Killer Boots

by Jenkins, Wendy

  Greg was wiping Ashley’s face with a wet-wipe. She’d dribbled and snotted most of the sand out onto his T-shirt but she was still a bit of a mess. Couldn’t take her home like that, even if she was too young to dob him in.

  Greg thought of the tap at the oval. He could clean her up there. ‘Come on, Ash. Let’s go to the swings.’

  Ashley gave him a black stare. She was either still really annoyed, or not going to trust him with anything that involved being pushed or going up in the air.

  A DOG’S LIFE

  The pram was a bit dusty but none the worse for wear. Greg strapped Ashley back in and set off for the oval. He stuck to the footpath this time and pushed her like she was a cranky old lady with brittle bones and he was a nurse with corns.

  As he stopped to pull up some wild oats to give Ash to hold, he saw the car of his dreams. A red Mustang convertible slid past like it was floating on oil. A big black dog was sitting large as life on the front seat with its nose in the air like royalty. That is one lucky dog, Greg thought. If that was his car, he wouldn’t let anything that could pee, scratch, slobber or fart, anywhere near the upholstery — including Ashley. Poor old Turley carried on like it was Christmas if Dad let him onto the front seat of their Toyota.

  That Mustang was really something. When he was a champion full-forward and signed a contract with the Dockers for megabucks, that would be the machine of his choice.

  Toggo saw a kid straighten up from pulling out some grass at the side of the road. The kid’s eyes went wide as dinner plates when he saw the car.

  Toggo had mixed feelings about that kind of open awe at what he was driving. When he’d got his first big cheque and bought the restored Mustang, he’d been stoked. He’d wanted one since he’d seen a photo feature in a car magazine when he was ten years old. It’d felt great when he drove the car out of the dealers and everybody stared. It was like the class and the power of the machine said something about him. Like some of the power of the engine fed into him through his skin when his hands were on the wheel. He wasn’t so sure now. He loved driving the car, but being stared at was less and less of a buzz.

  Just up ahead was the oval he used to play on as a kid. He’d spent half his life there doing kick to kick with other kids and practising shooting for goal.

  Sometimes he’d completely lose track of the time and his mother would send his little brother Peter to find him.

  Mum says to come ’n get yer lunch or else.

  Run home to Mummy, ya little worm. Tell her ya couldn’t find me.

  It had been fun then. No, more than that — it had been a passion. You had to be megakeen on the game to play it really well. Or, at least, he did. He wasn’t a skills and percentages player like some of the other guys on the team. He followed the game plan mostly, but if he lost the keenness he lost the lot. It was all in the feeling. The trouble was — he had to admit it — the feeling was gone. Maybe that old bloke on the radio had been right. One day it just leaves you and you never get it back.

  Toggo slowed the engine and turned the steering wheel hard left. Dempsey looked at him.

  ‘Want to play footy, girl? Yeah? Yeah?’

  Dempsey knew what Toggo meant. She could tell by the rhythm, and the way his voice went up twice at the end. He used to come in from school, grab some food, and call those words out to her just that way. Then they’d take off for the oval. Now she was yodelling in the back of her throat and her back legs were going like she was treading water. She had absolutely no respect for real leather seats.

  When Toggo opened the driver’s door, Dempsey leapt over his legs and out like she was still a puppy. No one had told her she was an old dog. Right now, she’d take some convincing. She waited, thumping her tail against the side of the car, while Toggo got some balls and a pair of boots from the back seat. He always had a couple of pairs of the brand he endorsed rattling around in the car. He wasn’t sure exactly how many. It had seemed funny at first, being paid to wear what had been a major budget item when he was growing up. His mother just hadn’t believed how many pairs he went through. ‘What do you do?’ she used to ask. ‘Slide down the quarry in them?’ (The answer was yes but he never told her that.) Now, he just tended to take his boots for granted.

  As he sat down to change out of his shoes Toggo felt that sick feeling in his stomach again. He took a couple of deep breaths to try to break the mood but the bad thoughts kept going through his head. He just had to get into form somehow. It wasn’t only himself that he was letting down, it was the team and their supporters as well. And then there were the sponsors. Judging by his form in the last couple of weeks, the makers of the boots would be wishing they’d gone for the Eagles full-forward, Grantley Bell, instead of putting their money on him.

  He sat for a while, hoping the mood would shift. Dempsey’s eyes were glued to him, trying to suss what was going on. Sometimes it scared him, how much that dog loved him.

  ‘Come on, Demps.’ Toggo pulled on his boots, stood up and looked around. The old place was still pretty much the same. New coat of paint, but still the same goal posts, same benches. Even the swings didn’t seem to have changed all that much.

  There was that boy again. Hell — he hoped no more zit farmers were going to turn up. He wanted to have a run and a kick without a mob of kids yelling ‘Toggo’ and lairing up with speccy marks and fancy kicks. The kid was trying to convince the baby he’d been wheeling around to have a go on the swings. If he was anything like Toggo had been with his little brother at that age, the baby was right to be really suss.

  Toggo picked up the balls and jogged down towards the far goal posts. Dempsey bounded along beside him.

  ‘Come on, Ash. I won’t push you hard, promise.’ Greg was using all the charm he had to persuade Ashley to get into a bucket swing. ‘Look, it’s got sides — see.’ Ashley wasn’t having any of it. First he’d scared her half to death and dumped her face first in the dirt. Then he’d sponged her off under a cold tap and got all the front of her wet.

  Greg sighed. He’d hoped pushing Ashley on the swing would dry her off. He didn’t think he could convince his mother that she dribbled that much. He looked up then and saw the Mustang parked on the other side of the oval. He couldn’t believe his luck. He bet there wasn’t another one like that in the State.

  ‘Come on, Ash.’ Greg shoved Ashley back into the pram. ‘Let’s go see the big red car.’

  Up close, the Mustang was a thing to behold. It was a late sixties model, he was fairly sure, and really well maintained. The paintwork was perfect, probably a respray.

  Greg shielded his eyes and looked inside. The interior was in great condition too — except for the passenger seat. That dog had made a real mess of it. There were scratches and scuff marks everywhere. The owner hadn’t even put a blanket down on the seat. What a dork! He didn’t deserve to have a car like this.

  There were some boxes of football boots on the back seat and some boots loose on the floor. The guy must be really rich to be able to buy that many pairs of that brand at one go — and then just leave them lying around in his car.

  Greg moved to the back to check out the chassis from that angle. The personalised number plate said ‘Dockers 8’. Dockers! No real Dockers supporter would treat a beautiful car like that. The owner even had the nerve to use Toggo’s number. Number eight was special.

  Greg looked around. Where was the dork?

  He spotted the dog first, and then the figure lining up for a kick at goals. Miss, idiot. Hang on! No, it couldn’t be … it couldn’t be … But that run up, that kick … It had to be. Toggo.

  LIKE A DREAM

  The ball sailed through the goal posts like a dream. Why can’t I do that when it counts, Toggo asked himself. But there was something about being here, back where he used to play as a kid. He felt secure, somehow, and really connected. The bad feeling had mostly left him now and he was feeling okay.

  He picked up another ball and tried a quick snap over his shoulder. Bullseye.
Hey! He was really pumping.

  ‘Did ya see that, Ash? What a kick.’

  Greg was pushing the pram along the side of the field towards where Toggo was playing. He wasn’t going to say anything to Matt Tognolini. He wouldn’t know what to say anyway. He’d just watch from the sidelines and keep real quiet …

  Toggo saw Greg and Ashley as he walked back from retrieving the balls. Oh hell, he thought. Spectators. Still, that might be good. It was more like real conditions to have people watching. And anyway, a zit farmer pushing an ankle biter hardly counted.

  He lined up and let one rip from fifty metres. Straight through. He couldn’t help sneaking a glance to the side. That kid had the same look on his face that he’d had when he first clapped eyes on the Mustang. Oh, what the hell.

  ‘Hey, kid. Yeah, you. You wanna kick?’

  Greg was dumbstruck. The great Matt Tognolini was actually speaking to him. ‘Um, yeah … sure.’ His voice came out a bit funny but not too bad.

  ‘What about going behind the goals and kicking back to me? Reckon you can do that?’

  ‘Sure. No worries.’

  Greg parked Ashley so that she had a good view of what was happening, and prayed she wouldn’t start crying and slobbering. He should be taking her home by now. But how many times do you get a chance to play kick to kick with Matt Tognolini?

  Toggo sent through a short drop punt to start with. Greg marked it cleanly on the chest and sent back a shaky drop kick. Oh, shit! Why didn’t he stay with a simple punt?

  Toggo gathered it in without too much trouble, then walked back on an angle to try a kick from the side. It came in curving, low and accurate, and Greg took a tricky mark behind the posts.

  ‘Not bad,’ Toggo yelled, running back and towards the centre. ‘Give us your best torp.’

  He wanted a torpedo punt. Greg took his time, tried to relax into the kick. The ball hit his boot perfectly and spiralled through the air like a dream kick in a made-to-order fantasy.

  Toggo pulled it in fifty metres down the field. ‘Good one,’ he yelled. He came running in full pace and let one go from forty metres. Greg went up for it, made contact, lost it, then clawed it back in with his fingertips. Yes! It was, by anybody’s standards, a great mark.

  Greg was ecstatic. That was the best overhead he’d ever taken, and he’d taken it in front of Toggo.

  The longer they played, the more confident Matt Tognolini got. It was something about this day, this ground, this kid, and these boots. He’d hold on to the boots and wear them next week in the game against North Melbourne. He wouldn’t even clean them. If a bit of the local dirt fell off on the MCG, all the better.

  Greg had been so absorbed in what was happening he’d forgotten about Ashley. She hadn’t forgotten about him, though, and let out a bellow like he’d never heard before. It brought him back to earth with a thump.

  ‘I’d better sort out my sister,’ he yelled to Toggo. ‘She’s probably wet.’

  Ashley was wet — both her nappy and the front of her jumpsuit. The jumpsuit had dried out a bit, but not enough.

  Toggo and Dempsey came over while Greg checked the damage.

  ‘What’ve you done to that poor kid?’ Toggo asked. ‘Made her eat her own mudpies or what?’ He had memories of feeding Peter snails and telling him that was what sailors had on top of their icecream.

  ‘No, she’s just a bit of a grub,’ Greg said. He shot a look at Ashley, who didn’t seem to mind what lies were being told about her. ‘That your dog?’ he asked, changing the subject.

  Dempsey had flopped down between them, exhausted. ‘Yeah, her name’s Dempsey. After Bill Dempsey. You heard of him?’

  ‘I got books with all the old League stars in them. There’s one with a photo of him taking a real high mark against East Perth in the 1969 grand final. He won the Simpson medal in that game.’

  Toggo smiled and nodded.

  Now that Greg was talking he didn’t want to stop. ‘Our dog’s called Turley.’ He paused for a second when he remembered that Craig Turley had played for the Eagles. ‘My brother named him. We got him before the Dockers started.’

  ‘It’s a good name. Pesky little guy is he?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Greg suddenly dried up. It was just hitting him that he was actually talking football with the great Matt Tognolini. He swallowed. He couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  ‘That was a great session, thanks,’ Toggo said. He was getting ready to go. ‘I needed to get a few kinks out of my game. I haven’t been kicking too straight lately.’

  ‘I saw you Friday night against Essendon,’ Greg said. Words had come back to him as suddenly as they’d left.

  ‘You did, eh? Well then, you’ll know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘Anyone can have a bad run. You kicked great today. That one over your shoulder was unreal.’

  Toggo smiled. Was this kid actually trying to encourage him? It made a bit of a change from the armchair champions putting him down. ‘Thanks. You didn’t do too bad yourself — what position do you play?’

  ‘Full-forward.’

  Toggo laughed. ‘Another goal sneak, eh? Well, I better be careful then. Might lose my job if you get any better.’

  Greg could have stayed all day listening to this kind of stuff, but Ashley let out a low level grizzle. A full on roar would not be far away.

  ‘I got to take her home,’ he said.

  They walked back down the field together. Greg lingered, checking out the Mustang, while Toggo changed back into his shoes.

  ‘It’s a 1968 model, right?’

  ‘Close — 1969. You know about American cars as well as football?’

  ‘A bit. I got some magazines and —’

  ‘Oh hell.’ Toggo cut in suddenly, looking at his watch. I’m supposed to be meeting my girlfriend in Freo for lunch. Look, mate. I gotta fly, okay? Thanks again.’

  Toggo shook hands with Greg, whistled Dempsey into the car, and took off as fast as he could without spinning the wheels.

  Greg watched the Mustang until it was out of sight, and for a while after that. It had burnt an image into his mind that would stay forever. But the whole thing had been like a dream. No one was going to believe it when he said he’d played kick to kick with Matt Tognolini, and had taken a truly awesome mark from one of his kicks.

  Greg looked down at Ashley. She was nodding, half asleep. He started to wheel her home. It was only then that he noticed something lying on the grass. A pair of football boots. Toggo had taken off in such a hurry he’d left his boots behind.

  WHERE’D YA GET THOSE BOOTS?

  Greg picked the boots up and turned them over in his hands. They weren’t very big — Toggo must have small feet for his size. Greg was tall for a thirteen-year-old and, if his feet were anything to go by, he’d be a fair height when he stopped growing. He checked the back of the soles. Size ten and a half. Only a size bigger than the runners he was wearing, and those were starting to squeeze his toes.

  ‘Hang on, Ash,’ he said. ‘I won’t be long.’ He ripped off his runners and pulled on the boots. They were a bit big, but some padding would sort that out. And at the rate he was growing, it wouldn’t be long before they fitted him perfectly.

  The only problem was — they weren’t his boots.

  Greg turned them around in his hands again. He flexed the soles. They were fantastic boots — top of the market. A lot better than the pair he had, or was likely to get when he grew out of those.

  Toggo had a car full of boots — probably got them free for doing those ads on TV. He wouldn’t miss a pair. Probably wouldn’t even remember that he’d left them behind. And anyway, someone would pinch them if Greg just left them there. Toggo wouldn’t want any old dork running around in his boots, would he? He’d want them to go to someone who’d really appreciate them. And the Dockers would get some value out of it too — they’d be helping the development of junior football talent in their area.

  Greg had just about convinced himself, but n
ot quite. Something deep down inside told him his reasons were suss. But that something was just a pathetic little solo on acoustic guitar. A whole heavy metal band was telling him to keep the boots.

  ‘About time you showed up. I was just about to send out a search party.’

  Greg could see his mother was a bit flustered. And she hadn’t even had a good look at Ashley yet. Not the right time to bring up the boots.

  ‘Well, you seem to have had a good time, Ashley,’ Chris said, shooting a meaningful look at Greg. ‘Did you play in the sand?’

  Ashley waved her arms around and talked baby-talk.

  ‘Yeah, she’s real hot on the mudpies,’ Greg said, taking the idea from Toggo. ‘She’d give Mrs Macs a run for their money.’

  Chris sighed. ‘I’ll have to give her a bath. Can you run the water, Greg, while I get her out of the wet nappy.’

  ‘For daan,’ Ashley said. She pulled a very serious face. ‘For daaaan.’

  ‘What’s she saying?’ Greg called over his shoulder.

  ‘Sounds like “fall down” to me,’ Chris said.

  There was complete silence from her youngest son. Chris grinned. She was sure there was a huge bend in the story Greg had just told her, but it was pretty well put together. He hadn’t insulted her intelligence. And he was due for a win.

  Phew. Greg turned on the hot and cold taps and sat on the edge of the bath while the water ran. That was a close call. He didn’t often get one past his mother. But Ashley was a worry. She was moving into that dangerous time when little kids know enough to dob you in but not enough not to. He’d have to be more careful around her from now on.

  ‘How’s the water?’ Chris asked. She tested it with her elbow before lowering Ashley in.

  Why did she always do that, Greg wondered. She must have the cleanest elbows on the block.