Chris was a lot more relaxed about Greg than she’d been a few weeks back. Her antennae were down, but not completely. Whatever had been bothering him — and she knew the boots were part of it — had lessened. But it hadn’t gone away. He could still get really keyed up … but maybe that was part of the way he was. Even as a little kid he’d never done things by halves. He could get so full of energy sometimes she’d expected him to crackle. With football, it was like he found some focus for this energy — some way of using it. After a game he’d be happy, but still slightly keyed — like he really did think what he hinted at sometimes. That it was the boots that were making him play well.
Nick was as pleased as anything. He liked watching the kids play and got a huge kick out of how well Greg was doing. When he went up for one of those high marks, Nick couldn’t help thinking ‘That’s my boy’. He’d been a really keen player himself as a kid and had played reserves for South Fremantle for a couple of seasons. He’d come close to getting a league game once when there were a couple of players out with injuries, but he hadn’t got the nod.
When Greg took the screamer just before the siren, they all stood up. People were pushing forward, and kids sitting in front were getting to their feet. When the ball sailed through the goals, a huge cheer went up.
‘Well,’ Nick said, ‘I don’t like to admit it but he didn’t get it from me.’
‘Well, I don’t think he got it from me,’ Chris replied.
‘Well,’ Brett said, ‘he certainly didn’t get it from me.’
They looked at one another. Nick laughed first, then Chris and Brett joined in.
When Greg came over after Toggo had driven off, they were still together. Greg didn’t believe it. His father and the Banana Smoothie were actually talking and joking together.
Nick took off almost as soon as he’d made connection with Greg. He wanted to see Rowan’s match as well. The others followed a while later. The under fifteens were so stoked no one seemed to want to leave the ground.
On the way to Rowan’s game Greg was very quiet. He felt good but it was like he was in overload. He needed some time in his own head to get himself back. Chris seemed to understand and she and Brett were quiet too. And, amazingly, there wasn’t a peep out of Ashley. She’d worn herself out running around, and nodded off in her chair as soon as they strapped her in.
OZONE
The good feeling stayed with Matt Tognolini all week. He was back on track now, and running. He could feel the old connections starting up. And even more important, he wanted to play. He really wanted to play footy, in a way he hadn’t for a long time. When he kicked the ball at training he could feel the old fire in his legs. That Lukin kid had reminded him of how good it could be.
TOGGO BACK FOR DERBY
Matt Tognolini will play his first game since injuring his hamstring in round five when he pulls on the red and white for this Sunday’s clash with the Sharks at Fremantle oval. The Dockers ace goal-kicker has been training well and is hopeful of rejoining the AFL side for the lead up to the finals.
‘What Toggo needs now is to play lots of footy, and a run or two in WAFL should set him up well,’ said Dockers manager, Neil Gerard.
The star full-forward, who struggled for form in the early rounds, faces tough competition for his old spot — first season player Luke Vidovich has been particularly impressive in front of goal in recent weeks. It is vital that Tognolini show a return to form if he is to stamp his mark on the full-forward position …
What competition? Greg couldn’t believe it. No one compared to Toggo at his best. The problem was, he wasn’t at his best.
What Toggo had said when Nathan told him about the ‘killer boots’ had stayed with Greg: ‘I could do with a pair like that myself.’ Well, the boots were Toggo’s really. He’d said in his letter that Greg was meant to have them, but maybe he was just saying that because he was a nice guy. Maybe he’d really wanted the boots back all the time. Maybe he was the one who was meant to have them — not Greg.
Toggo and the boots haunted Greg all day at school, though he tried not to think about it too much. In Environmental Studies Mrs West kept asking him things as if she knew that he was really spaced. He had to fight to come back in from the outer zones, to concentrate. The ozone layer had a big enough hole in it without him filling his lungs with the stuff.
But the thought of lungs brought Toggo back again. He was on TV all the time now telling people not to smoke. I couldn’t take those high marks without a good set of lungs. Give Smoking the Boot.
Greg couldn’t stop his mind playing with those words and that rhythm. It set up in his head like a chant or a rap song. Give Smoking the Boot. Give Toggo the Boot. Give Toggo the Boots.
As soon as Greg got home from school he took out Toggo’s letter. It was in the album with his cards and clippings. What hit him now was the bit where Toggo said that he was pleased to think of the boots kicking goals while he was out of action. Well, Toggo wasn’t out of action any more. He was back for the derby. And if he was back he would need the boots. For a little while, anyway. Until he was Toggo again. Until everyone remembered what a champion he was.
When Matt Tognolini opened the door of the Mustang after training there was a shoebox on the front seat. Oh, hell. He’d forgotten to lock the car again. Alison was always telling him about that.
So what had been left for him this time? A woman last year had left him some little iced cakes with her phone number folded in amongst them. Dempsey had really liked those. And a kid had left a petition under his windscreen wipers, with two whole pages of signatures, asking him to come to his birthday party. (No way.) And there’d been someone who left some hand-knitted socks with a lucky charm inside. The socks fitted him perfectly and he wore them when it was really cold.
Some of the offerings this year hadn’t been so nice. Especially since the ‘Give Smoking the Boot’ campaign had plastered his picture everywhere. There’d been some pretty unpleasant notes left under his wipers and one was even skewered onto the Mustang’s aerial.
Hang up your boots, you fairy. You couldn’t hit the water if you fell out of a boat.
Give yourself the boot, you mug.
Thank god for Big Luke. You couldn’t hit the side of a barn with a bowl of spaghetti.
The shoebox had a note stuck on top. He took a deep breath. These notes were really getting him down.
Dear Toggo
I am returning the boots to you for a couple of weeks so you will have good luck and show people how good you can play. (When you’ve finished with them could you please leave them at the office at the front of Freo oval with my name on them. I will come and get them.)
Thank you
PS. These boots have kicked fifty-four goals, even though I played at half-back some of the time.
Toggo was really choked. That kid just cut him up.
The boots were in great condition. Greg must have kept them just for matches and the occasional practice run. He’d probably come to the training session today in the hope of seeing him. And when he’d spotted the Mustang, he couldn’t resist trying the door.
Well, Toggo thought, I will wear them — for one game, anyway.
He hadn’t forgotten what it had felt like to wear the boots when he’d played with Greg at the old oval. Fairy boots, Alison had called them. The note writers would agree. They were killer boots to Greg. Well, both sounded mighty fine to Toggo. He’d have killer boots on fairy feet when he played in the derby. East Fremantle wouldn’t know what hit them.
FAIRY DANCE OF THE KILLER BOOTS
‘Not more boots,’ Alison said, when Matt put the shoebox on the spare chair in the restaurant. He’d just joined her for lunch. ‘Don’t you have enough pairs already?’
‘These aren’t new, they’re the fairy boots. The gen-u-ine article.’
‘Really …?’ Alison looked puzzled. Then she thought of something. ‘Oh, Matt, you didn’t go and get them back off that kid did you? I know this game�
��s really important to you, but …’
‘Course not. A good fairy left them.’ He handed Alison the note.
‘Well,’ she said, after she’d read it. ‘They’re a special pair of boots all right.’
‘Yeah, they are. I gotta live up to them now or that kid’ll be after me.’
Toggo looked around. The table was in the open air on the cafe strip and there were lots of passers-by. It made him feel uncomfortable. Too many people wanted to give him advice about his kicking. Or tell him, between coughs, that smoking never did them any harm. Those notes were on his mind. But he was feeling good. He wouldn’t let it get him down.
He decided, suddenly, to put the boots on. He wanted to see how they felt on his feet. As he tightened the laces he became aware of a pair of hairy knees near his head. Someone huge was standing very close to the table. Before he looked up he knew it was trouble.
It was. Two big full-back types were glaring at him and looking mean. He wished they’d changed tables after all.
‘I hope ya play better on Sunday than ya been doing, yer big girl. We need proper players, not AFL rejects.’
Matt didn’t say anything. It didn’t get you anywhere to answer that kind of stuff.
‘Excuse me,’ Alison said. ‘We’re trying to have our lunch.’
‘Can’t ya talk for yourself yer big poof?’ The second guy took a long drawback on his cigarette and blew the smoke into Toggo’s face. ‘Give fairies the boot,’ he said.
Suddenly it was like the boots took on a life of their own. Matt jumped onto the spare chair, pirouetted, and kicked the cigarette out of the guy’s hand with a neat karate kick. Then he jumped again, like a ninja, and landed lightly on his feet, facing their backs. What was this? He’d turned into a cross between Gero, Nureyev and the Ninja Turtles.
‘Get out of here,’ he said. Now he sounded like Rambo.
The two punks were so stunned they didn’t know what to do. Matt was stunned too, and really glad his hamstring hadn’t gone again. He was lucky. He took it as a good sign.
The punks turned and were eyeballing him from two metres. What happens now, he wondered. He’d fight if he had to but he kind of liked the shape of his face. And he didn’t like pain. And he especially didn’t want to be put out of action before the game on Sunday.
Just when he was starting to think that the general public were all note writers and haters, a guy at the next table stood up. He’d had a ringside seat at what was going down. ‘You heard the man,’ he said. ‘Get out of here.’ Half-a-dozen people stood up at their tables and stared at the punks.
The punks looked confused. They hadn’t been in a situation like this before. When a couple of waiters came over and asked them to leave, they did.
‘Where did you learn to do that?’ Alison asked, when Matt was back in his chair. ‘I didn’t know you could do karate.’
‘Nor did I. And don’t ask me to do it again because I don’t think I could.’
‘Once is enough, believe me,’ Alison said. They were both pretty quiet as they ate their lasagna. Matt wasn’t completely sure what had happened. It was like, when he’d really needed to call up everything he had, he’d been able to. They were special boots all right.
When they got up to leave the restaurant, someone called out: ‘Good luck for Sunday, Toggo.’
‘Yeah, kick a ton, Matt,’ someone else chipped in.
A couple other people looked a bit puzzled. Who is this guy with a funny name, they were wondering. And why does he need good luck?
It came as a shock to Toggo, sometimes, to realise that not everyone in Fremantle was a footy fan. And that not everyone was focused on the fortunes of his kicking boot. It was a bit of a relief as well.
Still, anyone who was in Freo on Sunday would be left in no doubt that Fremantle was a football town. No doubt at all.
A SPECIAL DREAM
When Matt Tognolini woke up on Sunday morning he let his feelings swim for a minute. There were some shiny traces in his memory like a dream sometimes leaves behind. A special dream. He lay very still and tried to bring the dream back.
He was in a kind of mediaeval landscape but it wasn’t old. It was as if the past and the future existed in the same place.
He walked out through the gates of a castle onto open ground. To his right was the ocean and a big white horse was galloping at the edge of the water. It was magnificent. He was thrilled and frightened to see such a powerful thing running free.
The horse turned and started towards him. He wished he hadn’t walked out so far from the castle walls. He couldn’t get back before the horse reached him. Unless he ran. He didn’t want to run.
The horse slowed and came up to him gently. It was quivering and snorting and its eyes were very bright. It was really quite beautiful.
He reached out to it slowly. He ran his hand down the horse’s nose and side and spoke to it.
He realised suddenly, with a shock, that this was his horse. He’d been in the castle so long he’d forgotten he’d once ridden such a magnificent animal.
The horse had become wild and used to the open spaces. But all that was stopping him riding it again was remembering how it had been. Remembering, and believing that he could.
Toggo lay in bed for a while, running over the dream. He wanted to be sure that he had all of the traces firmly in his mind.
This dream had a message for him. It seemed to be saying that the special feeling he had for football was like the white horse. He had been away from it for too long. He had forgotten that it was his. He had forgotten what it was like to ride it, to go with the energy. But all he had to do was remember and believe. Greg Lukin had helped him remember. Now what he had to do was believe.
TOGGO IS BACK
When Matt Tognolini ran onto Fremantle oval he was raring to go. He was on his home ground, his muscles were full of glycogen, and he believed.
A huge roar went up from the crowd as the teams appeared. Toggo looked around. There were two huge overlapping seas in the stands and banked along the sides of the ground: one was red and white and one was blue and white. The game was a sell-out, and every blob of colour seemed to be cheering the teams on.
Toggo loved this ground and he loved playing in a derby. He’d been eighteen the first time he’d done it. He was older now but he felt the same surge of adrenalin, the same desire to win pumping in his veins.
It was contagious — they were all feeling it. Some of the younger players were jumping out of their skins. He’d have to be careful though, and pace himself. He wasn’t eighteen any more and this was his first game after a long time out. He’d have to go easy in the first quarter and be sure his leg and his fitness could carry him through. He felt great though — as soon as he was sure his body was up to it, he’d let rip.
The full-back against him was in his first season. He’d probably never played in front of a crowd like this before. He was a Regan, one of Freo’s old footy families. The stand was more than likely packed with his rellies, and girls he wanted to impress.
At twenty-four Toggo was close to being a veteran. This kid certainly thought he was. He was eyeing him off like Toggo was an old gunslinger and there was going to be a shoot-out at high noon. The young gun wanted him as a notch on the barrel of his colt 45. Well hang on, Sonny, there’s some life in these legs yet.
The bounce down seemed a long time coming. Slow down, Toggo told himself. Don’t waste energy. The kid was rocking forward onto the balls of his feet and taking small jumps. He thought he was keeping his muscles warm. The old gunslinger smiled. The young gun was so keyed up he was burning into his reserves. Good. Keep this up and he’d shoot himself in the foot.
Greg and Nathan were watching from the stands. Greg’s eyes had been on Toggo’s feet as he ran out onto the ground. It was hard to tell from this distance but he was sure he was wearing the boots.
The South Fremantle under fifteens had played in their semifinal yesterday, and they’d won. Greg hadn’t had such
a good day himself, but the rest of team had lifted and played like they were inspired. Which they were. The game the week before had given them all heart. All except Greg, who was missing the boots like crazy.
The coach had told him not to worry. He said that Greg couldn’t expect to have a magic game every time he played. But the coach didn’t know the magic was in the boots. And those boots were now on Matt Tognolini’s feet.
Finally, the umpire bounced the ball. Greg was on the edge of his seat like he was expecting Toggo to burst out of full-forward with flames on his heels. Come on, Toggo.
When the siren went to end the first quarter, Greg and Nathan were pretty glum. Toggo hadn’t done anything much really. Just chased the ball a bit and kicked a point. There was a niggle at the back of Greg’s mind that he was trying to stop becoming a thought: maybe Toggo was finished. Maybe the boots weren’t enough to bring him back.
Toggo was quiet at the quarter break, but happy inside. He’d tested the hamstring out in match conditions and it was fine. And the rhythm and sense of playing in a game had fed back into him through his skin like sunshine. You couldn’t get that from training. Only playing in a game could get you ready for playing in a game. It had been hard keeping himself from going full out but he’d managed it. And worn the young gun out quite a bit in the process.
The Regan kid was stoked. He’d run after Toggo the whole time and managed to keep his score down to just one point. The uncles would be impressed. Even if this guy was coming back from an injury, he was still the great Matt Tognolini.
Alison, watching from the members stand, could see how quiet and still Matt was. He was psyching himself up, focusing his energy. Please, she begged silently, let him play well.
Killer Boots Page 8
