by Felice Arena
Specky grinned.
‘Hey, Italian Stallion!’ Robbo called out to Danny. ‘Look! It’s the Gladiator and she’s not happy. And who would be, if they were dumped by email?’
Specky turned with Danny to see Maria marching towards them.
‘Looks as if you can’t avoid her any longer, mate,’ Specky said. ‘Too bad she’s a State sprinting champion, otherwise I’d say run for it.’
‘Ha! Ha! Very funny,’ Danny said. ‘Well, I have to face her sometime. Here goes.’
Specky and the others watched as Danny jogged off to meet Maria. The time had arrived for him to face the music. Specky expected at any moment to see the Gladiator take a firm grip of Danny’s neck with her giant hands and strangle him in broad daylight. But nothing happened. In fact, from where Specky was standing, it all looked very civil. A couple of minutes later, Danny returned looking a little perplexed.
‘So?’ asked Specky. ‘What happened?’
‘Nothing,’ said Danny, dumbfounded. ‘She said that she was sorry that it had to end like this and she wished me all the best.’
‘That was it?’
‘Yeah. She didn’t scream or cry … not even the sniffles. Nothing.’
‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it?’ asked Specky, snatching the footy out of the Bullet’s hands as he ran past.
‘Yeah, I suppose,’ sighed Danny.
Specky was about to ask Danny why he was so down in the dumps, but the lunch break was almost over and he had to see Mr Rutherford.
When Specky reached the staff room, he found Sols waiting there patiently. Teachers streamed in and out, totally oblivious to the two boys hovering by the door.
‘I’m packing it, mate,’ Sols croaked anxiously. ‘But I think I did okay.’
‘Yeah, me too,’ Specky sighed. ‘Did you ask for him?’
Sols nodded. Moments later, Mr Rutherford appeared.
‘Right, follow me,’ he said. ‘We can use Mr Stout’s office.’ Mr Rutherford ushered the boys into the vice-principal’s room.
‘Mr Solomon, well done. You passed. Forty-one out of fifty. You may leave.’
Specky gave Sols a congratulatory pat on the back as he left the office beaming.
‘Right. Simon. I’m a little surprised,’ Mr Rutherford said. ‘I thought someone who understands what it means to work hard to succeed would apply that knowledge to other facets of their life. Evidently, when it comes to Mathematics, you don’t. You not only failed this test, but failed dismally.’
15. fragile
The news of Specky’s failed Maths test hit the Magee household a little before dinnertime.
‘SIMON! COME DOWN HERE AT ONCE!’ roared Mr Magee from the bottom of the stairs. ‘YOUR MOTHER AND I WANT TO TALK TO YOU! NOW!’
Specky appeared sheepishly from behind his bedroom door. How had his father found out so soon?
He shuffled into the kitchen to face his parents.
‘I am hugely disappointed,’ said Mr Magee, his arms crossed in anger. ‘Since when have you been failing Maths? In fact, you’ve failed two tests in one week, we’ve been told.’
‘Who told you?’ Specky asked, slouching and looking at the floor.
‘Your new Maths teacher, Mr Rutherford, called us to explain why he won’t allow you to play in the Grand Final on Saturday,’ said Mrs Magee, looking as distressed as Specky’s dad.
‘Well, what have you got to say for yourself?’ asked Mr Magee.
‘This sucks,’ Specky said.
‘Excuse me?’ said his dad, with a threatening tone.
‘I can’t believe I failed that test, Dad. I knew every question! That jerk’s got it in for me!’
‘Mind your language, Simon,’ warned his mother.
‘Well, it’s true, Mum! I know I’m not that bad at Maths. This new teacher hates me or something. Yeah, I failed that first test he sprung on us, but just by a few marks. That’s because I’d been away for a week and a half and I was still a bit distracted, but this other test, it’s –’
‘So, you’re blaming football?’ said Mr Magee, cutting Specky off.
‘No, no, I’m not. It’s just –’
‘Well, if that’s the case,’ continued Specky’s dad, ‘maybe we have to review your football commitments and what it means to your overall education. You know where we stand when it comes to school versus football, don’t you? Simon?’
‘Yes – school comes before footy, not the other way around,’ said Specky, his jaw tensing up. ‘But maybe footy does come first? Or maybe it should at least be on the same level as school?’
Before either of his parents could answer, Grandpa Ken stepped into the room.
What a disaster, Specky thought. He knew his grandpa would be on his side, but he also knew that meant his dad definitely wouldn’t be.
‘I can’t eavesdrop any longer,’ said Grandpa Ken. ‘The boy needs some back-up here.’
‘This doesn’t involve you,’ Mr Magee said to his father. ‘Just give us some privacy, please.’
‘No, I’m sorry, I won’t,’ said Grandpa Ken defiantly.
‘Ken, please. This is between us,’ added Mrs Magee.
‘Okay, Jane, perhaps you’re right. Perhaps this has nothing to do with me,’ said Grandpa Ken. ‘But for what it’s worth, it isn’t fair to stop Simon from playing footy. Football is his future – it’s his career.’
‘The nerve of you. You think we don’t know what’s best for our own son?’ said Mr Magee.
‘I wasn’t saying that!’ snapped Grandpa Ken. ‘All I’m saying is that perhaps someone like you, with no sporting knowledge or experience, can’t be expected to understand –’
‘Oh, here we go,’ said Mr Magee to Specky’s mum. ‘He’s going to throw this at me again. If this is the reason you’ve come back, Ken – to bring it all back up again …’
Specky caught Grandpa Ken glancing at him. He knew he was thinking about what they had talked about in the car at St Kilda and his promise to try and get along with his son. He hesitated. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said suddenly.
‘You’re what?’ asked Specky’s dad, clearly taken aback.
‘I said, I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s not my place to say anything. I’ll leave you to it.’
As Grandpa Ken turned to leave the room, Specky saw him stumble and grab at a chair for support, just as he had before.
‘Are you okay, Grandpa?’ asked Specky.
Grandpa didn’t answer, and then he collapsed on the ground – unconscious.
It was midnight before Mr Magee returned home, alone, from the hospital. And though Alice had gone to bed hours ago, and Jack was fast asleep, Specky had waited up with his mother to find out what had happened.
‘Was it a stroke?’ asked Specky’s mum, softly.
‘No,’ Mr Magee replied. He sounded a little breathless. ‘No, he has a …’ He trailed off and then started again. ‘He has a tumour. My father has a brain tumour.’
‘Is he okay?’ asked Specky, realising what a lame question it was as soon as he said it.
‘Well, he’s conscious again, but he’s known he’s had this all along. I can’t believe he didn’t tell me.’
Specky watched his father zone out. He looked totally exhausted. ‘That’s why he came here after all these years,’ he said. ‘He knew he was dying. The doctors say there’s nothing they can do. It’s only a matter of time. They couldn’t tell me exactly how long he’s got. Six months. A year. No one knows.’
Specky watched his parents embrace. He had never seen his dad look so upset.
And he thought he had problems.
The following morning at school, Specky was walking down the corridor feeling depressed. He was so distracted he didn’t even see Tiger Girl as he walked past her.
‘Hey, you!’ She tapped him on the shoulder. ‘I heard. I’m so sorry you failed,’ she said. ‘But I really can’t believe it. Is it true Mr Rutherford won’t let you play? He can’t do that, can he?’
‘Ye
ah, well, I think he can … and now my folks are on my case, too.’
‘That’s so unfair!’ she said. ‘I reckon you should get the test back. We can go through it and see what you got wrong. You answered all the questions right when we were studying. Besides, it might put you in Rutherford’s good books. Hey, you look pretty stressed. Have been up all night or something?’
Suddenly Specky remembered that if anyone understood what Grandpa Ken might be going through, it was TG. Having survived cancer herself some time ago, she was not only sympathetic, but also knowledgeable. Specky told her what had happened the night before.
‘Oh, Speck! Is the tumour malignant? Is he having treatment for it?’
‘I’m not sure of the details. But I don’t think the doctors can treat it,’ Specky said. ‘Dad says I can’t visit for a few days until he’s stable. Can I ask you a few questions about it all? But not now, that’s a really good idea to get the test – I’m going to talk to Rutherford.’
As Specky turned to head off, Tiger Girl grabbed his hand and squeezed it gently.
‘I hope your grandpa will be okay,’ she whispered.
When Specky reached the staff room he found Mr Rutherford outside talking with another teacher. When he asked to look at the test to see where he went wrong, his teacher looked impressed.
‘Sure! Now that’s the attitude towards learning that I like to see. I’ll be back in a sec.’
Mr Rutherford returned with Specky’s Maths test and handed it to him. As Specky flicked through the paper, looking at all the incorrect answers, he noticed something really strange.
‘This test isn’t mine!’ he said, looking up at Mr Rutherford.
‘What do you mean, it isn’t yours?’ he said. ‘That’s your name written at the top, isn’t it?’
Specky nodded. ‘It is, but it’s not even my handwriting. This is … this is …’ Specky couldn’t think of a way to describe how wrong it was that he was being punished for something he didn’t do. ‘This is grossly unjust!’ he said finally, borrowing a phrase he had once heard on a TV law show.
‘Really? Grossly unjust?’ scoffed Mr Rutherford, crossing his arms. ‘You’re not trying to be funny with me, are you, Magee?’
‘No, I’m serious. This isn’t mine.’
Mr Rutherford’s face darkened.
‘Of all the stories I’ve heard from students, this one takes the cake, Magee. I know you’re desperate to play, but this is bordering on pathetic. Read my lips: you are not playing on Saturday.’
16. reality check
On Friday afternoon, Specky went by tram to see a physio in the city – an appointment set up by Grub. He had treatment and a deep-tissue massage and then a twenty-minute warm-up on an exercise bike. Initial signs looked good. The tightness that had been restricting his leg for a couple of days was now almost unnoticeable. But the good news only made him dwell on not being able to play for Booyong – he couldn’t stop wondering about his Maths test. Someone obviously didn’t want him to play in the final. There was no other explanation Specky could come up with.
After the appointment, he tried to put his emotions aside by going for a run. He pulled on his runners, grabbed the footy out of his bag, and jogged on to the nearby oval.
Only five days ago he had struggled to get himself out of bed, but now Specky moved around the boundary line of the oval with ease, alternatively bouncing the ball in either hand. For the first time, the problems of the previous week started to disappear. Specky was in his element.
He did half a dozen stride-throughs from one end of the oval to the other, increasing the pace with each one, so that by the time he was on his final run, he was close to full speed.
The relief he felt, made Specky realise how much the injury had been playing on his mind. He started to kick the ball high into the air – running, jumping, and marking the ball above his head. He felt as if he were eight years old again, playing for the fun of it. He sprinted around the ground, kicked the ball to himself, dribbled the footy along the ground and gathered it again at full pace, and took running shots at goal from impossible angles.
After forty minutes, Specky had worked up a sweat, and in his own mind there was little doubt he was fit enough to play for Booyong the following day. He ran back inside the medical clinic and, as a precaution, had the physio apply a massive ice pack to his right buttock.
Specky sat there, running through what might happen if he lined up for Booyong in the Grand Final. Luke Hodge, the Hawthorn champ, went into the 2008 Grand Final against Geelong under a huge injury cloud due to his injured ribs, and not only was he able to play, he also won the Norm Smith Medal for best player on the ground. But Specky knew that if he played and got injured early, his team would be down to just twenty-one men and it would almost certainly rule out playing in the National Final. Specky was aware that even AFL players were confronted with decisions like this. He had once heard from one of the leading medicos in the competition that whenever there’s doubt about the fitness of a player leading into a game the question has to be asked: ‘Will I be compromised in any way if I play?’ If the answer is ‘yes’, then the player should have another week off. But after his time out on the oval, Specky didn’t think he would be compromising anyone if he went out and played.
Perhaps now he knew that his Maths test had been sabotaged, he could convince his dad that he should be allowed to play. If he could get his dad on side, surely Mr Rutherford would see how unfair it all was …
‘Dad, Dad, where are you?’ Specky almost knocked the front door down as he went in search of his father.
‘Simon, slow down,’ said Mrs Magee, as she chopped vegetables for a stir-fry. ‘Your father’s on his way back from the hospital. He’ll be here shortly. How did you go at the physio? Why so excited all of a sudden?’
‘It went well, Mum,’ he said, as he gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘Just need to talk to Dad, that’s all.’
‘Well, it’s nice to see you in a good mood, whatever the reason. Before you talk to your dad, could you go and check on Jack?’
Specky’s brother was lying on his back in a bassinet, reaching up to the mobiles hanging from the handle.
‘Hello there, little champion,’ said Specky. He reached down to tickle him, and Jack grabbed hold of his finger.
‘Do you want me to pick you up, mate?’ Specky said, smiling. But as he lifted him from the bassinet, Specky felt a sharp pain shoot through his injured buttock and down into his hamstring. It came as such a shock, he almost dropped the baby before carefully laying him back down in the bassinet.
Specky was stunned. He’d been so confident that he had overcome the injury that he hadn’t given it a second thought on his way home from the physio. But he was beginning to realise that Grub was right – if he played for Booyong, he wouldn’t be able to play for his State. Even if he’d passed the test, he couldn’t have played for his school.
‘What’s up?’ said Mr Magee, appearing at the doorway. ‘Your mum said you wanted to speak to me. I hope it’s got nothing to do with your school match tomorrow, because you know we’ve made up our mind. It’s a painful lesson, but we think it’s for your own good. You won’t be playing in tomorrow’s game, okay?’
Specky brushed past his father without making eye contact and headed to his room.
‘I know I’m not, Dad. I know I’m not.’
Specky woke the next morning with the strangest feeling. His beloved Booyong High were about to play in a Grand Final and he was not going to be a part of it.
The only thing he could do now was get to the game and try to provide as much support and encouragement as he could. Without being big-headed about it, he knew the team would be stressing because he wouldn’t be taking his place in the side.
One by one, his friends had rung him to try and figure out some way to get him back into the team. Specky had decided not to say anything about the extent of his injury. He was glad he didn’t have to choose between letting his friends down a
nd being fit to play the MCG Final. Whoever had swapped the test obviously thought they were hurting him, but they had accidentally done him a favour and saved him a very hard decision.
When Specky arrived at the ground, he saw Robbo, Danny, Gobba, Johnny, the Bombay Bullet and Smashing Sols huddled behind the change rooms.
What are they up to? Specky wondered as he made his way over to them.
‘Shouldn’t you be getting changed? You’ve got a Grand Final to win, you know,’ he said, startling them. They all turned at once, looking guilty.
‘Oh … g’day, Speck,’ said Danny. ‘We were just about to head in.’
One by one, Specky’s friends broke off from the huddle to reveal Gobba, with one arm bandaged from the tips of his fingers to his shoulder. He was awkwardly trying to put a sling over his head.
Specky couldn’t believe his eyes. Gobba looked up, saw Specky staring at him and immediately started to moan and groan.
‘Oh, my arm … my arm. I can’t feel my fingers. I think I’ve dislocated my shoulder.’ Gobba’s face was contorted and he was unsteady on his feet.
‘Mate, what are you doing?’ Specky asked.
‘Oh, Speck, thank God you’re here, mate. I’m not gonna be able to play in the Grand Final today. I was putting on my jumper and my left shoulder just popped out of its socket. Oh, it’s killing me. It does this all the time.’
‘Really?’ said Specky. ‘Your left shoulder, you say?’
‘Yeah … arrgghh … oh, it’s killing me. I’d better go and tell Mr Rutherford. He’ll have to let you play. Oh, man, the pain!’
