by Tony Birch
Two days out from the big day, disaster struck the team. We were at practice and I was clearing the ring of marbles. I looked across at Bunga. He was working on his shooting thumb with a sheet of sandpaper. He’d turned a rich-red colour and the sweat was pouring off him.
‘Hey, Bung? You okay?’
He kept rubbing away at the thumb.
‘’Course I am.’
‘You need a drink of water or something? You look like you’re cooking.’
‘Nope. Don’t need water. Water’s bad for you.’
Before finishing up that night, we swept the ring, covered it with the tarp and planned to meet early the next day. When I showed up in the morning Scratch was already there, digging away at his bum with one hand and eating a cold untoasted crumpet with the other. We nodded and grunted to each other. I’d tried actually talking to Scratch a few times but couldn’t understand a word he said except for ‘Foke’, which hadn’t got us all that far.
Fatman sidled over to the ring a full half hour later. He sat down on a turned-up rubbish bin and stared at the ring. I threw a marble at him to get his attention.
‘Wake up, Fatty. Where’s Bung? He told me not to be late.’
He huffed and puffed and shifted his feet around in the dirt.
‘He’s not coming.’
‘What do you mean, not coming? This is the last practice before the game.’
‘There’s not going to be any game,’ he almost cried.
‘You’re talking shit.’
‘Last night,’ he blurted out, ‘he woke up in the night and started heaving onto the bedspread and crying about this pain in his head. The old man took his temperature with his old army thermometer and it was over a hundred or something, so he put him in the back of the car and drove him to St Vincent’s. He’s got a killer infection or something. When Dad come home just then I heard him whispering about some operation to my mum. I think he might die.’
‘We ner foked now,’ Scratch howled.
‘Exactly,’ I agreed.
There was no more news about Bunga that day or night. The next morning Fatman knocked at my door and told me that he was going to the hospital to visit his brother and that I could come if I liked.
‘Is he better then?’
‘I dunno. My old man just banged on our bedroom door and told me to stop being a lazy cunt and go visit him in hospital to cheer him up. Maybe he’s better. Or …’ Fatman snorted and swallowed his own snot, ‘or maybe like I said yesterday, he’s dying or something.’
‘He wouldn’t be dying, or your father would be at the hospital with him, wouldn’t he?’
‘Suppose so. But it’s payday and he always has a drink and a bet.’
My mother said I could have some tram money to go and visit him. I decided to walk instead and used some of the money to buy him a bag of mixed lollies and a Phantom comic. Fatman and Scratch walked with me. They pooled their coin and bought a small packet of Viscount cigarettes. We had a smoke out front of the hospital, ate a couple of lollies each from the bag and caught the lift to the top floor.
I spotted Bunga sitting up in bed at the end of a long narrow ward. He had a great view of all the building cranes across the city. Most of the other patients in the ward were old men who didn’t move a lot. He seemed well enough and smiled and waved at us as we walked between the rows of beds. Wearing a new pair of striped pyjamas he looked like a little kid again. I gave him the lollies and the comic and he opened the top drawer of a cupboard next to the bed, pulled out a ham-and-pickle sandwich and offered it to me.
‘Get stuck into that. The old fella next to me can’t eat a thing. They cut part of his tongue out because of some cancer. He’s ate nothing, but they keep bringing him stuff.’
I unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite. It was real ham, not the fake stuff you get in a tin.
‘You don’t look sick, Bung. Fatman here said you were about to drop dead.’
‘I didn’t say he’d dropped dead,’ Fatty defended himself. ‘I said he might be dying. It’s not the same thing, idiot.’
‘Well, I’m not dying. I had to have this infection cut out and they’ve given me pills to help me get better.’
‘Cut out? Where’d they cut the infection from?’ Fatman asked. ‘I asked Mum what was going on. She wouldn’t tell me. “Ask your father,” she said.’
‘I’ll show you. Take a look at this.’
He pushed the blanket to the bottom of the bed, undid the ties on his pyjama pants and pulled them down to his knees. The four of us were staring at the knob of his dick. It was bloodied and bruised and bandaged in yellow-stained gauze.
‘Shit. What happened?’ I asked.
‘The foreskin bit got all infected. The doctor said I’d gotten germs in it because I’ve been playing with it too much, so they had to snip it off.’
‘Foke,’ Scratch whispered.
My father appealed to the Victorian Junior Marbles Board on our behalf and the grand final was put back two weeks. It was another week before Bunga could move around on his own and piss without too much pain. By early in the week before the final he was just about back to his old self, giving us orders down at the marbles ring. We were back in full training a couple of days later.
On the morning of the match Bunga reminded me to call up to Sparrow’s flat and organise the music. I had to knock at his door three times before somebody answered. His mother said he wasn’t home.
‘Where’s he at then? Sparrow’s in charge of playing the music for the marbles final.’
She lifted her bottom lip and sneered at me.
‘Play his music? So you cheeky bastards can give him hell again? You and your cross-eyed mate.’
Bunga wasn’t cross-eyed. He had a lazy eye. Just one.
‘We’re not going to abuse him. We want him to put some songs on. I already asked him and he said he’d do it.’
‘Well, he can’t do it, because he’s not here.’
She tried closing the front door on me.
‘Where’s he gone?’
‘Where would you think? To the record shop. I’m sure he’s got a bed there.’
‘When he gets back can you ask him to put the Beatles on? Loud.’
‘I’ll be out doing the shopping. You see him, ask him yourself.’
Back at the ring the team was warming up.
‘You got him organised?’ Bunga growled.
‘Yep,’ I lied. He was always grumpy before a big match. I didn’t want him losing concentration worrying over where Sparrow might be.
By the time the Kensington team arrived, in a Salvation Army minibus, a large crowd had gathered, including teams from the other estates. A few of the dads had turned up, but kept their distance from the ring, enjoying a smoke and an early beer under a scraggy gum tree across from the ring.
Before each match the regulations governing the game of marbles were read aloud by a Salvation Army Major. Although he was forever encouraging us to call him Major Bob, most kids knew him as Dr No. He called the event to attention.
‘There shall be No swearing – No raucous barracking – No spitting on or near the ring – No walking through the ring – No coaching from the sidelines – No oversized or overweight marbles – No unacceptable attire to be worn by team members.’
We won the opening lag, with Bunga lobbing his alley only a freckle short of the line. We would be shooting first up. Bunga handed us our earplugs and looked up at Sparrow’s closed window.
‘Is he ready with the music?’
‘Should be,’ I lied again. ‘His mum said he’d be ready.’
‘His mum? She hates me. You were left in charge of this.’
‘Don’t worry, he’ll be there.’
I eyeballed three of the Ken team across the ring, all of them scabby-faced runts.
�
�Don’t worry, Bung. They look beaten before the start. One of them’s a pinhead.’
We decided to run with our standard order. Fatman would lead off, followed by me, then Scratch, and finally Bunga, to bring home the win.
Fatman got us off to a poor start. He missed shots he’d usually nail blindfolded; such is the pressure of a grand final. He trailed by three with only two alleys left in the ring on the second-last pair. He got lucky when his opponent over-hunched on the shot, lost his balance and fell into the ring – an automatic two marble penalty – leaving Fatman a marble down but controlling the play. He was about to shoot when Bunga noticed his hand shaking and a trickle of sweat running down the side of his face.
He called time-out and ordered Scratch to go fetch Fatman some water.
‘Fatty, you need to take the pair with one shot. But forget about this being the final. It’s just another game and you’re gonna win it.’
Fatty hadn’t heard a word he’d said, and pulled his ear plugs out.
Scratch handed him a milk bottle full of water. He took a long gulp. Bunga repeated his order.
‘But you’ve been saying all along at training that if I lost my match you’d skin me alive and cook me in a pot.’
‘Yeah, well, I might do that even if it was just another game. Do your job and take out the pair.’
Fatman did as Bunga asked. His taw clipped the first alley, which cannoned into the second, knocking both marbles out of the ring. Game over.
Bunga ordered me to warm up. He started barking orders at Scratch.
‘Scratch, run upstairs and see if Sparrow’s ready. We need the Beatles on.’
He grabbed hold of my shooting thumb and loosened it for me.
‘You seen their number four yet? They can’t back up with a player who’s already shot, can they? I’m going to speak to Dr No.’
I looked across the ring at the Ken team. The three runts were busy talking to a couple of girls. One of the girls lit a cigarette. They shared a puff. They were as good-looking as the boys were ugly. I couldn’t take my eyes off one of them. She was wearing a Harlem Globetrotters singlet and cut-down jeans. She had long, long legs and beautiful tanned skin that glowed like honey.
‘Hey, Bung. What do you think of her?’
‘Concentrate on the game, dickhead.’
But I couldn’t concentrate. Each time I hunched for a shot the golden-skinned girl positioned herself across the ring from me. She didn’t seem to mind me staring at her. She might have smiled at me, although I couldn’t be sure. By the time I got my game on track it was all over. I’d been slaughtered, six marbles down and out. Luckily Scratch wasn’t distracted by her and played beautifully. He had the best long shot in the competition and didn’t disappoint, wiping the ring with the third of the runt brothers. We were two–one up, with our best player still to come and no sign of the Ken number four.
When Dr No called for the ‘final player of each team to present themselves at the line’ Bunga raised his arms above his head like a champion boxer, thinking it was all over. Cheering broke out across the crowd. Dr No took a small brass bell and stopwatch from his side pocket, rang the bell and announced a ‘two-minute warning’. If the Ken number four didn’t step forward before the bell sounded a second time the match was all ours.
With just seconds left on the Major’s stopwatch the golden-brown girl stepped up to the line and offered Bunga her hand. He screwed his nose up at her.
‘What do you think you’re doing? Only registered players are allowed to come to the lag line. Piss off back to your girlfriend.’
‘Piss off yourself, fuck-face. I am the player.’
‘You can’t be the player. You’re a girl.’
‘Yeah. I’m a girl. Not that you’d know. And I’m the player, so let’s get on with it.’
‘This is bullshit.’
He called on Dr No for a ruling.
‘Hey, Doc. They must be stalling for time or something. Tell her she can’t play.’
An argument broke out between the teams and some in the crowd as Dr No went to the rulebook, with Bunga looking over his shoulder. Fatman pulled him aside.
‘Who cares that they’ve fronted with a girl? Kick her arse and it’s over.’
Bunga focused his good eye on Fatman.
‘Are you fucken kidding me? I’m not playing a girl. ’Course, I’ll beat her. So what? Any of us could beat her. I’ll cop shit over this for years.’
Dr No went through the book twice before announcing to the crowd that there was ‘no rule or sub-clause governing the sex of a player’.
He ordered both players to the line.
I’ve thought about what happened next many times. Sometimes I almost convince myself that the whole day was a dream; there was never any beautiful girl with golden-brown legs; and there was no grand final held at our ring. Whenever I find myself overcome with doubt I’ll ask Fatman or Scratch if they remember the final game of the CMC that year the same as I do. They do, although Fatty remembers her legs being even longer and browner and more golden. For a reason that escapes me, Scratch claims not to recall her legs at all. But he is sure that she was able to play equally well on both sides of her body, and could shoot left- and right-handed, a rare skill in competition marbles.
With Bunga continuing to complain to Dr No, the girl won the lag and chose to shoot first. She catwalked around the ring, picking off alleys with ease, for the following ten minutes. Those who weren’t fixated on the game were hypnotised by her legs, including Dr No, who was wiping his brow with a damp hankie. After taking out four alleys in a row, the crowd was cheering for her. By the time she’d knocked out eight marbles people were going crazy. When she was down to the last alley standing, a black eye, which according to marbles folklore was a curse upon the shooter, the crowd was silent.
In possibly an act of desperation, or an involuntary nervous twitch, Bunga dug a hand into his jeans pocket – the one with the hole in it – and reached for his lucky foreskin. But of course, there was no foreskin to be found. All he could do was revert to religion and began praying for a miracle, by way of a Hail Mary, as the girl hunched on the far side of the ring.
I forgot all about Bunga and the game that was at stake. I smiled at her and peeked a look at her thighs as they caught the sun. She winked at me and played her kill shot. The taw slammed into the black eye with so much power the marble split in two. I’m sure I saw smoke rising from the ring. The Ken team and their supporters went wild and the runts threw their arms around her. One of them tried squeezing her tits.
According to the rules, Bunga was entitled to shoot at a second set-up. If he could miraculously match her lockout, a sudden-death shoot-out would decide the winner. But he was already beaten and he knew it. He dropped his favourite marble in the dirt without playing a shot and walked away from the ring without looking back. Fatman and Scratch ran after him, but I disloyally hung around for the presentation, hoping to talk to the girl. The winner’s trophy was awarded and the team were hurried back onto their bus before a fight broke out; another tradition of the CMC tournament.
When the bus was about to leave I walked over and knocked at the window.
‘Hey, will you be playing marbles again next year?’
‘I don’t reckon,’ she shrugged. ‘This is boring. Maybe you’d like to play a different game,’ she laughed, as the bus took off.
I chased it along the street, yelling at her, ‘What game? What game?’ until the bus had disappeared around the corner at the end of the street.
The four of us sat in silence at the ring for the afternoon. Scratch tried offering words of support but Bunga would have needed an interpreter out of a Glasgow slum to make sense of what he’d said. Just before the sun went down Sparrow came walking across the grass towards us. He was carrying a brown paper bag from the record shop.
‘How’d the
grand final end up, Bunga? You win?’
‘Get fucked, Sparrow.’
Sparrow had bought himself a new record. He’d want to tell us all about it, and wouldn’t be put off by Bunga’s rudeness.
‘Do any of you want to see the new album I bought?’
‘Get well and truly fucked,’ Bunga screamed.
Sparrow ignored him and took the record from the bag. A photograph filled the album cover, showing some bloke’s crotch in a pair of Levi’s jeans.
‘Another Beatles album?’ I asked. ‘I thought they were rooted.’
‘It’s not the Beatles. I think it’s time to move on.’
‘You’re right it is,’ Bunga yelled. ‘You should start now. I told you, fuck off.’
‘You might be cured, Sparrow,’ I laughed. ‘Who is it?’
‘The Rolling Stones. Wait here and I’ll go upstairs and play it. Let me know what you think.’
A couple of minutes later his bedroom window went up. The opening guitar riff hit me like a thunderbolt. By halfway through the track even Bunga was tapping his foot to the beat, and when the song was over he was smiling wide enough to swallow his ears.
THE PROMISE
Carol had warned me often enough that she was going to leave, so when I got home late from playing cards and a big drink at Winston’s and found her gone I wasn’t surprised. She’d taken off to her folks’ place, dragging the boys with her. She’d done the same three times in the past year. I woke up the next morning with a sore head expecting she’d be back by the end of the day, but she didn’t turn up.
It was another two weeks before she’d come to the phone when I called her at the farm. She told me that she wouldn’t be home again unless I showed commitment. Just for a start she wanted me signed up for a rehab program.
