by Simon French
“Well,” Buckley continued, “since you’ve chosen to discuss my son’s possible shortcomings in front of others, Mr Fuller, I might just take this opportunity to vent a few of my opinions of you as well.”
Over at the boundary fence the assembled parents, who had been muttering amongst themselves, stopped to listen.
“Firstly,” Buckley continued, “I think your coaching tactics stink.”
Fuller looked mildly amused. “Continue, Mr Huon.”
“I don’t like the tactics you’re teaching these kids. Telling them how to kick the hell out of the other team isn’t sport. Neither is it safe. I think you could do well to–”
“Mr Huon,” Fuller interrupted, “I’m training sportsmen here, not pansies. I don’t know much about your son, but my team likes to be driven. I teach them aggression because they need it to win.”
“The will to win is one thing. I played league myself once. But aggression in the sense of trying to maim your opponents …”
“That might be how it appears to you, Mr Huon. You’re a stranger in this town. But I’ve got a team here that has won every game they’ve played two years running. They’ve been playing as a team for four years and I intend to keep them on their winning path. When your son joined, I told him he was a risk. Now that we know he’s dishonest, he’s even more of a risk. That’s my point, Mr Huon.”
Buckley looked at him. “I’m not saying it wasn’t a silly thing for Trevor to do, but it’s not sufficient to have him branded as completely dishonest. I know him better than that.”
Fuller shrugged and turned away, no longer interested in the argument. In his usual crisply impatient voice, he informed the team that the day’s training session was over.
“Am I to assume,” he said with his back turned to both Trevor and Buckley, “that Trevor will not be at tomorrow’s match?”
“That’s Trevor’s decision, not mine,” answered Buckley.
Everyone was leaving, the other kids walking over to their waiting parents. Carrying the unused football, Fuller followed them.
Martin Grace straggled at the end of the departing group, occasionally glancing with uncertainty at Buckley and Trevor, who were standing alone on the wet and muddy oval.
Buckley ran a hand through his son’s wet hair and said quietly, “I’ll wait for you in the kombi, eh?”
Trevor nodded.
After a while he stooped to pick up his thick woollen jumper, rain soaked as it was, and put it on. A short distance away, Martin was standing, and Trevor walked across to him.
Martin was looking bemused, open-mouthed as if to say something, but it was Trevor who spoke first.
“You told him,” Trevor said. “You told Fuller.” Then he turned and walked away. Somehow he still felt uncertain that Martin had told, but there was no other explanation.
Buckley was waiting in the kombi.
The two of them said nothing on the way home. Once there, Trevor disappeared for a while, walking away for an hour’s exploration of the paddocks behind the caravan park. Climbing through wire fences, he negotiated the rain-damp ground with little purpose until it was too dark to see clearly. He made his way grimly back to the kombi and caravan then, guessing that by now Buckley would have told Kath about training, and that not too much more would have to be explained.
Saying nothing, he slipped into the warmth of the caravan, positioned himself in front of the TV, and tried to watch the usual re-run American cop shows, hoping that this would eliminate the need for talk.
At first nothing was said, although he could sense his parents’ glances as they cooked dinner. This was uncomfortable, since Kath and Buckley were frank people, prone to talking out problems as soon as they emerged. But tonight they were strangely silent, as though still deciding how best to talk about all that had happened that day.
“What made you get into that kind of situation, Trev?” his father finally asked.
Trevor, translating that as meaning, “Why did you do it?” said nothing.
“I didn’t realise you’d said all that to them,” Buckley continued.
“I had to,” Trevor answered, embarrassed because the concern just made him feel worse.
“But why?”
“I just did.”
They sat down to dinner. Although hungry, Trevor ate slowly. Kath turned the TV off, substituting one of her CDs on the portable stereo.
Against the calmer background of music Buckley said, “You’ve played football before, haven’t you, Trev?”
“Yeah. Just at school.”
“Before this?”
“At other places. Just mucking about in the playground.”
Buckley nodded. “That’s more or less what Kath and I said.”
It took a moment for that remark to sink in, but when it did, Trevor looked up. “Who did you say that to?”
“One of the parents,” Kath said, “at last Saturday’s match. Don’t know whose mum it was, but that’s probably how Mr Fuller found out. Sorry.”
Trevor looked down at his plate. “That’s all right. It’s not your fault.”
“Might have spared you today’s little court martial if we hadn’t mentioned it. But we didn’t know.”
Trevor didn’t reply. There was silence for a minute.
Buckley spoke again. “Do you like being in the team, Trevor?”
“No. Not really.”
“You going to give it away, then?”
Trevor shook his head.
“Why not?” Buckley asked.
“Because that’d be giving in to Fuller, wouldn’t it?” Trevor answered.
Buckley frowned. “Fuller takes the sport you kids play too seriously. And since we’ve arrived in this town, he’s been giving you a hard time. At school and on the football field.”
“How do you know?” Trevor demanded.
“Because,” his father said patiently, “I know you well enough to know when you’re not happy. And you’re not at the moment, are you?”
Trevor avoided his father’s gaze. “No.”
“The logical thing to do then, would be just to forget this whole football thing. Make life easier for yourself.”
Trevor shook his head again. “I’m not going to give in.”
Buckley and Kath exchanged glances and then watched as Trevor finished eating his meal.
“Did anyone ever tell you, Trevor Huon, that you’re plain stubborn?” Kath said with a resigned smile. “What side of the family did you get it from?”
Trevor looked up and almost smiled back. “Both of you,” he replied.
NINE
Today, it felt worse.
He had told them several times, “You don’t have to come along if you don’t want to,” but Kath and Buckley were not to be put off. In the end, he had virtually pleaded with them not to come, but today was the aftermath of the rainsoaked training session, and they obviously wanted to show their support for him.
Having guessed by now that his parents were not exactly fanatical about football or Mr Fuller, Trevor had greeted this support with a mixture of thanks and regret.
Now he really earnestly wished that they’d stayed at home. He looked around at the gathering crowds, the familiar smattering of parents and grandparents and the kids from school whose faces he recognised.
“Reserve again, today,” Buckley said. It was a statement rather than a question.
Trevor nodded, “I guess so.”
“If you do get to play,” Buckley added with emphasis, “be careful, won’t you?”
Trevor looked at his father quizzically. “What d’you mean?”
“You know. Don’t get hurt.”
“Jeez, Dad, I’ve been hurt before. Fallen over things. Fallen off things. Had bleeding noses, black eyes, and all that.”
“I mean, really hurt. Break an arm or a leg or a wrist. Worse still, your nose. I don’t want you looking like someone’s hit you in the face with a spade for the rest of your life.”
Trevor groa
ned. “You’re just trying to put me off!”
“Yes,” said Buckley with a laugh.
“I won’t be playing today, anyhow. Probably not for ever, after training.”
His father looked thoughtful.
A familiar voice beside them said, “Didn’t think you’d come along today.” Martin, of course.
Trevor said quickly to Kath and Buckley, “I’m just going off to find the rest of the team with Martin.” And before they could say anything in reply, he and Martin had walked off into the crowd.
“Didn’t think you’d come today,” Martin said again.
Trevor shrugged uncomfortably.
“Why’d you tell me off yesterday, then?”
“I’m sorry.” It took some effort to say this.
“Sorry what?” Martin demanded.
“I thought it was you.”
Martin regarded Trevor with a mixture of antagonism and disdain. “Me what?”
“Who told Fuller,” Trevor explained lamely, “about me. I thought it was you.”
Martin rolled his eyes. “Jeez you’re an idiot, Trevor.”
“Well–”
“Why would I do something like that?”
The possibilities were endless. “I dunno.”
“I’m in enough trouble as it is, sticking up for you. Fuller’ll pick on me for the next month. Don’t know why I bothered.”
“Why did you then?” Trevor asked, but received no satisfactory answer.
“You’re the last one here,” Martin said as they walked on amongst the sideline crowds. “That’s why we thought you weren’t coming.”
The team was assembled in its usual position beside the halfway line. Fuller was nowhere to be seen and, for the moment, the kids engaged in the usual pre-match conversation. Until Martin and Trevor appeared in their midst.
“Hey, here’s our number one star,” Brad Clark said loudly. “Ace footballer Huon.”
“Ace reserve, you mean,” said someone else.
“Ace bull artist.”
They gathered around him, and he waited for the worst.
“Always thought you were lying, Huon.”
“Yeah. We were right all along.”
“Go back to playing soccer, Shorty.”
“Gonna win the game for us today, Huon?”
“Twenty metre dash with the oranges at half-time?”
Laughter.
Trevor endured this in silence, looking occasionally at their reprimanding, you-can’t-fool-us faces. But somehow, their rebukes lacked real aggression and soon some of the kids were considering aloud the other things that had brought to an end the previous day’s training session.
“Was that your dad, Huon?”
“No, dummy, it was his brother.”
“Bull!”
“He sure looked weird.”
“Like Santa Claus.”
“Santa Claus!”
“He really told Fuller off. Told him where to go.”
“Thought they were gonna start punching into each other.”
“Aw come off it. He’s chicken. Like father, like son.”
“Bet you got belted when you got home, eh Huon?”
“No, I didn’t,” Trevor answered.
“Bet he’s lying again.”
“Come on, Trevor, you must have been belted to a pulp.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Well, what happened?”
“We just talked,” Trevor replied.
“Is that all?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re kidding.”
“My dad would’ve killed me–”
“Yeah, mine too.”
“You gonna leave the team?”
“We don’t need you,” sneered Bradley Clark derisively. “We don’t want you.”
“Neither does Fuller,” added someone else. “He doesn’t trust you anyway.”
“So you might as well leave,” concluded another voice.
“Shut up you guys,” Martin Grace said abruptly. “Trev’s not going t’ give in just because you tell him to.”
“What’s wrong with you all of a sudden, Grace?” Bradley asked loftily. “Sticking up for Huon all of a sudden.”
“Nothing’s wrong, Clark.”
“Huon’s gonna quit, aren’t you, Huon?”
“No,” Trevor said, “I’m not.”
“We don’t need three reserves anyway, Huon. You might as well go home.”
“Why don’t you go home, Clark?” Martin said sarcastically. “Might be quieter round here then.”
Bradley spat meaningfully on the ground. “You and Huon buddies or something?”
Seeing a few possible meanings for this, the team collapsed into raucous laughter.
Martin raised a fist, gave Bradley a shove with his free hand. “You wanna go, do you?” he inquired dangerously.
The encircling team started to shout encouragement, but Bradley’s angry response was cut short.
“What’s going on here?” Fuller demanded.
Everyone stopped to look at the coach, who was flanked by a couple of parents, and strangely enough, no one was willing to offer explanations. Fuller regarded them all sternly before briefly checking the team list.
“Anderson?”
“Here.”
“Barnes?”
“Here.”
“Briggs?”
“Here.”
“Clark?”
“Here.”
“Davies?”
“Here.”
“Evans?”
“Here.”
“Grace?”
“Here.”
Fuller’s voice was suddenly stern to the point of anger.
“Huon?”
“Here,” Trev answered, finding Fuller’s gaze totally unnerving.
Fuller paused for a moment before continuing.
“Jenkins?”
“Here …”
I’m not giving in, Trevor thought quickly to himself, knowing that the coach wanted him nowhere near the football field. The other kids regarded Trevor silently and with puzzlement, knowing full well that he’d be spending today sitting uselessly on the sideline. Just as always.
“Reserves,” Fuller announced, “Evans, Huon and Grace.”
“How come I’m reserve?” Martin said indignantly.
Fuller ignored him and launched instead into the usual pre-match pep talk. “Right!” he declared loudly, pointing to an assembled group on the opposite side of the field. “There’s your opposition …”
Alienated from the content and purpose of Fuller’s speech, Trevor lapsed into thought. He looked sideways to Martin, who had his arms angrily folded and was staring at the ground. It was ages since Martin had missed playing a game by being reserve, and he was regarding it not only as Fuller’s revenge for the previous day’s training, but as an insult. Trevor looked away.
“… and who’s going to win?” Fuller was shouting.
“CLUB UNDER TWELVES!” the team shouted back.
Under the approving gaze of the cheering parents, the team spilled enthusiastically on to the field.
Jason Evans, Martin Grace and Trevor sat down more or less where they’d been standing, in the usual position next to the bucket of half-time oranges.
“How come you’re reserve?” Jason asked Martin.
“Prob’ly because of sticking up for Trev at training yesterday.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Because he was too dumb to stick up for himself.”
Trevor shot Martin a look, as the referee’s whistle commenced the game. With a thud, the ball was kicked into flight, and the two teams exploded into motion across the field.
“I mean,” Martin added, more out of anger for having forfeited a game than at Trevor, “you never say anything. All you do is listen and take what people sling at you.” Then he added, “Anyway, you’ll never get to play, now. Prob’ly made things worse for yourself than before.”
They silently watched th
e first few minutes of play. Beside them were the parents yelling frenzied encouragement, and somewhere in the barracking melee was Fuller yelling advice.
“Pass that ball out …!”
The minutes passed.
Trevor stood up quickly and surveyed the noisy crowd around him. To one side he could see Kath and Buckley talking to each other and not paying much attention to the game. He started to walk in the opposite direction.
“Where’re you going?” Martin asked.
“Just for a walk,” Trevor replied. “No use staying here.”
“You’ll get into trouble,” Jason Evans warned. “Fuller’ll kill you.”
Ignoring these remarks Trevor walked off into the crowd, scuffing the expendable football boots over the foot-worn ground. Around him the game and the noise progressed, but he made the effort to cut himself off from it all, to dwell instead on thoughts of being a reserve for the rest of his days. He thought again about Martin unpredictably defending him at training, and briefly felt sorry that he had had to miss a game because of it. Why exactly Martin had said anything at all puzzled Trevor. It had been a bit of a shock hearing Martin’s bullying cynicism temporarily replaced by disguised kindness. Martin had been treading the line between remaining faithful to the kids he’d grown up with, and being tentative friends with a newcomer. Which made things unpredictable.
But then, Martin was a misfit of sorts too, being almost a year older than the other kids. The age gap alone set him a little apart from the team at least, and it always appeared to be a slight struggle for him to stay in favour with them. Intuition allowed Trevor to sort this much out for himself, and it was only then that his own stubbornness really dawned on him. Membership of the team had developed into a half-crazy essential, though he realised that he’d never get beyond being a reserve on the sideline.
But I’m not giving in, he told himself again, and directed the comment silently to Fuller, the team and surrounding parents alike.
The noise around him rose and fell. He walked past the groups of parents, but suddenly came to a halt as a conversation nearby caught his hearing.
“… and apparently he’d never played football before.”
“Yes, so I heard.”
Two of the parents stood amid the sideline crowd, their backs to Trevor. He couldn’t tell whose mothers they were. They were both dressed awkwardly in fashion slacks and jumpers, and in reluctant command of a couple of noisy young children. They talked on, and as he listened it became abundantly clear who it was they were discussing.
