Bear's cask riesling. Even the smell is enough to drive me to take deep, slow breaths to stop myself revisiting breakfast. I steal a look up at the Lovely Ladies to see Danny and Kimberly laughing like old friends. Tara has not looked back once but there's no way she hasn't seen them. Everyone else has.

Two minutes into the final quarter, Mick heads down the ground to full forward, and I watch Jury run off the ground and wrap himself up in a gold robe. ‘Tara! Tara! Look!' I yell, unable to stop the shriek in my voice. ‘This is it! Mick's going to seal it for us.'

Tara looks at me like she's seeing me for the first time. I don't like what I see there, me reflected in her face like that. I look away, turning my focus back to the footy. I need to keep my mind on the match, make sure it all goes to plan.

The pressure is definitely on the Warriors – we're twenty-one points up – but you wouldn't know it by the way they're playing. We look tired and, frighteningly, the Warriors don't. And then, as though something has ended, or perhaps it's just about to begin, the play shifts, and I'm watching the Warriors control the ball. It starts with a goal by Paul Weston and takes off from there. A snatch here, a tackle there, and before my eyes the mighty brown-and-gold is looking lost and overwhelmed.

In six minutes the Warriors have closed the gap by three goals, then they score again and are, for the first time all day, equal to our score. The cheersquad is quiet. Stunned. The cask of riesling that was being passed around has now stalled in Tara's hands.

‘Come on, Glenthorn!' David screams, and the rest of the cheersquad rouses.

The players look exhausted, but there are no more than ten minutes left in the match and we desperately need a goal.

Eventually, Blackie gets possession for the Falcons and sends a healthy pass towards Brendan O'Reilly, who takes an easy mark dead in front of goal. I watch Mick drop back as soon as O'Reilly lands and, although the Irishman isn't much more than forty metres out and something near a sure thing, Mick is jogging on the spot, preparing for a short kick. He's about thirty metres from me and the sun is bright, but I'm convinced I can see his expression – the concentrated frown, the narrow eyes focused on the ball and his opponent, and I feel a strange sadness go through me, a mixture of longing and loneliness. And then it's gone and it's all I can do to concentrate on breathing.

O'Reilly's kick is high and long and looks like going all the way through, except suddenly there are two brown-and-gold arms reaching for it, touching it, stopping it, and what was sure to be a clear six-point goal, is suddenly, unbelievably, a touched behind. One point, not six.

And now the Warriors get possession of the ball. Everyone just stands there for a minute like they aren't sure what they saw, then one Warriors player gives Mick, the owner of the brown-and-gold arms, an ironic clap and goes to lead his teammates back to position for the kick out.

For a long second, Mick looks like he's going to shrug it off. He stands there in silence, immobile, until another Warriors player passes by, nudging Mick with his elbow, pointing at the scoreboard with a wide, taunting grin.

Don't do it, Mick
. But he can't hear me and I see his arm rise even before his opponent does. I see it in his eyes, in the shift of his body, and then there's the crack of fist on cheek and the thud of the Warrior hitting the deck.

Players flock to the crumpled heap on the ground. For a second I think there's going to be an all-in brawl but Mick stands alone, his teammates running back to position when they see what's going to happen. The whistle blows. The umpire shouts. The crowd cries out in horror. The Warriors fans boo and then cheer as the umpire awards them a kick down the ground, setting up the play right in front of their goals.

Mick stays where he is, his face crumpled in anguish. His whole body is closed in on itself, and I think he might curl up on the ground and cry. But he doesn't move. He just stands absolutely still, staring at the goals like they're about to give him another chance. And then O'Reilly comes by him, says something in his ear and they both run to pick up their opponent.

The Warriors kick a goal. Then another. And within three minutes they're eleven points up. Mick is dragged off the ground, and the Warriors go on from there. One more goal and it's time-on, five minutes and they're four goals up. There's nothing we can do. Not me. Not the players. Certainly not Mick, a gold-robed, solitary figure on the bench. The sound of the final siren tears through me like a canon.

It's over. The Warriors have won.

I sit down. Shock and disappointment are thick in the air. The cheersquad is no longer chanting or cheering. No one speaks. Then Sharon starts to shriek as though she's been stabbed, and the people around me slowly come to life. ‘I can't believe it!'

‘What just happened?'

‘What the hell was Eddie thinking?'

I feel responsible, guilty. A couple of the cheersquad kids shoot me a disbelieving look as though to say, ‘And you
like
him?' Behind us, Red is sobbing.

Tara doesn't move, but her face is white and stiff like a mask, the smeared war paint like dried blood across her cheeks. ‘Fucking sandgroper,' she says finally. She doesn't look at me. She just sits there clutching the empty bladder from Bear's cask of riesling and stares at the devastated Glenthorn players, some of them tucked into a ball on the ground, others wandering dazedly or staring at the heavens, lost. Mick is off to the side, refusing to join the group.

After what seems like an hour, Tara turns to me. ‘It's all about fucking ego.' And even though I know she's talking about Mick, I suspect she's talking about me too and, as unfair as that seems, I can't think of a single thing to say in my defence.

 

 

I watch the ceremony, numb and disbelieving. Everyone drinks and drinks to take away the pain, but I'm so sick with disappointment that even the smell of champagne turns my stomach. I watch Paul Weston hold up the cup with their coach, Magic Jones, and I notice Mick sitting alone on the ground, his head and legs tucked in like he's trying not to take up space, the Glenthorn robe wrapped tightly around him even though it's thirty degrees. He doesn't move even when Stretch Davis taps his shoulder and waits beside him. Every part of me aches to watch this.

Midway through the third rendition of the Warriors' victory song, Tara stands up. ‘I'm going home,' she says.

‘I thought we were going to stay until the end of the ceremony?' It seems right, as much as it hurts.

‘Do what you like. I'm leaving.' But she doesn't leave. She just stands there, waiting.

‘I have to check on Mick.'

She stares at me in disbelief and then those hard eyes turn to stone, as though I've let her down, just as she knew I would.

‘I'll meet you at Fernlee Park,' I say, offering a compromise. ‘I won't be long.'

Tara looks away and shrugs. ‘Yeah, whatever.' I watch her fade into the crowd of Glenthorn fans, escaping the horror of the Warriors' victory speeches. And that song.

I needn't have bothered worrying about Mick. The Glenthorn dressing rooms are closed to visitors. Even the media aren't allowed in. At the door, Geoff's face is as stern and bitter as I've seen it, and he looks right past me, like he doesn't know who I am. There's no way I'm getting in.

I wait for the train to Fernlee Park and run into a few of the other cheersquad regulars. Red is miraculously silent when she sees me, while Bear and Danny are arguing about what might have happened
if only
. I don't hang around to listen. I don't want to relive it before I have to.

As I get on the train, I can hear Sharon shrieking all the way down Platform 9, so I hide behind a group of Warriors supporters, keeping my eyes down to avoid any victory taunting.

At Fernlee Park Station, I see Kimberly and Renee enter the toilets. I decide to change here rather than risk not getting into the social club dressed like I am. The Ladies have already shed their cheerleader costumes and are wearing tight jeans and midriff tops, their make-up thick and their hair brushed out. Although their clothes are similar, the effect is different for each of them. Kimberly looks like a movie star, or a TV star anyway, while Renee would have no trouble finding work on Fitzroy Street.

‘Bad luck, hey?' Renee doesn't look up from the mirror when I walk in. Her lipstick is smudged near the corner of her mouth and she's trying to rub it off.

‘Yeah,' I say, the pain still hovering somewhere nearby. It hasn't hit me yet, and though I know it's coming, I sure as hell am not going to reveal it to these two.

‘Should be a few broken hearts at the social club, I reckon,' Renee continues, turning to look at me. ‘Eddie probably not the least of them.'

I shrug, wetting a paper towel to wipe my face clean, faking cool. I retreat to the toilet cubicle to change. I don't even want to look at them, or anyone really, let alone chat.

‘Yeah, I reckon Eddie's the best bet for tonight,' Renee continues, her voice sailing smoothly over the top of the toilet door.

Kimberly mutters something I can't hear, then adds, ‘Not for me. He's history at the club anyway. Ask anyone.'

I yank my jeans on hard and pull my T-shirt roughly over my chest, grabbing my bag without looking back. I can barely open the stall door fast enough. ‘You're just bandwagon supporters!' I yell, like there isn't a greater insult. ‘It wasn't Mick's fault! We lost by
twenty-eight points
! Or are you too stupid to understand that?'

Renee and Kimberly stare at me. ‘What's up your bum?' Renee asks.

‘Why's everyone blaming Mick?' I rage.

‘Because he stuffed up,' Renee answers, shrugging. ‘And we lost. But hey, it's just a game.' And she turns back to the mirror, while Kimberly keeps watching me, like there's something she doesn't understand but wants to.

‘What's up with you and Eddie? I mean, are you together?' She's asking the question like she doesn't think it's possible.

I don't know if I'm more offended by the question or the fact that she thinks it could never happen. I'm offended by both, I decide. ‘You know he's married, right? With a wife?' I say. As if there's anyone else he'd be married to. ‘We're just friends,' I add weakly. ‘I don't want to hear any more shit about him leaving,' I say, this time without any hint of uncertainty. ‘He'll be at Glenthorn until the day he retires. He's meant to be. It's his home.' Then I storm out of the toilet block, only later realising I've left my Glenthorn scarf behind.

But it doesn't matter. I can't go back.

 

The social club is packed and the queue outside winds all the way down Leafy Crescent. I can't find Mick or anyone else to sign me in, and Tara hasn't shown up. I take my place in line, amazed at all the unfamiliar faces that have decided to show up at the club to commiserate our loss. I wonder how many more people would be here if we'd won.

My head feels thick and heavy and I can't get past the ache in my ribs, like someone has wedged something hard and sharp in there and left it behind to rot.

When Tara finally appears, I still haven't spotted Mick and my head is pounding all the way to my feet. She must have gone home like we'd planned, because her face is free of war paint.

‘You're late,' I say, not giving her a chance to speak.

She shoves into the line in front of me, ignoring the other members who tell her to go to the end. She's drunk and oblivious. Suddenly that seems to be the only way to get through this – for me too.

‘Did you bring anything to drink?' I ask.

She eyes me warily, then dives into her backpack and hands me an Island Cooler. ‘I've got one more each – you can pay me back inside.'

I open the bottle, taste the sweet bubbly wine and decide that it tastes way better than beer. I take a long swallow, and then another, the cold bubbles burning my dry throat. ‘Thanks,' I say.

The line begins to move and I scan the crowd for a familiar face. Mick must already be inside.

‘Where are the Ladies?' Tara asks. We move another step closer to the front door.

‘Kim and Renee were at the station,' I say, not adding that I'd basically told them to get lost. ‘We might need to ask Lisa. Or someone else,' I add, hoping Tara doesn't press it. I glance across the street and notice Mick's car pulling into the car park. I wait for him to cross the road before I call out. ‘Mick!'

He's already being mobbed by a sea of brown and gold, most of them kids, some of them telling him off for giving away the penalty, others trying to make him feel better. He doesn't look up, not for them or for me.

‘Mick! Can you help us?' I race towards him, hoping Tara is sober enough to hold our place in the queue. ‘Can you sign us in?' I ask, standing between him and the steps to the social club. ‘Mick?' I ask again, finally getting him to look up. He sees me, I know he does. But he doesn't stop or answer, he just walks steadily through the milling crowd, towards the social club doors, past the queue, past me, taking the steps in long strides and disappearing inside.

I stare after him, stunned.

‘Shelley!' I can hear Tara calling me but I can't move. I don't want to see the satisfaction on Tara's face.

Lisa appears beside me and takes my arm. ‘I'll get you two in if I can cut in line with you,' she says, already leading me back to Tara, knowing I'll say yes.

 

I'm still reeling when we approach the bar. The music is loud – probably to drown out our thoughts – and the crowd is drunk and roaring. There is a desperate intensity to it; a nasty edge that makes me nervous. Everyone's lost in those minutes where it all went wrong. Reliving it, over and over. No concern for tomorrow, or hopefulness about next time. They can't get past today. No one can. And every angry conversation ends at the point where Mick spoiled O'Reilly's shot and gave away a goal.

‘He might as well have kicked the bloody thing for them himself,' one drunken voice slurs.

‘Fucking has-been.'

Tara and I drink together for a while, not mentioning the game or talking much about anything. Lisa drifts in and out, forcing her way through the crowd long enough to order a drink beside us, exchange a word or two, then leave. It's only now that I realise how Bear hovers wherever Lisa is and how obvious it is that he likes her.

Meanwhile, I've moved from Island Coolers to mixed drinks. Tara orders us both a Fluffy Duck and then a Blue Lagoon, and then something with a name I can't pronounce or remember but is the colour of a burnt-orange sunset. I have two of these. Or three. Then I stop counting.

Things begin to blur rapidly. The music blares songs I hate and songs I love, all mixing and shifting into something I suspect I'll never forget, blending with this feeling of anxiety, loss and anger, forever connected to the pain. Time stands still, and then the DJ cuts in and the Glenthorn theme song fills the noisy club. A tired but determined chorus of voices rise, defiant in their refusal to remain quiet and, it seems, stay in tune. Someone shouts out that the players are coming, and the doors to the players' room open. Everyone's attention turns towards them as they emerge from the darkened room. They're drunk already. Or maybe it's me and not them. Either way, I can't see Mick and no one's asking where he is.

Some of the players mingle with the crowd, offering apologies and accepting condolences, while others hang back, mute and sullen. Everyone looks lost and angry. But also profoundly
hurt
.

‘I need air,' Tara rasps in my ear.

I'm about to follow her out to make sure she's okay, but then I see Mick and my feet are riveted to the spot. The doors to the players' room have been propped open and, through the gloomy light, I can see him leaning against the bar, standing alone, ignoring every offer by the other players for company and consolation.

I hesitate. Tara is already lost in the crowd. I almost follow her as I know I should, but then Mick looks at me – right at me – and there's nowhere else for me to go but to him.

The bouncer stops me at the door. ‘You need an invitation,' he says, but he isn't rough or rude. He seems almost apologetic.

I smile and nod, turning away to look for Tara.

‘Let her in.' I look back to see Mick talking to the bouncer, who nods and lets me through.

I'm nervous. I want to tell Mick I know what everyone is saying but that he shouldn't listen, it isn't true and that the pain will stop soon enough. Or not stop exactly, but shift and change, become something less powerful, something blunter and more even. More
predictable
. That's what I want to say, but I can tell he's in no mood to listen. So I go with the old favourite. ‘I'm sorry, Mick,' I say, wishing there were other words, an alternative to ‘sorry' that actually means something.