Micah Johnson Goes West

by Sean Kennedy

  “Even Emma has one.” Alex was looking up at him with unmistakable pride. “But she says she drew a Hitler moustache on it.”

  That would be right. Micah laughed, and it helped the tears that were threatening to fall to evaporate instead.

  Alex handed him a sharpie.

  “What’s that for? To draw a Hitler moustache? Or do you want me to add glasses and some pimples?”

  “No, I want you to sign it, dummy.”

  It was so dusty in here. Micah sniffed, uncapped the pen, and scrawled his signature across his guernsey. He stood back to inspect his handiwork.

  Alex was unimpressed. “If people want your autograph, you should at least try to make it look like your name.”

  He was right. Was Micah going to have to practice signing things? It looked more like “Meerah Jacksam” than Micah Johnson.

  “I guess it will have to do,” Alex sighed.

  “It’s very hard to sign a poster that’s hanging on a wall,” Micah said in his defence.

  “Wait until you get some girl wanting her boobs signed.”

  “Alex!” It wasn’t very often his little brother got to shock him, and he was now dissolving into a mess of giggles. “I doubt girls would want their boobs signed by the gay guy.”

  “Okay, then, it will be hard to write on men’s hairy chests. Or their hairy butts.”

  Alex was obviously on a roll.

  “Can I go back to bed now?” Micah asked.

  “Sure.” Alex took his pen back and stared at the poster. “Misha Jamsock.”

  He was giggling again as Micah shut the door behind him.

  Chapter 6

  MICAH COULDN’T help but stare, openmouthed, as he took in the expanse of the MCG from what was practically a worms’ eye view. Even in all the times he had been a spectator, he had never been close to the ground. Now he was out in the middle of the field, and all he wanted to do was lie on his back, his arms spread out, feeling the grass between his fingers.

  “So how does it feel to be home?” Sam asked, biting back a smile at Micah’s awe-struck appearance.

  “Like the prodigal son.”

  “Heads up!” Daril kicked a ball towards him, and Micah had to dive to catch it. “Pay attention, Johnson!”

  “Give him a break,” Sam said. “He’s happy.”

  “I want to eat my weight in pineapple donuts,” Micah said, punting the football towards him.

  “They are pretty good,” Sam admitted, “but it would seriously hamper your career if you did that.”

  “They’re so good I might just risk it.”

  Sam laughed. “I feel that way about Tim Tams. That’s why I can only have them in the house occasionally. And if Maia needs a fix she goes out and buys the individual packs and eats them in the car. I can smell them on her breath when she gets home, though. It drives me crazy.”

  Micah had a vision of Sam ravenously attacking Maia and sucking her breath out of her mouth to try and get any remnants of Tim Tams left there. It was a disturbing thought.

  “Can we stop talking about food?” Daril moaned. “I just want some barbecue Samboys now.”

  Talking about off-limit foods always did this to them, and they would start acting like they were stranded on a desert island and dreaming about foods they could eat again when they returned to civilisation (or, in their world, on the off season when they could indulge a little more).

  “I’ll make a deal with you, Micah,” Sam said.

  “Yeah, what?”

  “If we win this weekend, I will buy you, and let you eat, a pineapple donut.”

  “You’re on.”

  “And if you kick a goal, I’ll give you two.”

  “What if he kicks two goals?” Daril asked.

  “I’ll find him a boyfriend.”

  “I’d rather have the donut,” Micah said, in the face of their gentle laughter.

  He wasn’t going to tell them he was already trying to remedy the boyfriend situation.

  JUST AS he got back to his parents’, his mobile buzzed.

  Home again. So good to see Melbourne. Kyle’s overuse of emoticons was hilarious, and on a par with a twelve year-old’s.

  I had that feeling too when I got off the plane.

  Like you don’t want to go back?

  Micah sighed to himself. You know it.

  Sometimes I wish I could just go back to last year, when everything was good and nothing had changed.

  Micah’s heart began beating way too fast. Was Kyle hinting at more? Micah could list a thousand reasons why they couldn’t, and he didn’t even know how they could make it work, but he would be lying to himself if he denied he wouldn’t get back with Kyle in a shot. I wish that too.

  Maybe he had pushed it too far. Kyle didn’t respond again that night.

  MICAH BARELY got any sleep, stressing about the text he had sent and had obviously not been received very well, but as he was eating breakfast the next morning he got a response.

  Sorry. After seeing the olds and having dinner I crashed like the dead. Good luck today. Speak soon.

  As it was obviously Kyle’s preferred choice of communication, Micah sent him the dancing girl emoticon. He knew it made no sense, but let out a loud guffaw as Kyle texted back the face that was crying with laughter.

  His mum gave him a strange look across the table, but didn’t ask for information. He was starting to think she knew. Or at least knew something was happening. To escape any upcoming interrogation he bolted down the rest of his Weet-Bix and ran out the door.

  HE MET up with the rest of the boys at their hotel, and partook in a second breakfast as Weet-Bix alone just wasn’t cutting it anymore. The amount of training and calories he burnt meant he was eating more and craving more. Under the watchful eyes of their coaches and nutritionists, however, the boys were sensible and stuck to wholegrain toast and eggs rather than the drool-inducing Belgian waffles that were being spooned onto the grill by the chef right near their table. Micah fantasised about a plate of them, heaped with strawberries and Devon cream. The cream was beginning to melt and spill over the sides of the waffles, creating a scrumptious pool for them to drown in….

  “You okay?” Daril asked, poking aside the mountain of scrambled eggs that were obscuring his toast.

  “What?” Micah snapped out of his reverie. Was he actually becoming horny for food?

  “You looked like you were far away. Fantasising about a crush, obviously.”

  “Piss off.”

  “Come on, who is it?”

  “It’s not.”

  “Is it one of us?” Daril looked devilish with glee. “It is!”

  “No!”

  “It’s the Cap, right? I mean, if I was to turn, I’d probably go for the Cap too.”

  Micah wanted to crawl under the table. He hoped nobody else had heard over the hubbub of the dining room. “Not every gay guy is obsessed with sex, you know!” (Did his Grindr account beg to differ? He didn’t know.)

  Daril wrinkled his nose. “Who said anything about gay guys? I was talking about guys in general.”

  “So who are you crushing on?”

  “We were talking about you,” Daril fired back.

  Micah sighed. “Look, if you must know….”

  Daril leaned in.

  “I was thinking about waffles.”

  Daril leaned back.

  “You don’t believe me,” Micah said.

  Daril shook his head. “Oh, I can see by the look on your face that you’re telling the truth.”

  “Just look at them, man. They’re over there, waiting to be covered in strawberries and that cream. When was the last time you had cream?”

  Daril didn’t answer. He was staring at the waffles in a trance, the tip of his tongue poking out the side of his mouth in some Pavlovian dog’s response.

  “Now you see why I’m in love.”

  His teammate finally snapped out of his daze and stared dejectedly at his eggs. “I want a waffle.”

&nb
sp; “Welcome to my world,” Micah said.

  BUT WAFFLES were nothing compared to the feeling of running out onto the sacred grass of the MCG for his very first AFL game. Looking back, he could really only remember impressions rather than actual moments. Mainly because it was all over so quickly, but also because he felt overwhelmed. Following the team through the players’ race, which led from the change rooms onto the field, Micah felt like he was moving through treacle. He was drowning in it—even the sound of the crowd was muffled, and when Sam said something to him just before the light of day hit them, he couldn’t make it out.

  Then his eyes adjusted, and he felt the concrete beneath his feet turn into grass. The roar of the crowd became clear, and Micah was so confused by it he almost ran in the opposite direction to the rest of the Dockers. Feeling foolish, he got back on track and ran under the team banner, catching up with everybody else on the other side.

  “How are you feeling?” one of the guys asked him.

  Micah couldn’t even tell who it was. “Yeah. Cool.”

  That produced a snort. “Yeah. You look it.”

  “You’ll be fine, rookie,” another voice said. “Just don’t puke.”

  Micah wished he could make out who was saying what. He knew he had to focus. He was losing it. And he couldn’t do that—not on his very first game, especially if he didn’t want it to be his last game too.

  The two teams lined up in the centre of the oval, and the national anthem started playing. Micah mouthed the words, not trusting himself to be capable of sound. Someone near him was raucously off-key, and their voice cracked on the words “girt by sea.” Instead he focused on the opposition, standing directly in front of him. And the guy directly across from him was huge—as if Hagrid from Harry Potter and the 50 Foot Woman from the fifties horror film had produced a love child whose sole desire was to play Australian football.

  Suddenly feeling all of his eighteen, almost nineteen, years, Micah Johnson was a baby among giants. What the hell was he doing here? He was going to be crushed.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the completion of “Advance Australia Fair,” and the two captains making their way to the coin toss. Fremantle won, and their captain chose the northern end to kick to. There was one last team huddle, and Micah knew he should have been paying attention to what their captain was saying, but he couldn’t concentrate. He was already sweating, believing that he shouldn’t be there. He was out of his element.

  But when the siren sounded everything shifted into clear focus. Sound returned to its normal levels, no longer muffled; even his eyesight became crystal and finely attuned. He was alert, he was pumped, and he was ready to prove himself.

  “You ready?” Sam asked as they ran to their positions.

  “Hell yeah,” Micah said, and they did the customary hand slap. Sam added the butt slap for good measure.

  Cheeky, Micah thought, and it was the last free thought he had for the first quarter.

  HE WAS taken off for the second quarter, and Micah couldn’t blame the coaching team. He had barely seen any action, and when the ball had managed to come his way once, it slipped from beneath his fingers and bounded off in the opposite direction to him and into another player’s hands. It was gone before he could even contemplate his next move.

  “We’re just resting you,” Nate said. “It’s not for the whole game.”

  Micah hoped that was true. If that was the only play he’d get in his first game, it was hardly a salubrious debut. It would have to be quickly glossed over in his autobiography, if he had enough of a career to justify one. Right at this moment it didn’t seem likely.

  By halftime they were nineteen points down. Sam came off the field, wincing slightly.

  “I think I’ve turned my ankle,” he told one of the medical staff. They instantly swarmed over him as if he were a Formula 1 car careening into a pit stop. His boot was unlaced and pulled off in a fraction of the time Sam would have done so. Micah peered over the shoulders of the medics, and grimaced at the puffiness of Sam’s ankle.

  “I can still play, right?” Sam asked. “Just strap it up, she’ll be right.”

  By now the coach was over, watching his player with an eagle eye. Micah knew they wouldn’t risk putting Sam back in if there was the possibility he could do any further damage to it.

  “Well, what’s the verdict?” the coach demanded.

  “We can strap it up. But we’ll monitor it. Bring him off every ten minutes.”

  “Nah, you don’t have to do that!” Sam protested. “I’ll be fine!”

  “Do you still want to play next week?”

  Sam wilted under the coach’s “this is serious, don’t fuck with me” face.

  “Good. Johnson, you’ll alternate with Mitchell.”

  Micah tried to not look so ecstatic. After all, he was getting back on because Sam wasn’t playing at full capacity.

  “It’s okay,” Sam groaned as the tape started to tighten his foot and support it. “You can celebrate. I would, if I was you.”

  His nerves disrupted again, Micah stared out onto the ground and waited for the half-time siren to sound.

  THIS TIME, when the ball flew towards him, Micah was ready. He leapt into the air, and successfully took a mark. The ball was now his to dispose of. He looked around for a teammate who was closer to the goal, but the only one was Ryan, and he had two Collingwood players flanking him. It would be nearly impossible for him to get a clear shot at the ball, and they couldn’t risk it falling into enemy hands yet again.

  And then he heard it. Some bright spark yelling out from their seat, obviously close to the front for him to even be able to hear it, “Just kick it, you pansy!”

  It could have gone either way. Micah could have felt all will leave him, and fumbled the ball.

  But righteous anger took over instead. It always seemed the way for him. He did things not for himself, but to prove others wrong or for somebody else. It was never really for him, even though he benefited from it. He had come to the conclusion that as long as it was done, did it really matter why he did it?

  A short run, the dropping of the ball, and the satisfying thud as it connected with his boot. He was still running as it flew into the air, and as he slowed he watched it soar into the centre goal (although a little bit to the left).

  His first goal.

  That sense of being underwater came back to him again as he was swooped upon by his teammates. He could hear the dull roar of the crowd, and dizziness struck as he realised he was off his feet, being swung around by the rest of the guys in congratulations. He caught a quick blur of Daril’s glee in his fellow rookie now being on the board, and Sam standing on the edge of the field whistling with his fingers in his mouth. As soon as Micah’s feet hit the ground all sensation returned, and the team dispersed for the return of the ball into play. It was all business again.

  But the fear had been broken. He was a true AFL player now.

  He turned back towards where the sledge had come from. There was no way he could tell, or even hazard a guess, who the culprit was, but Micah grinned broadly and raised his arms in the air in victory.

  “This pansy just scored!” he yelled. He didn’t know if they could actually hear him, but they would know by his stance that he felt as if he had just proved a point.

  But he couldn’t dwell on it. As the ball came his way again, Micah sprang into action.

  IT WAS his only goal of the night, but it still felt as if he had kicked ten. All he wanted was to get that barrier behind him, and he was happy he had achieved it. The fact they won was the icing on the cake. Standing in the centre of his team as they sang the club song, Micah was a Cheshire cat as they doused him in sports drink and gave him the true welcome to the big leagues.

  Afterwards, as TV camera crews mulled around getting interviews, Micah was approached by Nate. All he wanted to do was get into the showers. Sports drinks turned sticky pretty quickly, and as they had mostly been raspberry he looked like Carrie
at the prom.

  “Can I talk to you for a sec?”

  That didn’t at all sound foreboding.

  “What’s up?” Micah asked as they found a quiet corner.

  “You had some kind of trouble on the field?”

  “What?” Micah rewound the game, play by play, in his head. “Not really.”

  “It’s already on social media.”

  Had Micah received a knock to his head, or something? He couldn’t remember any tussles on the field where he might have inadvertently injured someone.

  “You had an altercation with the crowd?”

  It all became clear. “Oh, that? Some guy called me a pansy, and when I kicked my goal I just yelled back at him.”

  “He called you a what?” Nate was aghast.

  “A pansy.”

  “That’s not on!” Nate spluttered.

  Micah would have almost laughed, if he hadn’t seen how seriously Nate was taking it. The truth was, he had almost entirely forgotten the whole thing happened. That was how little it had really mattered to him, at least in the afterglow of playing in his first (and winning) game and actually kicking a goal in it. “It’s nothing. Just a bit of sledging. And I gave back as good as I got.”

  “I’m going to have to go and tell the others.”

  “No, don’t!” Micah grabbed his arm before he escaped. “I don’t want a big deal made out of this. Especially for the other guys to find out. I don’t want them to think I can’t handle this.”

  But he could tell by the set of Nate’s mouth that he hadn’t swayed him. “I’m sorry, Micah. But this is really serious, and it needs to be reported. We can’t be seen as being too lenient on this issue. Especially as you’re the first—well, you know….”

  “Gay?” Micah said bluntly.

  “Well, Declan Tyler got there before you. But you’re currently the only one who’s out, and we have to protect you.”

  “But I don’t need protecting.”

  “I’m sure you don’t. But I have to report it anyway.”