The Whole of My World (5 page)

There are a lot of 3s, a good number of 24s and four or five 17s. No one is wearing number 5. Killer, Mossy and Buddha are popular, but no one has bothered with Mick Edwards. He might have been a star in WA, but that counts for nothing once you cross the Nullarbor. Footy fans love a sure thing, and we had a great year last year, winning the premiership after five years without making a grand final. There's every reason to be confident of winning again this year.

All except one: we've never done it before. We've never even played in grand finals back-to-back, let alone won them.

We need a star full forward. Someone like Peter Hudson, or even someone
half
as good as him. Dad says they broke the mould after Huddo retired. But Mick Edwards has something special too – an edge that could make the difference. If he doesn't step up, I don't see how we can go all the way.

For an hour and a half the players run laps, perform drills, polish their kicking and practise short plays, grunting and calling out in the quiet Glenthorn night. Their bodies flash across the ground, slick and smooth, gliding more than running. I can't believe these men are made of muscle and sweat just like everyone else. Their shadows fly under the lights and, even though I know they're tough and athletic, to me they look more like dancers than anything else. And the game is a ballet.

Every now and then a train passes by on its way to Yarra Valley and I keep thinking,
How can they go past like that and not get out to watch?
To miss out on all this just so they can go home to their boring lives to watch the boring telly. Who wouldn't love this? Who wouldn't want to join them? Right now I feel like the luckiest person on earth.

Tara and I head up to the press box, which, she seems surprised to discover, is empty. ‘I usually have to fight the rest of the cheersquad,' she says. I glance down at the others who are all clustered on the boundary. I pick out Bono Boy, who is leaning against the cyclone fence, a boom box on his shoulder, U2 pumping at full bore. Red is on one side, and beside her is a bloke the size of a small house, with more tattoos than I've ever seen on one person.

Tara and I take a seat on a bench and watch the amazing scene below.

‘There used to be games here,' Tara says after a while. Her face is calm, her whole body seems relaxed – different to the Tara I've come to know.

‘Let me guess: the press sat here.'

She grins sideways at me, a real smile that changes the whole shape of her face. ‘I hardly ever get to sit here alone.'

‘You're not alone,' I laugh.

She shakes her head. ‘No.' But she doesn't seem to mind.

More and more people shuffle into the ground during the training session until there's a crowd of about two hundred, all yelling out to the players, the coach – whoever will listen – making suggestions, offering encouragement and generally just being here. Being part of it.

When it's over, the players head back up the race, their boots clicking on the cement, their voices joining with the rising chorus of encouragement that swallows them as they disappear into the gym. It's electric. The whole place is buzzing.

‘Let's go inside,' Tara says. She opens the door to the stadium and leads me down a winding set of stairs.

‘I thought we weren't allowed in the gym.'

She doesn't turn around to answer. ‘After training
everyone
goes in,' she shoots over her shoulder in exasperation. ‘The players are all in a meeting anyway.'

I follow her through the standing-room area and up the race and find myself inside the gym, the air thick with eucalyptus and liniment. The crowd is made up mostly of men but there are some women and kids too, all standing around drinking beer or Coke and eating sausages in bread. The barbecue penetrates all the chemicals so that soon it's all I can smell. The effect is mouth-watering. I'm starving.

‘Can we get some food?'

‘The barbie's in the trainers' room. You have to be invited, or someone can get one for you.'

‘Like who?'

‘A trainer, an official or a player.'

‘Oh.' My stomach growls like something feral. ‘What do we do now?'

Tara shrugs. ‘Wait. The players will come out again. Usually, they announce the team.'

‘Aren't you hungry?'

‘Yeah. Wanna go to Greasy Joe's?'

‘What if we miss the players?'

Tara looks around. One or two of the under 19s have already surfaced. ‘Well . . .'

‘Maybe someone will get us a sausage?' The barbecue is in full swing, and people everywhere seem to be eating.

‘I s'pose we can see.'

We hover near the entrance to the trainers' room, watching men wander in and out, some with glasses of beer, others taking great hunks out of a sausage. After a while a few more players show up. One by one they appear from the dressing-room hallway, the younger reserves players first, then the senior players. Some of them slip into the trainers' room, disappearing into the cloud of barbecue smoke, standing shoulder to shoulder with trainers and spectators – all of them men. Some smile at us as they go by. The other cheersquad kids join us, and most of them have something to say to the players.

Mick Edwards appears after a while, his limp almost gone, his step somehow lighter.

‘You in?' Red asks him as he approaches the trainers' room.

‘Think so. Have to pass a fitness test on Saturday.'

I'm standing behind Tara, trying not to be too obvious but also hoping he will speak to me again.

As if he's read my mind, he looks up, smiles at me and winks. ‘You must have brought me luck, Shelley. God knows I need it right now.'

This player is talking to me like I'm the only person in the room, and I feel myself grow taller, bigger,
better
just listening to him.

‘Thanks for waiting,' he continues, swinging his bag over his shoulder, straightening to his full height, towering over me. ‘You were right, by the way, about the free kick. I watched the tape inside. I ducked into it – it was all me.' He nods, impressed, and pats my arm. ‘You've got a good eye.'

I can't believe Eddie – no,
Mick
– has picked me out of the crowd like this. I wish I'd changed out of my school uniform before I got here. It's so square and bland. So . . .
forgettable
. He'll never remember me next time. ‘Um, thanks.'

‘Hungry?' he asks, pausing at the entrance to the trainers' room.

I nod. He winks again then disappears inside the smoky room, returning a few minutes later with a steaming hot snag and a glass of Coke.

‘Shhh. Don't tell anyone,' he says, although there isn't a single person nearby who isn't staring at me.

I smile, croak a thankyou and take the food and drink.

‘Gotta go, guys!' he says to the group, giving us a small wave as he hoists his training bag on his back and pulls out a set of keys. Then he stops and swings his gaze right back to me. ‘You live round here?'

‘Um, no, not really. I catch the train from Stonnington.'

‘I live near the station. Need a lift?'

I can feel Tara glaring at me. But this is a player –
a footballer
– offering to drive me home. Of course I'll go. I'd follow him to the moon if he asked me.

‘I thought we were going to Greasy Joe's,' Tara says, her voice flat.

I stare at the food in my hand, look back at Tara, then smile sheepishly. ‘You can have this,' I say, handing her the sausage and drink – the only consolation I can think of. Then I follow Mick out into the car park.

A streetlamp lights the way as we head towards his shiny blue Holden. It's a long way from the best car there but it's not the worst either. Dad says Mick would have been paid more to come a couple of years back, before his knee problem. More of a risk now – so late in his career. Still, it's a pretty nice car. Nicer than ours, anyway.

‘Hey, I didn't get you into any trouble, did I?' Mick unlocks his car and yanks it open, the sudden noise sharp against the quiet night.

No one else is around and I begin to feel nervous. Not afraid, just uncertain. It doesn't seem real.

‘Sorry if I caught you off guard. I thought, since you're new here too . . . that you're kind of a kindred spirit.'

And I know instantly that there's nothing to worry about – something in his eyes, how direct and clear they look. Honest. His eyes are
honest
. I suddenly feel very grown up, very
together
as I wait for him to open my door.

‘They'll be okay,' I say, ducking into the front passenger seat. ‘Actually, I barely know them.' But even as I say this, I know I've crossed a line with Tara without planning to. I don't know if I'll be welcomed back, but right now I don't care.

The Fernlee Park Road lights roll over us in waves as Mick's car moves in front of a labouring tram. The clattering racket fills the silence between us, trampling over the hum of Mick's Holden. I want to ask him why he picked me. Why I mattered more than the others. I long to ask him what it was that allowed me, in my square grey school uniform, to stand out from the other kids. Was it a moment I should treasure in case it never happens again? Or is it, as I hope, the beginning of something new and real? ‘What's it like in WA?' I say instead.

Mick glances at me as though he forgot I was there. But there's an odd smile on his face that seems to look right into me. Maybe that's where his head was already – back home, on the other side of the country.

‘Beautiful,' he says simply. ‘Beautiful. Especially the beach.'

I nod, as though I have an idea what a Western Australian beach looks like.

‘You ever been out there?' he asks, half watching the road, half turned towards me.

I want to be able to say yes, and a part of me is tempted to lie. But I can feel the heat in my throat moving up to my cheeks, guaranteeing that I won't get away with it. Even in the dim car, brightened irregularly by passing streetlights. I shake my head and shrug, covering my embarrassment as best I can. ‘I've never been out of Victoria.'

He doesn't laugh or act surprised. ‘You should go.'

And at that moment I know I will. ‘Are the beaches different to here? Sorrento? Portsea?' I try to think of all the beaches my parents used to take us to – Anglesea, Torquay; even Port Fairy once, although I can hardly remember it. There were photos, of course. A lot of them. But they disappeared when Dad drew his line.

‘No comparison. The sand is white and clean, fine as sugar. And the waves are different. I can't explain it, but the way they tumble, clear and smooth, the colour of the water . . . Maybe it's the sky. Or the weather.' Mick's looking at me, his eyes as big as saucers. He fixes his gaze on the road again, carefully navigating the dribble of post-peak-hour traffic. ‘No comparison,' he says after a minute, his voice unexpectedly hard.

As we approach Stonnington Station, the crossing alarm starts up and the lights flash with a grating urgency. Although we're safely outside them, and Mick has no trouble pulling over, something about their harsh ringing, the blinding red of the bulbs, pressures me to get away fast, as though the dark night outside is the only safe place to be.

I get out and lean into the car. ‘Thanks for the ride,' I say. Still, the pressure, the ringing and flashing, the thunder of the approaching citybound train headed in the opposite direction to home . . . Why is it so hard to breathe?
What if this never happens again?
I smile at Mick. What if next time he doesn't recognise me or separate me from all the schoolgirls who make the trek up Leafy Crescent every week?

‘It was good to meet you, Shelley,' he says in answer to my silent doubts, his voice enclosing my name like a perfectly fitting glove.

‘Good luck on Saturday.' I offer a weird little wave that I wish I could take back, but stand there stiffly instead.

‘Will I see you next week?' He seems to really want to know. My heart lurches in my chest at this possibility.

I clear my throat and brave a smile. I was planning to come anyway, but nothing will stop me now. ‘Yes,' I say. And just in case he didn't hear me, I say it again, only louder. ‘
Yes
.'

 

 

At school, Tara has been sulking all morning.

I make multiple attempts to get her to talk. I start with a couple of questions about the other cheersquadders – ‘So the redhead is
how
old?' and ‘Which one knows all the stats?' – but all I get are one-word answers and the cool, even stare that I was introduced to the first day we met. But by lunchtime, the push and shove of the schoolyard forces us to find shelter in a quiet corner, out of everyone's way. And slowly, slowly, the ice begins to melt.

‘Do you think Mossy will play this week?' I ask, encouraged by the fact that Tara's last reply had come in the form of three words, not one.

She shakes her head. ‘I hope not. Better he get right than risk another injury.'

I nod, opening my sandwich and pulling out the cheese.

‘Can I have that?' Tara asks. We're leaning against the red-brick wall of the Art Room, our feet stretched out in front of us, our lunch boxes propped on our knees.

‘Knock yourself out,' I say, and watch her slot the cheese into her Vegemite sandwich. ‘Seriously?'

She nods vigorously, her mouth too full to answer. ‘Bloody good.'

I shrug, relieved she's over her dark mood. I want to ask her about Mick – what he likes and doesn't like. The stuff I'll never find out on a footy card or even in her amazing autograph book. ‘I hope Mick doesn't end up like Mossy,' I say, testing the waters before plunging in, realising too late that I might be mozzing Mick just by mentioning it.

Tara shrugs. ‘Yeah.'

Not the encouragement I was hoping for but, as Dad always says, there's no challenge in taking the easy ball.
Real
champions want the hard ball. ‘He seems really nice,' I add, watching her chewing mouth to measure the effect my words are having.

Silence.

I take a deep breath and am about to start again when she swallows her mouthful, turns those hard blue eyes on me and says, ‘He's not your friend, you know.'

‘I know that. I didn't say he was my friend. He just seems nice.'

‘They're not like us. None of them are.'

‘I was talking about Mick, no one else.'

‘I know what you were talking about,' Tara snaps. And then she shrugs, as though the whole conversation is beneath her, and asks if I'm going to eat my apple.

 

I wake early on Thursday morning, intending to catch the 7.08. I don't know why I bother. It's not like arriving at school earlier means the day will end sooner, but somehow it feels like it might.

Even in the dim, autumn light I can see Josh leaning against the waiting-room entrance on Platform 1, his messy hair and huge grin standing out against the dull, tired-looking businessmen and women around him.

‘What are you doing here? Forget where your school is?' I ask, dumping my bag on the ground beside him.

He pretends to kick my bag, an exaggerated running kick like you'd see on a rugby field.

‘Loser,' I say.

He laughs, stopping mid-air, then carefully straightens my bag like it's something precious. ‘There, there,' he says, patting it.

I shake my head. ‘No school today?' He's wearing jeans and a Billy Idol T-shirt with a black windcheater tied around his waist. It's freezing but Josh doesn't feel the cold like normal people. I tug at my blazer, pulling the collar high on my neck.

‘Half day,' he says, not really answering my question. Half day or not, Glenvalley High is one block from the station. He doesn't catch the train to school. He walks. ‘You're early, even for you.'

It's a Brown thing – to be on time or, actually, to be early. ‘On time' is ten minutes early in my household. ‘Big day,' I say. ‘Going to Fernlee Park tonight.'

‘Again? You moving in there?'

I shrug, bothered by his smirk even though I was expecting it. ‘Tara asked me. She's my friend.' I say it like this is about her and not about me. ‘That's what friends do. They do stuff together. All kinds of stuff . . .' I'm waffling and we both know it.

‘Okay then,' Josh says, lifting his hands in mock surrender.

I can see the train from Mountvalley snaking its way around the bend towards us. Glenvalley is a terminus, which means that even when the train arrives we have to wait for the passengers to unload before it heads back into the city.

‘Did you see Mossy?' He's pretending not to care but I know, even though he's an Eastern supporter, he loves Peter Moss. Josh thinks he plays like Mossy – high leaping grabs, kicking goals that defy physics, and that wild, scraggy hair that makes him look like a TV star.

‘Nah, he's still out. But I met Killer, Blackie, Buddha . . .' I trail off, saving the best till last. ‘Mick Edwards said I had a good eye.'

‘Edwards? The sandgroper has-been?'

I bristle, despite knowing that Josh is only stirring. ‘He's a star!' I snap. ‘Better than Tinker and Fly put together!' The boys always used to wind me up like this when we were little, and it always worked. ‘Dad says he's got the goods too,' I add.

Josh's eyes sparkle, and he nods,
fair enough
. No one argues with my dad's footy genius, not even up-himself Josh McGuire.

‘See his goal in the second half?' I continue, pleased that he seems to be listening. ‘Sheer brilliance.' It feels great to talk about Mick like this, free to gush and glow without having to be careful or in control.

‘Nah, went to watch the under 19s at Glenvalley.'

‘Did you get a game?' The senior coaches have let Josh play a few times – sometimes the junior stars are asked to fill in above grade when the older boys are injured. We used to all go and watch, too, lining the boundary to cheer them on, screaming like lunatics if our boys got anywhere near the ball. They didn't have to blitz – just making it into the action was impressive, given that the opposition and some of their teammates were twice their size.

‘Not this time. But Brent is out – could be for the season. Sucks, but it means they'll probably need me again.'

‘Poor Brent.' I step back a bit as I realise that Josh has grown a lot, even just this year. I study his face, the strong jaw and the protruding Adam's apple I hadn't noticed before. I can see, I think, what he'll look like as an adult. It's there – under all the smirking and pranks – the Josh of the future. Josh as a man.

‘Anyway,' I say, hating the catch in my voice at this image, ‘you should watch Mick's goal. It's an absolute beauty.' I manage a cool smile, hoping he swallows it. ‘You could learn something.'

He snorts. ‘Yeah right.'

The train shunts noisily, the hiss and grunt of the brakes drown out the Vic Rail announcer. We both watch it for a moment, the crowd on the station gathering and shifting as one towards it. I glance at my watch. A couple more minutes.

‘Did you want to go for a run after school?' he asks, eyes still on the train. ‘Next week some time?'

‘I s'pose. When?'

‘Wednesday or Thursday?' He shrugs like it doesn't matter but he's being weird, looking everywhere but at me.

‘Thursdays are training nights. Wednesday?'

‘You're going to Fernlee Park
every week
?' His eyes are narrow, but the smile remains. It's possible he thinks I'm avoiding him.

‘Not
every
week,' I say, although I'd like to. I'm also going on Tuesday night but if I tell him that, he'll definitely arc up. Tara says the players have more time on Tuesdays – there aren't as many of them because it's not compulsory, but training finishes early so the players often hang around afterwards. But Josh won't understand. He just doesn't get it.

‘Made some friends, huh?' he says.

I shrug. ‘A few. I already told you.'

The train doors open and the station attendant announces that it's stopping all stations to Flinders Street.

‘I have to go,' I say, heaving my swollen bag onto my shoulder.

‘It's bigger than you.' Josh smiles, lifting the bag higher on my shoulder. His hand brushes against my neck in the process, and the heat rushes to my cheeks.

He grins, enjoying my embarrassment.

‘Careful,
Joshie
,' I snap, desperate to put some space between us to catch my breath, my voice sounding harsher than intended. ‘Don't want you to break a nail.'

He blows me a kiss, which – annoyingly – makes me blush even deeper. I stick out my tongue before I can stop myself, and just in case this isn't embarrassing enough, my blazer catches on the train door handle, yanking me back from a quick getaway.
Don't look back!
I tell myself.
Don't look
. . .

I look back. Josh is, as I feared, grinning stupidly. I'm tempted to yell something brilliant until I see a cluster of St Mary's girls zoning in on us, Ginnie Perkins' perfect blonde ponytail bobbing away dead centre, and I shut the door, praying they don't get on.

 

Despite my encounter with Josh, the buzz has returned by 3.30 and I feel like I've been floating all the way down Fernlee Park Road. Even Tara's moodiness seems to have lifted.

A few of the other kids nod at me when I arrive, which feels weirdly nice. I recognise only a couple of them, including Red, her quiet pride at knowing everything before anyone else securing her spot up the front. And a kid everyone calls ‘Jim-Bob' because he looks like the boy from
The Waltons
– the mopey one who's obsessed with planes.

‘Nice book,' Red says as I open my brand-new autograph book, flattening the pages for the first autograph. The cover is chocolate brown, and the new modern-looking Falcon emblem is large and bold on the front.

‘Thanks,' I say, feeling ridiculously pleased.

‘Eddie did well,' Jim-Bob says to the crowd, but it feels like he's talking to me.

‘Yeah,' I say, pride swelling in my chest. It's starting to feel a bit like I'm meant to be here. But when Mick's car pulls into the Fernlee Park car park, a lump lodges in my throat. None of this cheersquad stuff will mean anything if Mick doesn't care. Will he even remember me? Will he offer to drive me again?

‘Thinks he's so hot in that ridiculous car.' Tara's voice is sharp like a dagger. She might have forgiven me, but she hasn't forgiven Mick for whatever she thinks he's done. I find myself torn between wanting him to talk to me and my dread of Tara seeing it.

The car door slams and Mick crosses the empty car park. He greets us all as a group, then the requests for autographs and photos start up. I join in with equal excitement.

Tara hangs back until the crowd has thinned. When her turn comes, she thrusts her autograph book at Mick, half watching him, half turned away, as though she's doing him a favour and not the other way around. He signs it, hardly noticing. And then it's my turn. I stand my ground, fighting the urge to push past the other kids. I hold out my shiny new official Glenthorn autograph book, its pages stiff and barely touched. The plastic cover had cracked when I opened it for Killer, who came through earlier. I'd turned it to the third page for him and watched him scrawl his signature with barely a glance my way. Kanga and Blackie arrived after him, signing their names on the pages following. I've saved the first page for Mick. I open it to face him, its surface flat and clean and new. He takes my book without looking up and the beginnings of panic tighten my chest. He doesn't remember.