Killer Boots
Page 9
The young gun was just as jumpy at the start of the second term. That would take its toll on a guy his size. He was tall and heavy for a Regan — the mother must have had a big say in the genes department.
Toggo strolled forward a few steps and the kid bounced after him. Good. Keep it up, Sonny.
When he saw Jason Tomizzi, the centre half-forward, moving on the ball at midfield Toggo moved too. When Jason looked up he had a perfect lead. Toggo took the mark on his chest a metre in front of the young gun and forty metres out from goal. It wasn’t a difficult kick and he took it quickly. Straight through, no worries. The old gunslinger had the first notch on the barrel of his gun.
The young gun didn’t know what hit him. What was with this guy, he wondered. Toggo seemed to know where the ball was going to go and when. He would be really still and then make these full-on runs. And sometimes he’d stay back a bit, then take a screamer from behind. The one where he kneed him in the back, then used him as a vaulting horse was wicked.
It was almost a relief for the Regan kid when the coach dragged him seventeen minutes into the term. He was exhausted. And Toggo had booted three goals and looked like going on with it.
Sam Godden, a half-back flanker, was thrown in against Toggo next. Toggo had been waiting for Godden. This was a different kind of player — faster, less predictable, more game-wise. Sam took the play up to Toggo and Toggo accepted it with a smile. Thank you very much. At half-time the old gunslinger had four notches on his gun.
Greg and Nathan were ecstatic. The Regan kid, watching from the bench, was sad but mighty impressed. He knew he was seeing something special. He was seeing a champion in touch at the height of his powers. He would never forget. Nor would Mr and Mrs Tognolini listening on the radio. Nor would the two punks watching from behind the goals. Nor would Alison watching from the members stand. Nor would the Dockers match committee watching it on replay that night — twice. Nor would the little sprog watching in the stands with his grandad. Nor would Dempsey, when Toggo came home that night. Nor would anyone who loves football and loves a champion and loves a happy ending.
Next day the back page headline said it all:
TOGGO IS BACK.
WICKED
When Greg came home from school on Monday there was a shoebox on the porch by the front door. On top was a note: ‘Thanks for the loan of the boots. I took good care of them. I seem to remember you liked my Mustang. How would you like to go for a drive? Here’s my number (please eat this note after you’ve read it. I don’t want any calls from zit farmers wanting footy tips).’ It was signed Matt.
Greg took the boots out and turned them over in his hands the same way he’d done all those weeks ago. These boots had kicked a lot of goals and covered a lot of ground since then. If there was a goal kicking competition for boots, this pair would win it hands down.
Greg went inside and stood by the phone. He was going to ring Toggo but he wanted to get his breath first. And to work out what he was going to say. He didn’t want to sound dumb. Hello, Matt. This is Greg Lukin. Yes, I would love to go for a drive …
He picked up the phone and dialled.
‘Hello.’ It was Toggo.
‘Uh, hi … it’s Greg Lukin here. Uh …’
‘Hi, mate. You got the boots?’
‘Yeah … uh … um …’
‘Good. Look, I’m just sitting here with my dog. How about we take that spin right now — the weather’s great.’
‘Uh … sure.’
‘You ringing from home? Yeah? I’ll be there in ten.’
When Greg put the phone down his face was hot. He hated it when he couldn’t think of anything to say. He hoped he’d be able to talk when Toggo arrived.
Greg wrote a note and stuck in on the fridge: Dear Dad — Gone for a drive with Toggo. Back soon. Rowan would see it when he came in from school and be totally envious.
Greg was sitting on the steps when the Mustang slid to a halt at the front of the house. He took a breath. That was a beautiful machine all right. And the top was down. He’d never had a ride in an open convertible before. Or any kind of convertible. But what was that big dog doing sitting in the passenger seat. What was her name again? Dempsey?
Toggo said something to the dog and she jumped over into the back. Good — but now the back seat would have scratches all over it as well.
The driver’s door opened and Toggo got out.
‘Hi Greg,’ he said. ‘I’ll just get a blanket out of the boot for you to sit on. The front seat’s covered in dog hair.’
Greg didn’t like to tell Toggo that he had it the wrong way around. That the blanket should go down for the dog. But somehow it was good to know that Matt Tognolini had hairy seats. It made him human. Greg started to relax.
‘Right,’ Toggo said when they were all organised. ‘Let’s hit the road.’ He turned the key and the big car glided off, smooth as silk. Greg settled back into the leather seat. Just as they were turning the corner onto the highway, he saw Rowan getting off the bus with a couple of his mates. ‘Could you step on it a bit,’ he asked. ‘That’s my brother.’
Toggo grinned. ‘Sure.’ He opened the throttle right up so the engine blared as they passed the group of kids. Greg had a moment of pure bliss as Rowan turned and saw the car. It was even better when Rowan saw who the driver and passenger were. His mouth opened and his jaw dropped to his knees. Greg spoke his feelings out loud: ‘Yay! Wicked.’
Toggo laughed. ‘Yeah, wicked.’ He was enjoying himself.
He turned right and they rolled down to the river by the new bridge. They turned right again and cruised cool and low by the cool slow water. Boats at their moorings tugged and nudged like puppies. Boats under way were as smooth and sleek as cats.
‘You know,’ Greg said. He was feeling loose and open and happy. ‘I’m glad you don’t need the boots any more. We’ve got the preliminary finals coming up and I really need to play well.’
‘Do you need the boots to do that?’
Greg was surprised. ‘Sure … I always play great when I wear them.’
‘Maybe you’d play great anyway.’
‘But …’ Greg was confused. This was Toggo speaking. Toggo knew the boots were special. He’d said so in his letter. And the boots had helped him kick ten goals in the derby and prove to everybody that he was still a champion. ‘But …’ Greg tried again, ‘they helped you play great on Sunday.’
Toggo didn’t say anything for a moment. Then he shook his head. ‘This might come as a bit of a shock to you, mate, but I didn’t wear the boots on Sunday.’
Greg couldn’t believe it.
‘You didn’t wear them?’
‘Nuh.’
‘How come?’
‘Well … I was really glad when you left them for me. And I was going to wear them right up to the time I had to get ready to play. But … it was like … I had to trust myself, you know. I knew I could play well, and I did.’
Greg went quiet. This was a lot to take in at one hit. Toggo hadn’t worn the boots. Toggo hadn’t worn the boots and he’d still played a really magic game. But Toggo was a champion anyway — he’d been a champion before he got the boots and he’d be a champion without them.
‘It’s different with me,’ Greg said out loud. ‘I only started to play really well when I got the boots.’
Toggo thought for a while. ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Sure.’
‘Just before you kicked that goal at the end of that match where I saw you play. What did you feel? What was happening?’
‘It was like …’ Greg stopped. It was hard to explain.
‘… everything went still …?’ Toggo prompted.
‘Yeah, or slowed down … and all the colours …’
‘… ran together and you felt really focused and …’
‘I knew all I had to do was just …’
‘go with it, just …’
‘let it happen, just let it happen.’
They tur
ned and looked at one another. ‘Yeah.’ Greg said.
‘That’s not the boots, mate. You got the feeling.’
‘The feeling?’
‘You know what I’m talking about. You just described it. Maybe the boots gave you confidence, you know. Let you trust what you already had. Maybe if you believed in yourself instead of the boots, you wouldn’t need them.’
That seemed like a lot of maybes to Greg. But it felt right.
‘And anyway,’ Toggo said. ‘You must have grown a couple of centimetres since we met at the oval. Those boots aren’t going to fit you next year. And somehow, I don’t think you’re going to be a one season wonder.’
Greg hoped so. Already he was itching to try himself without the boots.
‘Course, you better not grow too fast and get too good too soon,’ Toggo said. ‘I want to finish my time with the Dockers at full-forward.’
‘Maybe, if I keep getting better, we’ll overlap. Maybe we’ll play a season together.’
‘Long as you play in the pocket or at half-forward, mate. Full-forward’s taken, remember.’ Toggo laughed. He turned under one of the entries to the wharf. ‘Come on, let’s do the harbour.’
A HAPPY ENDING
A big red open convertible was cruising the stretch of bitumen that ran the length of the wharf. You would have turned and looked if you were there. A couple of passers-by did turn to stare. And a group of people fishing. And a couple of seamen returning to their ship. What they saw was two young guys in an amazing car, with a big black dog sitting in the back, straight and calm like a visiting dignitary.
Matt Tognolini didn’t mind people staring right now. He was having a ball.
They cruised past the huge passenger terminal where his grandparents had landed as migrants just after the Second World War. His father had been a baby in their arms. They cruised past the spot where E shed used to be. Up ahead were D shed and C shed where Greg’s grandfather and great-uncles had lumped bags onto ships forty years ago and still told the stories.
On the left, the old woolstores blinked at them from across the tracks. They were empty and waiting. The yuppie apartments, the boutiques and the focaccia hadn’t reached them yet.
They cruised on past the ships and the sheds and the seagulls and the cranes. This was still a working port and there were people who remembered.
The bitumen strip was long, and opened up in front of them like an airstrip. Like the future. Baroooooom, Greg said, as if he was with Ashley. Barrooooooooooooom, Toggo said, because he was with Greg.
Toggo turned the wheel, and they swung back out from the harbour, out from this story and into the rest of their lives.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Wendy Jenkins has been based in and around Fremantle for most of her life. Her early childhood was spent in a football family in the heart of Bulldog’s territory (South Fremantle) and a love of Freo and Aussie rules was unavoidable.
Wendy has published poetry, short fiction and novels for young readers.
First published 1996
by FREMANTLE PRESS
25 Quarry Street, Fremantle
Western Australia, 6160.
This edition first published 2016.
Copyright © Wendy Jenkins, 1996.
This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, research, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.
Cover photograph ‘Graham’ by Tracey Gibbs
Cover design by traceygibbs.com
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-publication data
Jenkins, Wendy Elizabeth, 1952 –.
Killer Boots.
ISBN 9781925163940
A823.3
Fremantle Press is supported by the State Government through the Department of Culture and the Arts.