Clearing the Pack

by Michael Panckridge

  He nodded. ‘I think so.’

  ‘Mitch, maybe we should just do what he says.’ Bubba was looking concerned. ‘He always gets his way in the end. He knocked me out with a cricket ball. He strung Bryce up a tree. Now he’s body slammed Jack.’

  I knew what he was getting at.

  ‘Guess who’s going to be next?’ Jack sighed, then sat down again. He was looking at me.

  ‘It hasn’t worked yet though, has it?’ Even as I said it, I knew I wasn’t being fair. Fisk was being smart. He hadn’t hurt me. He was getting at me through my friends.

  ‘Maybe it’s just time we cut our losses and go and tell someone,’ I suggested. ‘Tell them what’s really going on.’

  Jack sighed. ‘We tried that last year. It got ugly. Really ugly. Remember Fisk’s father? He carries a bit of weight around this place.’ Jack was wincing with the pain of talking. His breath was coming in gasps.

  ‘The teachers love him. They don’t want to know about trouble if Fisk is involved.’

  Jack struggled to his feet again and we left the gym. Slowly.

  Well, we couldn’t do any harm in the library, researching. And that’s where we decided to go during Monday lunch. Besides, we hadn’t seen Bryce for ages. Jack hadn’t turned up to school, either.

  Studying for the quiz was okay. It was going to be another classic Sandhurst quiz. There were three parts. The first of these was a rules section, which was the same for everyone. Then you had to choose any club and any year to study. Whatever club and year you chose would be tested in the quiz. I had chosen Hawthorn and 2015. It had been the third premiership in a row for Hawthorn and they were being spoken of as one of the greatest teams of all time.

  Jack went for Sydney and 2012, when they were the underdogs against Hawthorn in the grand final. Most kids went for a year when their favourite team won the premiership.

  Bubbaman was studying 2016. He was convinced that the mighty Bulldogs weren’t far away from another premiership, but for now he’d have to settle for basking in the afterglow of their first grand final victory since 1954. He was good on the stats. Bubba could quote you the best defensive team, the player with the most tackles and the leading goal scorer, including how many goals he’d kicked. Bubba also had second, third, fourth and fifth favourite teams. I had a feeling they changed from year to year, depending on who was up near the top of the AFL ladder.

  I was curious to see what Luci was studying, so before I settled down to the 2015 AFL Yearbook (could study at school get any better?), I checked in on the little AV room where a heap of DVDs, computer screens, cameras and TV equipment were set up.

  Luci explained that there was a full-on national netball comp. She was watching a video of the Melbourne Phoenix playing the Adelaide Thunderbirds. Cool names. I was only going in to say hi, but I ended up watching the rest of the game. It was amazingly fast and the shooters were scoring goals with about 90 per cent of their shots! After it finished, I left her to her note-taking and went back out.

  Mr T had told us not to get too bogged down with minor details and statistics. ‘Keep an eye on the big picture’ was one of his favourite sayings. ‘Study smart and, for heaven’s sake, make sure you’ve got the right book!’ was another.

  Jack didn’t make it to training the next day. In fact, he didn’t even get to school. I hadn’t seen Bryce about anywhere either. I stayed well clear of Fisk during the warm-up and drills. We did a lot of running. Mr T was worried that our kicking and handpassing on the run weren’t strong enough. And if we didn’t run against Ascot, we’d be slaughtered.

  By the end of the afternoon he was more positive, saying that if we wanted to win and were prepared to run all day, then we were Ascot’s equal. Ascot had won seven of the past eleven titles in the four-way inter-school comp (the Wetherhoods had won the other four). But last week Ascot had only beaten the Wetherhoods by nine points. Either they weren’t as strong as last year, or else the Wetherhoods were pretty good, too.

  Jack arrived at school during recess on Wednesday with his mum and dad. Bubba and I saw them walking through the quad towards the main office. We caught up with Jack at lunch. Bryce had returned from who-knows-where (he’d said something about Sydney). Becky and Luci were also with us.

  We explained the little three-on-three in the gym the previous Friday to the girls.

  ‘They eventually took me to the doctor. I’ve got three bruised ribs,’ said Jack.

  ‘What?’ I gasped.

  ‘Mum and Dad are pretty mad. I guess it’s lucky my ribs aren’t cracked.

  ‘Have you spoken with your parents since their interview with Mrs Waite?’ asked Bryce.

  ‘No. I don’t know how that went.’

  ‘This is just stupid. He’s got to be stopped. We’ve got to tell Mrs Waite everything. The whole truth.’ Luci was angry.

  ‘No. The truth sucks. Believe me. The only way to beat Fisk is at his own game.’ Becky was even angrier.

  I had already made up my mind, though.

  ‘No,’ I interrupted. ‘Luci’s right. Fisk has got to be stopped. And there’s only one way to stop him. By me pulling out. That way he’ll back off and no one will get hurt.’

  Everyone went quiet. I had actually been hoping for a bit of an argument.

  Finally, Jack piped up. ‘No.’

  Bubba quickly followed, but I wasn’t going to back down.

  ‘Maybe just for the footy, and we’ll see if things settle down,’ I suggested.

  ‘It will give everyone a chance to cool down,’ said Luci.

  Bryce nodded. ‘It’s a big sacrifice, Mitch.’ He was actually smiling.

  ‘Yeah, whatever.’ I walked off to find Fisk and tell him the good news.

  He was surprised. I told him to expect a visit to the principal’s office too. That didn’t seem to bother him. And I almost fainted ten seconds later, when I found out why.

  ‘Aunty Jean’s always had a soft spot for me. There you go. A little secret for you, since you’ve shared your library secret with me.’ He was laughing loudly as he wandered off, his two bullyboys by his side.

  I couldn’t work out what he meant by me sharing a secret. How did he know about the library? And then there was the Mrs Waite thing. I was totally gobsmacked. I got mobile again and headed back to the trees by the tennis courts where the others were waiting.

  ‘What’s Mrs Waite’s first name?’

  ‘Mitch, you’re not allowed to call–’ began Bubba.

  ‘Anyone know?’

  ‘Jean, isn’t it?’ said Becky. ‘Why?’

  ‘Is anyone aware that Travis Fisk is actually her nephew?’

  ‘What?’ four voices yelled at the same time.

  ‘Yeah, and another thing. Somehow–’

  ‘Mitch,’ hissed Jack, looking over my shoulder.

  I turned. Fisk was walking quickly towards us. He stopped a few metres away.

  ‘Grady,’ he called. I walked over. ‘My secret, your secret, okay?’ he said quietly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Listen, I was just being an idiot about Mrs Waite, okay? And I won’t say anything about your little library secret. Done? Okay, Mitchell?’

  I crossed one foot over the other. ‘Done.’

  He walked off without another word. The others looked at me expectantly as the bell sounded for afternoon classes. ‘I’ll tell you later.’

  It was Wednesday. For the kids doing the Legend of Football or Netball that meant a whole afternoon of sport: research, watching footage on the big screens, kicking goals, whatever they chose. But not for me. For me Wednesday afternoon meant Art and then English.

  Neither teacher seemed to care or even notice that I had suddenly turned up. A few of the kids looked a bit surprised, but no one said much.

  I left for home with a lot of other kids, the sound and sight of footballs filling my head as I walked past the ovals.

  There’s nothing like a new day to turn things around. I’d explained my decision at home, and wa
s gearing up to tell Mr T the same. I was pulling out of the Football Legend competition. But recess changed everything.

  ‘It’s true,’ Bubba was saying. ‘We overheard every word. Fisk reckons he’s sucked you in a beauty. He knew he was close to the edge with Jack and his bruised ribs. There’s no way he was going to do any more. He was just going to have to try and beat you fair and square. He even said it was against his nature and better judgement.’

  ‘Bryce?’ I asked. ‘This true?’

  ‘Absolutely, Mitch.’

  ‘Where? How?’ I needed all the details.

  ‘Class. This morning. He’s not a fool, Mitch. He’s won. Unless you get back in there and fight.’

  ‘Fight?’

  ‘Play.’

  Bryce pulled out his mobile phone. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen it. He held it out to me.

  ‘Ring home.’

  I must have looked a bit confused.

  ‘Your gear, Mitch. Boots? Jumper? Socks? The ugly plastic thing that goes in your mouth?’

  ‘That’s a mouthguard, Bryce. You need it so–’

  ‘Later, Bubba. Mitch here needs to make a call.’

  ‘– you don’tgetyourteethknockedout,’ gabbled Bubba, looking pleased with himself.

  ‘Okay, I’ll make the call. But listen, there’s something I’ve got to tell you. Something that Fisk said. He knows about–’

  ‘The call, Mitch.’ Bryce was looking impatient.

  ‘Okay,’ I sighed.

  There was still no sign of Jack. His ribs must have been pretty bad for him to miss another day of school.

  The match against Ascot College, over at their school, was the best game I’d ever played in.

  Their whole school turned out. It was like a carnival. It was obviously a pretty big event for Ascot College. The ground was fantastic. It was like playing on a green carpet. And the players seemed okay, too, though we didn’t talk much.

  Fisk seemed a bit shocked to see me. ‘I thought you’d quit,’ he hissed at me.

  ‘No such luck,’ I replied.

  ‘You’re gonna regret this, Grady,’ he spat at me with a sneer.

  I knew the game would be close, right from the start. For three quarters, there was never more than seven points between us. Mr T was right. They were fast and skilful. But we were better in the air.

  They had one huge advantage, though. A brilliant full-forward. He kicked six of their nine goals in the first three quarters. We’d tried a few different defenders on him, including both Fisk and Mazis. They had done okay, but he’d still managed to sneak away on a few leads. The timing of his leads was perfect and their running players were hitting him on the chest, every time.

  I had avoided Fisk for most of the game. Besides, he always got very focused in a game.

  ‘It’s your turn, Mitchell,’ Mr T was saying to me at three-quarter time. ‘I want you at fullback. Stick to him like glue. Don’t play him from behind. I’ll try and get Chaz to double team, or at least try and come across his leads. But it’s going to be up to you. You give us the quarter of your life and we’ll win this game. Remember, glue!’

  There was plenty of noise as we took up our positions for the last quarter.

  ‘Another new opponent,’ the Ascot full-forward said to me as I approached him in the goal square. ‘Coach getting a bit desperate, hey?’

  ‘Nah, just figures it’s about time you went a quarter without a kick.’

  He smiled at me and stuck out a hand. ‘Good luck.’

  I smiled back. ‘Yeah, you too.’

  We started jostling. I love footy!

  He was a right-footer so I decided to play on the right of him and try and push him to the left side of the goals. Within a minute, an Ascot player was charging through the middle. The full-forward went one way, then spun back and charged away to the right.

  I stayed as close as I could. A flat drop-punt came skimming towards us. I thrust an arm out just as the ball was about to thud into his belly. My fist caught the ball full on and it rebounded back towards our halfback line where Jimmy Paisley mopped up and belted it forward.

  We scored a point from that play. Then, after an intercept from the kick-in, Mazis swooped on the loose ball and slotted through a major to put us in front by two points. The next ten minutes went by with a goal for us and a goal and a behind for Ascot. The kid I was playing on still hadn’t touched the ball, let alone had a kick. But that soon changed.

  A few moments later, a high ball was floating toward us in front of the goal square. Fisk was doubling back into the pack. Together we blocked the full-forward. The umpire’s whistle screeched. No one had marked the ball, so I knew what was coming.

  Sure enough, the umpire was telling Fisk that he’d illegally blocked out my opponent. Fisk shook his head in disgust as he stood on the mark with both arms stretched up in the air.

  ‘You just can’t keep out of the way, can you, Grady?’ was all Fisk said to me as the ball sailed over our heads and through for a goal to Ascot. Car horns blared and people were screaming and clapping as Ascot College took the lead. There must have been only a few minutes left to play.

  Once again the ball surged towards us from the midfield, this time rolling and bouncing, being kicked along like it was a soccer match. I was confident of my skills when the ball was close to the ground, so I raced out to meet it at full steam. As I was about to grab it, though, the ball bounced at right angles from me, then behind me.

  I doubled back, but not before the ball had bounced kindly up into the full-forward’s hands. He started to spin around for goal.

  I threw myself into the air and reached my arms out at his quickly disappearing waist. My fingers caught at his jumper and I hung on for all my life. If he broke away, he would be running into an open goal and maybe sealing the game for Ascot.

  I wasn’t letting go.

  Why wasn’t the umpire pinging him for holding the ball? I was dragging him now, spinning him around. I had pinned one of his arms and all he could do was drop the ball. In a flash, Fisk had swooped in, scooped up the ball and was racing away. The umpire did blow his whistle, but thankfully was now waving advantage.

  We both lay there and watched Fisk weave a magical path up through the middle of the ground. He bounced the ball four times and dodged past three Ascot players before booting a massive drop-punt that must have gone over 40 metres.

  Richard Mazis knew exactly what was going on and just how far Fisk could kick a ball. He had doubled back towards the goal square, and now took an easy mark on his chest. He calmly turned around and thumped the ball through the goals and into a cypress tree way behind the oval at the far end.

  We were back in front. Now Fisk, Mazis and Paisley were charging into defence.

  ‘We’re flooding,’ Mazis yelled. Sandhurst players were streaming into defence. There was total confusion on the field. The Ascot players didn’t know whether to follow or stay in their original defensive positions. Bubba was a lonely figure, hands on hips, standing in our attacking goal square. There wasn’t a player within 50 metres of him.

  Again, Ascot got the ball away from the centre bounce. The ball was booted down to their half-forward line where Mazis punched the ball away from the pack. Fisk was onto it, but being held up in a strong tackle. I’m not sure what possessed me, but I took off like a hare from my fullback position to create an option on his outside.

  He dribbled a handball out. Jimmy Paisley punched it further out and it bounced up into my hands beautifully as I raced by.

  I wasn’t supposed to be there. He must have been looking for the boundary.

  Dodging around a couple of players, I cut back into the centre corridor. The Ascot defence was flooding back towards Bubba.

  I let fly with the biggest kick of my life. It was a barrelling torpedo, clean off the boot and piercing the sky.

  It flew over the retreating pack and caught Bubba smack on the chest. A split-second later he was steamrolled by about five Ascot defen
ders. I kept on jogging toward the goal square.

  The umpire was blowing his whistle indicating a mark, free kick and 15 metre penalty to Bubba. They didn’t have 50 metre penalties like in AFL for our matches.

  The mass of arms and legs in the goal square slowly untangled until finally there was only Bubba lying on his back, the huge Bubba grin spread across his face.

  ‘Nice pass, Mitch.’

  ‘Nice grab, Bubba.’

  He slammed the ball through for a goal as the bell rang to signal the end of the game.

  Once again Mr T let me know I had disobeyed instructions by running off.

  ‘Why?’ he asked, as we stood in front of the change rooms.

  ‘I can’t explain it,’ I replied. ‘One minute I’m there with the full-forward, the next I’m flying off to help out.’ I shrugged.

  ‘It’s called footballer’s instinct,’ he said, laughing. ‘It might not win you the Legend of Football, but it will raise the eyebrows of any scouts looking for what it takes to play footy at the highest level.’

  ‘Were there scouts here?’ I asked, excitedly.

  ‘Plenty of them,’ he said. ‘You’re talking to one!’

  As I tugged at my bootlaces, I wondered about my score. Mr T didn’t seem too upset with my brain fade when I’d disobeyed team instructions. I reckoned I was good for at least an eight or a nine out of ten. We wouldn’t know our game scores till after the final match against the Hoods, but all the games combined were worth 50 per cent of the total score.

  ‘Mitch, you did well.’ It was Luci, who had come over to the car park with most of the rest of the netball team.

  ‘You saw our game?’

  ‘Yep, since you guys watched our last game,’ said Becky.

  ‘How did you go?’ I asked.

  ‘Don’t ask,’ said Luci. ‘Though now that you have, Mia got shifted to goal shooter and only shot two out of about ten attempts. We lost by three goals. And we were up by about that many at three-quarter time.’

  ‘Mia’s not a happy girl. She’s torn between crying and screaming,’ said Becky.