by Israel Folau
The headmaster nodded at the school captain, who shouted, ‘Three cheers for Daniel. Hip hip!’
‘Hooray!’ the school chorused.
‘Hip hip!’
‘Hooray!’
‘Hip hip!’
‘Hooray!’
Daniel threw his schoolbag onto the back seat of his father’s car and jumped in.
‘Congratulations!’ his dad said, looking back at him from the driver’s seat. ‘It’s really happening, huh?’
The car pulled out from the school’s kiss-and-drop zone and Daniel put on his seatbelt, making sure not to crease his jersey.
‘What happened at the assembly?’
‘Not much,’ Daniel answered. ‘Everyone clapped and Mr Richards shook my hand.’
‘Nice!’
‘The headmaster read out a letter from Izzy.’
‘Really?’ his dad said. ‘What did it say?’
Daniel shrugged. ‘Just that we’re going to have fun and stuff.’
‘Hmm.’
‘What?’
‘I would have thought that a coach – of a youth rep team, especially – would be all about geeing up his players to be the best they can be on the field,’ Daniel’s father said. ‘His job is to toughen you up and show you how to win at the highest level. You don’t need to be shown how to have fun – winning is fun!’
Daniel had heard all of this before and knew it wasn’t worth disagreeing, so he just said nothing.
The rest of the car ride was silent except for the couple of times his dad asked about the game against St Martin’s the next day. Daniel had actually forgotten all about the match, as important as it was. Somehow, in the past twenty-four hours, tomorrow’s game had gone from being the final and possibly record-breaking match of the season to a non-event. Now that he was on the rep team, how he performed seemed irrelevant. Daniel sighed. Maybe he would try doing what Izzy had talked about and just have some fun.
After picking Daniel up from school, Mr Masters always went back to work for a couple of hours. For Daniel, this usually meant homework time – but not on Fridays. On Fridays he was allowed to practise his goal kicking in the park.
Daniel got out of the car and ran to get changed into his training gear. He neatly folded the rep jersey and placed it on his pillow. He paused, thinking how that would have made his mum smile. Then he gathered up a ball, his house keys and a water bottle and was gone, jogging down the street to the only place he ever truly felt at home.
‘Izzy grabs the ball and runs hard, sidestepping one defender, pushing away another, and passes the ball just before he’s taken out. It’s a beautiful cut-out pass that skips the centre and lands in the hands of the winger. Izzy falls on the ground with his arms outstretched. It’s a try!’
The other players picked up Izzy and brushed the dirt off him, cheering and hollering. Lunchtimes at Valley North Primary School were always the same. Fifteen to thirty boys would gather on the grass to play touch footy while teachers supervised, ensuring little kids weren’t getting trampled. Lately, Sam, who had broken his leg, would commentate, hobbling along on his crutches, trying to keep up with the play. The other boys had said that the commentary had made their games feel more real, like on TV, and so they had started pretending they were Wallabies. The only problem was that everyone seemed to want to be Israel Folau.
‘There’s the tap to restart play,’ Sam shouted from the middle of the field. ‘Izzy takes it a few metres before passing the ball to Izzy. Izzy passes it to Izzy, down the back line it goes. They’re trying to keep it from the opposition, who are coming in fast. And Izzy has kicked the ball, high and for touch. It does go out, but almost immediately. The team has only made about ten metres all up.’
Sione sighed and braced himself for his team’s comments. He had kicked an absolute shocker. But no one said anything. He quickly got into position to wait for the line-out that would bring the ball back into play, as anxious thoughts swirled around in his mind. How did the rep selectors get it so wrong? Why had they put him in this situation of being selected but unable to go? Sione wished they’d never selected him in the first place.
The ball bounced clumsily over the hands and heads of ten or so Izzys, all scrambling to gain control of the ball, before it landed in the grip of one of the boys on Sione’s team. The boys weren’t allowed to play tackle, so as soon as that boy was touched by a defender he had to stop. He tapped the ball on his foot and passed it to Sione. He wasn’t really expecting it and so didn’t have time to think about what he would do next. Somehow, he slipped his body between two defending Izzys and was clear. He ran hard alongside the touchline for about twenty metres, until he was past the tryline. He put the ball down. The whole thing had seemed to take about two seconds.
Sione turned to see everyone looking at him with their eyes wide and their jaws hanging open. Sam had even stopped commentating. What have I done now? Sione thought.
‘Um, how did you do that?’ Sam asked.
Sione shrugged his shoulders. Strange things like that happened when he played for the Tigers, too, and Sione had no idea why or how.
‘Those two guys were right in front of you,’ Sam said. ‘How did you get through them without even being touched?’
‘I dunno,’ Sione replied softly.
‘That happened in our match last week, too,’ Thomas, a Tigers player, said. ‘Our coach calls Sione “Eel” because he can slip through the defence line like that. Before they even realise he’s through, he’s gone.’
The bell rang, signalling the end of lunch. Sione breathed a sigh of relief, glad to have the attention off him.
The boys trudged up the hill from the back of the school, towards the concrete playground and the row of bubblers that looked so inviting after all their running around. But going as quickly as Sam could manage on his crutches meant that by the time they got to have a drink, Sione and his friends were the only students left in sight – everyone else was lining up outside their classrooms.
‘Sione Taito!’ Ms Collier, the deputy principal, boomed from across the deserted playground. ‘I’d like to speak to you for a moment, please.’
The boys froze. They had been caught getting back to class late. Sione felt sick. His dad wouldn’t be happy when he learnt that Sione had got in trouble at school.
Ms Collier walked over to the group. ‘The rest of you, hurry back to class and tell Sione’s teacher he’s with me.’
‘Yes, Ms Collier,’ the boys said, glancing back at Sione a couple of times to try to judge the level of strife he was in.
Sione stared at his feet. The deputy was tall and imposing, like the Year 12 rugby players who pushed past him at the train station and who stormed onto the training field before his team had finished every Tuesday night.
‘You’re not in trouble,’ Ms Collier said, but Sione still didn’t look up. The gritty asphalt below his feet went blurry. ‘Congratulations on your rugby selection,’ she added, before handing him a white piece of paper folded neatly in half. He reached for it slowly but didn’t open it.
‘It’s an email from Israel Folau, just for you,’ she said. ‘Read it – I think you’ll like it.’
Sione smiled, but stopped when he saw Ms Collier watching him. He couldn’t wait for this conversation to be finished so he could read the email in private.
After a moment, seemingly resigned to the fact that she wasn’t going to get a word out of him, Ms Collier got to the big news. ‘I’ve been talking to your coach and the principal, and we’ve had an idea. It would be a shame for you to miss the rugby tour; I understand the costs of it are a little high.’
Sione swallowed, his cheeks burning.
‘We’d like to announce a mufti day in your honour for this Monday. Every student will be allowed to wear their favourite jersey or team colours instead of the school uniform, the cost being a gold-coin donation towards your travel expenses. I know it isn’t much notice, but hopefully all the students will be able to bring some mone
y to help you out. Lots of gold coins can really add up.’
Sione said nothing. He couldn’t decide if he felt excited or embarrassed by the whole thing.
‘What do you think? Can I call your dad to let him know?’
Sione nodded, and Ms Collier excused herself and left. Immediately, Sione’s stomach lurched. He hated that feeling. He wanted to be a part of the Valley rep team more than anything, but not at the cost of becoming the centre of attention. How could he ask all the kids at school to give him money? What if he did get to go on the tour but played terribly? Then he’d be wasting everyone’s money.
Sione trudged back to his classroom. He walked even slower once he heard the maths lesson that was taking place inside. He tucked Izzy’s email safely inside his pocket and went in, face down.
The rest of that afternoon was a haze. At one point, prefects came in to announce the mufti day and even mentioned something about Sione making a speech at the Monday assembly. As everyone in his class talked about what they would wear, Sione’s stomach sank. He didn’t want to get up in front of the entire school, let alone speak in front of them.
By the time Sione arrived home, he’d decided he wasn’t going to school on Monday. This rep team thing was getting way too big.
On Sunday, Sione lay in bed all evening with his stomach in knots. He listened as his family ate dinner without him, frequently punctuated by his dad bursting out with: ‘But he’ll miss his own mufti day!’
Sione looked up at the giant poster of Izzy on his wall, and at some point he fell asleep. He slept long but far from deeply. When he got out of bed in the morning his dad had already left for work. Aunty and Mele were eating toast in the kitchen.
‘How are you this morning, dear?’ his aunt asked.
Sione looked at the clock on the microwave. It was nine o’clock, too late to get to school. ‘A bit better,’ he replied.
‘Would you like some toast?’
Sione nodded.
‘It’s a good sign that you feel like eating again,’ his aunt said, getting up.
Mele was bopping up and down in her booster seat as music played in the next room. Sione smiled but was careful not to look too happy. He grimaced and held his stomach when Aunty put the toast in front of him.
‘You know,’ she said, ‘I saw Israel Folau on TV last night.’
Sione looked down at his breakfast, but his ears perked upwards like a cat’s at the mention of Izzy’s name.
‘He was talking about how he’s changed sports twice and all the challenges he’d faced doing that, like having to learn new things and meet new people and be on the news every night.’ She paused, waiting for a reaction from Sione. ‘Anyway, he seems like a great guy. I hope you do get to meet him. I’m proud of anyone who faces their problems rather than hiding or running away.’
Sione coughed on his breakfast, and his aunty got him some milk to drink.
That day, as the kids at school dressed in his honour, Sione read Izzy’s email over and over again. What’s more, he stuck it on his wall above his bed, right next to the poster, so he might dream about it all night.
If Izzy can do tough things, he told himself, maybe I can too.
The mufti day turned out to be a success, with the money covering the travel costs. Soon after, Sione received his rep jersey and all the details for the training camp and tour. A week later, Sione found himself standing at the bus stop by the train station with his family, waiting for the bus to take him away for his two-week training camp and then the statewide Junior Rugby Championships.
It was a sunny Saturday morning – winter was clearly on the way out – but Sione couldn’t appreciate it. His family was sitting at the bus stop, laughing about something or other while Sione stood as stiff as a board next to the bus-stop sign, refusing to sit with them. There was no way he was missing this bus after all that had happened.
He stared down the open road, and it occurred to him that he wasn’t anxious about spending two weeks away from home, rather, he was afraid of getting found out. He was sure that, as soon as training started, everyone would see that he was a fake. Hopefully he would be picked to sit on the reserve bench for every game. Then his talent levels would never be in question, or even required.
I haven’t even played rugby in two weeks, he thought to himself as he looked down the road. I’ll stink.
The bus was going to take Sione and the other selected boys to a conference centre, an hour’s drive towards the city. They were to spend three days there, getting to know each other and train under Izzy, before going to the airport late on Monday. After that there would be the tour matches across the country before landing back in his home state – this year’s host for the Championships.
Sione’s aunt had said over and over again how much fun he was going to have and how lucky he was to visit all those places. Sione’s dad had said he wished he could go in Sione’s place, and Sione was very tempted to let him.
Sione thought about his schoolmates. They were just starting their school holidays and could spend the next two weeks lounging around at home, relaxing, while he was being forced to go on an adventure. He felt exhausted already.
He leant against the bus-stop sign, watching the road. Suddenly, a square speck appeared on the horizon. It grew and grew until it was clear that the team bus was exactly what it was. Aunty stood up, holding Mele’s hand, and Dad followed them to stand next to Sione. Now he wasn’t just stressed, he was embarrassed, too. He doubted the other boys would have had their families wait with them like they were little kids.
Aunty hugged Sione, and his dad rubbed his head with his rough workman’s hand.
As the bus approached, Sione’s mind raced through a hundred different escape options and what people might say if he actually did just turn and run. Then he looked at his aunt and remembered what she had said about Izzy and facing challenges instead of running away. He tightened his fists and stood tall. I’m going to do this, he decided. I’m going to face it and do well. If Izzy can, so can … Izzy? Is Israel Folau going to be on this bus? Sione felt like vomiting all over again.
Mele clapped as the bus slowed to a stop, its brakes hissing. It was a very large coach, painted an ominous black. Sione looked upwards, towards the muffled sound of excited boys. It was hard to see well through the tinted windows, but Sione could make out fingers pressed against the glass, pointing in his direction.
Sione groaned inwardly. He lowered his head and turned to face the front door as it whooshed open. His family gathered around him but Sione didn’t move.
A sneaker appeared on the steps of the bus. It was followed by a leg in track pants and a Wallabies polo shirt. Above the shirt was a face that bore a smile that Sione knew only too well. He had traced its outlines and features with his eyes every night before going to bed. His poster had come to life.
Sione’s aunt gasped as Israel Folau walked towards them. He headed straight for Sione and held out his hand. ‘Hi, you must be Sione,’ he said with a smile.
Mele giggled, peering from her hiding spot behind one of Sione’s legs. Izzy bent his head to see her and waved, causing her to giggle again. Sione didn’t know what to say or do. Mele nudged him and pointed to Izzy’s hand, which was still hanging in the air. Sione quickly grasped it, shaking Izzy’s hand gently.
Izzy grinned. ‘Welcome to the team!’
Sione nodded, trying to think of what to say. ‘G-Good morning, Mr Folau.’
‘Call me Izzy.’
‘Uh, o-okay … Izzy.’ Sione blinked.
Some other adults wearing the team training gear introduced themselves to Sione’s dad and aunt. They were in charge of the tour and looking after the boys but Sione didn’t catch their names. His dad handed over some medical forms and emergency phone numbers, and before Sione knew it, he was being squeezed goodbye once again by his aunt and sister. One tear did make it through his eye’s defences this time. He was going to miss them. Not just because he loved his family, but because they wer
e familiar and safe.
Izzy directed Sione to the door of the bus after the driver had packed his luggage in the storage bay next to its large wheels. Sione’s stomach turned again – he didn’t want to go in. What will the boys think of me? he wondered.
Gingerly, without a backwards glance, he walked up the steps and stood at the front of the bus, scanning the space as a dozen or more pairs of eyes looked back at him. He spotted a seat by the window and imagined swinging his backpack onto the rack above it and hiding himself behind his headphones, alone, until they got to the camp.
But then Izzy climbed the steps behind Sione and spoke to the bus full of kids. ‘Everyone, this is Sione. He plays wing for Valley.’
All the other boys immediately began to holler and stamp their feet. The tour leaders behind Sione started clapping their welcome, and soon the whole bus filled with the sound of applause.
Just like that, Sione felt like a part of the team.
Daniel sat at the bus stop, trying to tune out his dad, who had spent the past hour going on and on about what an important day this was and how it was a stepping stone towards Daniel playing for Australia. It wasn’t that Daniel didn’t agree with him, it was just that he was trying to focus.
Last year, a sports psychologist had visited the school and given a talk at assembly. He’d said it was important to stay focused in all areas of life – school and sport. The psychologist had talked about what some famous athletes did before a big match to get themselves in the zone.
Many sports stars listen to music before a game to keep calm, or have a very specific warm-up routine. Some of them even do yoga. Daniel had decided the music option was the one for him. It would keep him focused as he thought about the big two weeks in front of him and all he had to prove. Plus, he’d look so cool walking onto the bus while holding the latest phone. But his dad had said it was rude to have headphones on while someone was talking to you, so the phone was in his pocket.
