‘It’s not his Weeties,’ Nathan yelled. ‘It’s his new boots. They’re killers.’
‘Well, whatever it is, keep it up, son,’ the coach said to Greg. ‘We’ll need some kicks like that on Saturday.’
Killer boots. Greg stowed them into his bag with his other gear and slung it on the back of his bike. They were killers all right. It’d kill him now if he had to give them back, and it was killing him waiting to see if he heard from Toggo. And if it went as bad as it possibly could, his mother would kill him too.
Well, tomorrow was Friday. If he didn’t hear anything then, he was clear to wear the boots against Cockburn in the game on Saturday. Then he’d really see what they could do.
BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS
Matt Tognolini didn’t have nails for breakfast, he had muesli and fruit. That was weekdays. The morning of a match he always had his mum’s spaghetti.
This was easy when it was a home game. He just bunged one of the frozen packs of pasta sauce she made for him into the microwave, and cooked the dry spaghetti himself on the stove. His father and his mother’s parents had been born in Italy, so he’d grown up eating pasta. He couldn’t stand glocky pre-cooked spag — especially the stuff that came in tins.
It wasn’t a problem any more with away games either. The hotel the Dockers stayed at in Melbourne was used to them now and they could have their special breakfasts, within reason. (Ben Norris had to change his tastes a bit though when he was away from home. His mum’s special omelette with basil and goats cheese was a bit hard for the cook to repeat, and it didn’t travel too well in his bags.)
It wasn’t that Toggo was superstitious about his mum’s spaghetti. Well, not only that. He was a professional athlete and took his body seriously. Carbohydrates were the best for energy and endurance. He usually had pasta or rice the night before the match too, if he could, to get maximum glycogen loading into his muscles.
When he was a little kid he made his mother give him bacon, sausages and eggs on the day of a match. His friends had that for breakfast and he’d wanted it too. Put meat on your bones, they said. Make you strong. He’d believed that then — most people did — and he shovelled down the snags with the best of them. But when a sports nutritionist at a junior training camp had said that pasta was great, he’d switched over in a flash. It made sense, if you thought about it. Some of the strongest, beefiest things around were cattle. And you didn’t see them queuing up for hamburgers, they were in them.
Toggo was the first into the breakfast room at the hotel. He’d woken early, nervous about the game. He was going to have to start getting it together soon — the big young forward the Dockers had recruited this year, Luke Vidovich, was looking pretty good in the local competition. Fitzy, the coach, had brought him over as an emergency for this game. Fitzy’d said that it was only to ‘Get him used to travelling, get him acclimatised. No threat to you, Matt.’ But Big Luke was a threat, all right. It was partly psychological — Fitzy was trying to put some pressure on his star full-forward to perform. But the coach was also bringing the kid on as a possible replacement. That was his job. It was part of the game.
Toggo looked out the window. The reports last night had said light rain but it looked like the clouds were really setting in. He helped himself to some fruit as a starter.
‘Same breakfast as usual?’ the waiter asked.
‘Yeah, thanks.’ It wasn’t much of a thrill for the cook to heat up a container of Mrs Tognolini’s special pasta sauce, but there you go. At least the cook didn’t have a star recruit breathing down his neck, eyeing off his recipes and fondling his knives.
Next down the stairs was Darryl Nannup. His ‘special’ was smoked oysters on toast, which made Toggo want to chuck. Probably because his Uncle Domenic used to put oysters up his nose when he got drunk at Christmas and then blow them out into his handkerchief. Aunty Rosa used to go really mad but it didn’t do any good. You knew you were in for it when the hanky came out.
‘This rain looks like it means business,’ Toggo said to Dazza.
‘Yeah. Well, I don’t mind a run in the mud.’
Rain suited smaller players like Darryl Nannup. But, in form, Dazza was a star on any track. The heavy going would slow him down a bit today, but his ball handling and reflexes were so good in the wet he could be embarrassing. There was nothing worse than watching little Dazza gather in a greasy ball, pivot, baulk, run, bounce, kick a high one to you perfectly, then feel it slide through your hands in front of goal. Toggo had had that experience more than once. It was terrible. You wished the mud was a bog that would swallow you up without trace. And the sound the crowd made behind you — Dockers fans mostly, letting out the breath they’d taken in to cheer — was like a long, low, raspberry.
Still, rain would affect both sides. The full-back Toggo would be playing against was about his size — he wouldn’t be any better off in these conditions than Toggo.
Dazza’s smoked oysters arrived at the same time as Toggo’s spaghetti. Dazza dived straight in but Matt played with his fork.
‘Whatsa matter?’ Dazza asked, looking up from his plate. ‘You crook in the guts or what?’
‘You wouldn’t want to know, Dazz,’ Toggo told him. ‘You wouldn’t want to know.’
Greg couldn’t decide on the best approach to take with a tin of spaghetti. If you boiled it in a saucepan of water then you burnt your fingers opening the can. If you tipped the lot into a pan and heated it through, it spat at you, stuck to the bottom and left you with messy washing up.
Tip the lot, he decided, and opened the can. It flubbed out nicely and he forked it across the bottom of the pan. It was best to leave it for half a minute at this stage so that the bottom layer could heat through. If you mucked around with it too much it got all mashed up, not that it wasn’t pretty mushy already.
‘Anyone want any toast?’ he yelled, banging two slices into the toaster. ‘You got ten seconds or you’ll have to make it yourself.’
‘Two slices,’ Rowan yelled back.
He would.
‘And don’t burn it this time.’
‘I’ve had better offers,’ Nick said, coming into the kitchen. He saw the spaghetti. ‘Here, look out, mate. I’ll do the toast.’
‘Thanks.’
Greg got the eggslice and turned the spaghetti over carefully in sections. Maybe he was getting the hang of it at last.
‘What’s with the spag?’ Nick asked. That’s three Saturdays in a row. I didn’t know you were so keen on the stuff.’
‘Carbohydrates. It’s good for you if you’re playing sport.’
‘Oh, yeah?’
‘There was an interview with Matt Tognolini in the paper. He has it for breakfast when he plays. He reckons it’s not too heavy. And it’s good for energy and stuff.’
‘Will it offend you greatly if I have some bacon and eggs with my toast? It is the weekend and I’m not planning on doing anything strenuous.’
‘It’s your life.’
‘Thank you … here.’ Nick passed Greg a plate with two pieces of toast.
Greg eggsliced the spaghetti out onto the toast. Yay. Perfect. No sweat.
Except, Nick couldn’t help noticing, there was now spaghetti on the best frypan for cooking eggs and on the eggslice as well. Family life was a wonderful thing.
LIKE A MAN
Greg went to his room and got the boots out from the bottom of his wardrobe. They were in a box at the side of his football books and albums. A letter hadn’t come yesterday so they were still his for the time being. Well, they were in his possession anyway.
He was nervous about wearing them today — it was like he’d be stepping into Toggo’s shoes. Those boots would probably be in Melbourne right now if he hadn’t met Toggo at the oval. Those boots would be on Toggo’s feet getting ready to run out onto the MCG. Well, he’d have to live up to them and kick a bag of goals today.
But it wasn’t only that. He was feeling different — had been for a while. He was growing, changing … his
body didn’t always do what he expected it to any more. And some of the things it did do were really full on.
And his body didn’t fit into the kind of places it used to fit into easily. But it wasn’t like when you’re a little kid and you’re really pleased when you need a bigger bike or a longer pair of jeans. It was like the kind of space his body was trying to take now, wanting to take, was its proper space. No more cut downs, no more kid versions. Even the boots he was going to wear today were men’s boots, and they just about fitted him.
When he put those boots on, when he kicked a goal like the ones he had at training the other day, it was like the strangeness, the clumsiness, being unsure — just went. It was like he knew his body really well, like he knew how to use it, and was in control. It was like he was a man. That was scary, but deeply thrilling in a way he didn’t have words for.
His mother seemed to have a sense of what was going on. Sometimes she could pick up on him like radar. She was really watching him these days; all her antennae were out, like she was expecting him to explode or something.
She’d come to the house and got him after school yesterday, and they’d driven down to the river. That used to be one of their places when she’d lived with them at the house. She’d left Ashley with Brett, so there was just the two of them.
It was the first time they’d been alone together like that for a long time. She hadn’t said anything very much but he’d felt really close to her, as well as really far apart. There were no words for what was happening to him. He didn’t have them anyway. But Chris sort of knew. And she knew he knew she knew. That was the point, sort of. He was glad of the company, but he’d be happier when it was all worked out about the boots.
‘Get off that computer and come and have your breakfast.’ Nick was grousing at Rowan. ‘You asked for some toast and it’s still sitting here, stone cold.’
‘It’s okay. I changed my mind.’
‘You changed your mind? What you mean is, you never really wanted it in the first place. But you couldn’t resist making Greg make it for you, could you?’
‘I did want it — but I’m doing this now, okay.’
‘No, it’s not okay. Leave this, whatever this is, and come and get something to eat. You’re supposed to be playing a game this afternoon and you can’t run on empty. Or have you changed your mind about that too?’
Dad and Rowan going head to head was something else. Neither of them would back off. Usually it would end with Dad pulling rank or Rowan going all sulky and quiet. Or both.
It was quiet for a minute. Then the door of Rowan’s room slammed and he thumped down the passage to the kitchen.
This was going to be good.
Greg waited.
‘I’m fifteen years old,’ Rowan said really loudly. ‘I reckon I know when I want to eat.’
Greg couldn’t hear Nick’s reply. But he bet it was a beaut.
GREG AND FRENCHY
When they arrived for the match there were already a lot of cars parked by the side of the oval. Greg preferred to be really early, but Rowan had decided at the last minute that he did want something to eat.
‘There’s plenty of time. Relax,’ he’d said. ‘We always get there way too soon.’ Both Nick and Greg could have shoved the muesli down his throat.
Greg made his way around the oval and into the South Fremantle club rooms. The under fifteens were on soon and the coach and most of the players were already there. The coach had written their names on the board against the positions where they’d start. G Lukin: full-forward. Good, no surprises. Nathan was down as rover and Dunny was full-back.
‘Greg,’ the coach said, as soon as he saw him. ‘Looks like you’ll be against Frenchy again, but you won’t recognise him. He’s grown twelve centimetres since last season and put on about ten kilos.’
It was Greg’s first year up from under thirteens and he’d been expecting to play against an older, heavier kid. But it looked like the gorilla was going to be his own age. The coach ran his eyes over Greg, appraising him. ‘Still, you haven’t exactly stopped growing yourself, have you. Should be a good contest.’
There were losses and gains in this age division business. Greg was always excited at the first training session each season. Every year some new kids popped up you didn’t know about, and some kids who’d been around for a while dropped out. And some kids who’d been hopeless last year were suddenly beating you to the ball. And kids you were in total awe of and never thought you could beat dropped back into the pack.
But the big casualty in the last few years had been the girls, especially Jasmine Green. ‘Jazz’, as they called her, had been a star winger in the under thirteens but she’d been told she couldn’t play any more. It was probably because they thought she could get hurt. And because she was growing bits that footballers weren’t used to having to think about in a tackle. Greg had felt really bad when he heard about Jazz. He liked her, and she could put a drop punt into the goal square better than anybody.
The coach talked a little bit about tactics. But mostly he tried to rev them up. They’d need to be really pumping against Cockburn.
As Greg jogged out to his position he could feel his chest tightening. He stopped for a second to talk to Aaron Skinner, who was playing in the pocket. He and Aaron had moved up from the under thirteens together and both of them were finding the different level hard to get used to. Sharing the tension helped, but it didn’t stop the fluttery feeling that was starting in Greg’s stomach. He was glad he’d had a reasonably light breakfast. He was glad of the carbohydrates. He tried to visualise his muscles popping with glycogen.
‘G’day, Lukin,’ Frenchy said. ‘Here we go again, my friend. I can hardly wait.’
The coach wasn’t wrong. Danny French was truly awesome, and his voice was as deep as Darth Vader’s.
‘Nor can I, Danny boy.’
Greg and Frenchy went back a long way together. They’d been playing against one another since the under eights. Last year was the first time they’d specialised as full-forward and full-back — and, it had to be said, Frenchy had had the better of it so far.
The siren went. This was it. The umpire bounced the ball. The rucks went up but neither got a clear tap out. Nathan snaffled the ball as it hit the ground, pivoted and managed to get a handpass in before a Cockburn tackle floored him. Souths’ centreman took the ball, ran, bounced, ran, bounced, and kicked a long one towards the goals.
Greg and Frenchy ran flat out towards it. Frenchy might be bigger and heavier this year, but he wasn’t as fast. Greg was a good half metre clear of him when he took the mark on his chest.
A big cheer went up from the Fremantle camp. Chris and Brett, who were late arriving, were just in time to see Greg pull in the mark.
Greg went back slowly to take his kick, but not slow enough to let the doubts build up. He was going to get this, no worries. He ran in, kicked a drop punt, and knew straight away it was a good one — the connections, the right feelings, were there. It was a pretty straight forward proposition as kicks go, and he nailed it like a good full-forward should.
‘That’s one to me, Frenchy.’
‘The game is but young, my friend.’
By half-time Greg had kicked three goals one point. None of the goals had been anything spectacular but they were good solid kicks — the kind he hadn’t been sure of making before. Frenchy was a worry when it came to the man-on-man stuff, but Greg’s speed and agility seemed to be giving him the edge.
The coach was really pleased. They were four points ahead and the whole team was playing well.
He singled Greg out for a mention. ‘Good play, Greg. You’re a good spearhead to kick to and you’re reading the play well — those leads are great. And you’ve got Frenchy really worried. The kicking’s good too — keep it up.’
The coach was winding up. They got into a closer huddle with their arms around each other. ‘Come on then, guys. Another two quarters of the same stuff. Let’s do it!’
/> They broke up with a cheer and went back to their positions.
Greg had a new player against him — Frenchy had been moved to centre half-back. This was the first time Danny French had been taken off Greg during a game and Greg had to take it as a compliment.
This new kid didn’t look too tough but Greg didn’t know very much about him. He’d played the first half at midfield and hadn’t done too badly.
They nodded to each other and waited for the bounce down.
The new full-back stayed really close to Greg, moving when he moved, jostling him. He must have been sent in as a tag to keep him busy and tie him down. Greg didn’t like to be crowded and hassled. He tried not to let it put him off — that was part of the opposition plan. It was flattering to have this kind of attention directed at him, but annoying too. This kid was sticking to him like sandflies to sunblock.
The wind had strengthened and Souths were kicking into the breeze. The ball stayed down the other end for most of the quarter. Dunny Walls and the other backs did pretty well, and managed to limit the damage to three goals two points.
Finally the hit-out went Freo’s way. Nathan cleared it towards the left wing with a handpass. There was a lot of scrambly play and a throw-in, and then the South Freo wing broke free. He looked around, steadied and booted a beauty against the wind towards centre half-forward. Frenchy went up for it but the Fremantle forward spoiled him. Nathan, running through, got a lucky bounce and sent off a quick kick as the Cockburn backs bore down on him.
Greg was a long way forward, trying to shake off his tag. Nathan’s kick was to the vacant space to his right. He dived for it like a soccer goalie, or Mark Waugh taking a blinder at mid wicket against the Windies. It was the first time Greg had been completely horizontally airborne since he went over the handlebars of his bike when he was ten. He’d split his lip that time, but this felt great. He hit the ground with a thump, rolled and came up with the ball in his hands. Mark. The cheer that went up made him believe it.
Killer Boots Page 4
