Michael: Michael

by Phillip Gwynne

  ‘Yeah, he took a bad crash.’

  Skeeter continued. ‘So when he stopped skating I started using his boards, and here I am.’

  ‘And you don’t eat it?’ I said.

  ‘All the time,’ she said, but then she added, ‘But I deal with it.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said.

  ‘So can you ride that thing?’ she said.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘But you’ve tooled around on the flat a bit?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘I see. Can I ask you a question, Mike?’

  ‘Sure, Skeeter.’

  ‘What are you doing on the top of this great big hill with a Sector Nine Downhill Division?’

  I ummed and ahhed before finally finding some words. ‘I want to know what it feels like. I reckon it’ll be awesome.’

  Skeeter looked at me and said, ‘And you want to do it now?’

  ‘I have to,’ I said. ‘Thinking about skating is messing with my swimming. I need to do it.’

  ‘Okay, so let’s start at the basics,’ said Skeeter. ‘You know how to footbrake?’

  ‘Never heard of it,’ I said. ‘Does it involve breaking your feet?’

  Skeeter laughed. ‘You are one crazy dude! It’s taking your foot off your board and dragging it along the ground to help you slow down.’

  I thought about my quick roll in the skate shop and imagined trying to footbrake; it would be really hard!

  ‘Uh, I guess I should probably learn that,’ I said.

  ‘You definitely should, because there’s no point in going down a hill if you don’t know how to stop,’ said Skeeter. ‘That’s just crazy.’

  ‘But aren’t all downhill skaters crazy?’ I asked.

  ‘No way, dude! We might look like we’re out of control, but there’s so much to learn before you start throwing yourself down gnarly hills like this one.’

  I didn’t know any of these words! ‘What does gnarly mean?’ I asked.

  ‘That is what gnarly means,’ she said, pointing down the Hill.

  I followed her finger – the Hill was looking more and more like a cliff, and my stomach dropped. Again.

  ‘I have an idea,’ said Skeeter. ‘We can practise a bit on the flat now. I can take you through the basics, starting with how to footbrake.’

  ‘That’d be great,’ I said.

  So we trudged back down the hill, and practised on the flat.

  Skeeter got me rolling back and forth. Back and forth.

  Then she took me through the fundamentals of footbraking. I started to realise there was a lot of work in skating too.

  We had skated most of the afternoon when finally she said, ‘I reckon that might do us for today. How about we meet at the old dairy this time next week and you can try your luck on a hill?’

  ‘That would be great!’ I said.

  ‘In the meantime, practise as much as you can in your free time.’

  What free time? I thought, I have swimming training all week. I had no free time to learn to become a downhill skater!

  Skeeter strapped her helmet on, threw her board down and got ready to take off.

  ‘Before I go, remember what I said to do if the board starts wobbling – put your weight on your front foot. Never, ever, let the wobbles take over, or you’re done for.’

  ‘Got it,’ I said, and I watched Skeeter skate away. Even skating on the flat she still looked free. I wanted to do that too. But all I had to look forward to was another week of swimming. Swimming up and down.

  At Monday morning training, Coach really pushed us hard. Really hard. By the time I got to school I was exhausted.

  ‘Hey, Mike. How many laps did you do this morning?’ asked Fadi, as we made for our classroom.

  I did the maths in my head. ‘Five k’s,’ I said.

  ‘That’s mad,’ said Fadi, and I had to agree – it was mad. I couldn’t keep awake.

  So mad that as soon as I got to my classroom, I slumped in my seat, and dozed. Maths. I dozed. English. I rested. Art. I dozed. And then it was the last lesson of the day: sport.

  ‘Mr Atherton, what are we going to play?’ Adam asked.

  ‘I thought we might play some baseball,’ said Mr Atherton.

  Some of the kids weren’t happy with that, but I liked baseball.

  ‘What are the teams, Mr Atherton?’ asked Hammo.

  ‘Let’s make this real easy,’ said Mr Atherton. ‘We’ll just count off in fours. If the numbers aren’t quite right, then a couple of you might have to switch.’

  As I moved off to join my new teammates, Mr Atherton said, ‘Just wait a second, Michael.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Atherton?’ I said.

  ‘Maybe it’s better if you umpire.’

  ‘But, I want to play,’ I said. ‘I really like baseball.’

  ‘I’m hearing you, Mike,’ said Mr Atherton. ‘But what if you got injured? Aren’t the Nationals only a couple of weeks away?’

  ‘Hurt?’ I said. ‘It’s baseball, not British Bulldog!’

  ‘You’d be surprised – plenty of people have been hurt playing baseball. You could easily twist an ankle. Or cop a ball in the eye.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Sorry Michael. But I just can’t risk it.’

  ‘You can’t stop me playing,’ I said defiantly.

  Mr Atherton gave me a strange look, and I really can’t blame him; I had never, ever, talked back to the teachers before.

  By this time all the other kids were crowding around. I scanned their faces, and then looked over at Mr Atherton again. ‘By the way, I’m sick of swimming,’ I said.

  Once these words were out of my mouth, I could hardly believe them. Did I just say that?

  ‘You’re sick of swimming?’ said Mr Atherton.

  ‘Sure,’ I said.

  But I could tell that he didn’t believe me. I didn’t even know if I believed me. But I was sick of everything being about swimming.

  ‘I want to play baseball,’ I said.

  ‘And I don’t want you to,’ said Mr Atherton. ‘Think of your swimming, Mike.’

  One of the kids, I think it was Hammo, booed. A couple of other kids joined him.

  ‘Enough!’ said Mr Atherton. ‘Nobody is playing baseball now. We’re all going inside the classroom.’

  And then I just lost it. Everything just got too much. I was sick of doing what I was told. Swim fifty. Swim one hundred. ‘Not me,’ I said. ‘I’m out of here!’

  I started walking off, though it didn’t really feel like walking – it was more like I was surfing this huge wave of emotion.

  When I was out on the street I heard Mr Atherton’s voice. ‘Michael Quinlan, come back here at once or you’re in big trouble!’

  I knew he wasn’t kidding – you just can’t leave Monvale Primary any old time you feel like it.

  I looked around. Mr Atherton was standing at the gates, hands on hips. I had never been in big trouble before. I had no idea what it felt like.

  I waved at Mr Atherton. ‘Goodbye.’

  I guess I was about to find out.

  I started running towards the bus stop.

  Luckily when I got home, nobody was there. The phone was ringing. I bet it was the school trying to ring my parents.

  But I didn’t care. I grabbed my board and Gabe’s skid lid from their hiding place in the garage, and I made for the Hill. I knew what I wanted to do.

  Once again I was standing at the top of the Hill looking down. I buckled and unbuckled the chinstrap on my helmet for about the thousandth time. What was I thinking? Skeeter was right: you just can’t bomb a hill, the Hill, first go. Gabe was right, you gotta cruise before you shred.

  It’s something you have to build up to. Start off on the flat. Then small hills. Then bigger hills.

  It’s just like swimming – you can’t just compete at the Nationals, first you have to do well at Regionals, then State and then, and only then, do you earn the right to take on the best.

  But here I was anyway.<
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  A car drove slowly past and somebody yelled out of the window, ‘Go on mate, you can do it!’

  But I couldn’t do it.

  I should just pick up my fully sweet, fully sick board, turn around and go back down the Hill.

  As I turned to do that, I saw a yellow school bus slowly making its way to the top. Towards me. Then I saw the sign at the front: Monvale Primary. The school bus was coming towards me and on top of the Hill there was absolutely nowhere for me to hide.

  The bus, its engine straining, was level with me. Suddenly kids were crowding at the windows.

  ‘It’s Michael!’ somebody yelled.

  More faces at the windows. I saw Fadi. He looked straight at me, smiling a huge Samoan smile.

  I remembered what he’d said that day: ‘I would never have the guts to do that.’

  And then as the bus crested the hill, and rolled down the other side, I knew I was going to do it. When it had disappeared out of view, I put my board back down on the bitumen, paused for only a second, then pushed off.

  Quickly the board gathered speed, speed building . . . and building . . . until I was flying, the bitumen a blur beneath my wheels.

  The board started feeling weird, and then it began to wobble. Skeeter’s advice came back to me: weight on your front foot!

  So I shifted my weight and – what do you know? – she was right – the board immediately stopped wobbling. I could hear the sweet whirring sound of my Sector Nine wheels as I sped down the Hill.

  I was flying! It was a feeling like no other I’d ever had: of soaring, of lightness, of leaving everything behind. A feeling of total freedom. Just me, my board, and the road. I was free.

  But the board started wobbling again, bigger wobbles this time.

  A car horn honked. And then another one.

  I shifted my weight forward again, but it didn’t seem to be doing anything – the board was rocking from side to side now, almost throwing me off on each wobble. And up ahead, the road bent to the left. If I didn’t follow it, if I kept straight, I might end up under the wheels of a truck.

  I had to get the board back under control, fast!

  Skeeter’s words came into my head: ‘Never let the wobbles take control, or you’re done for.’

  I put all my willpower into getting the board back under control, shifting my weight as far forward as I dared.

  ‘I . . . will . . . not . . . CRASH!’ I yelled.

  And somehow, something I did worked.

  I was still on the board but now there was the bend to negotiate.

  I crouched down lower, holding onto the edge of the board to help turn it into the corner. The sound of the wheels on the bitumen was now a roar.

  ‘Come on,’ I coaxed the board. ‘Come on, you can do it.’

  The board started veering towards the left, aiming towards the bend now.

  ‘Come on, come on, COME ON!’

  And suddenly I was through! Now it was a straight run to the bottom of the hill.

  I relaxed, enjoying the ride. But then I saw the red traffic light ahead, and I remembered how Skeeter had timed her run to hit the intersection just when the lights turned green.

  Right now I need to footbrake, but I didn’t know how. I really was shredding before I’d cruised!

  So I did the only thing I could think of. I stepped off the board. My shoe hit the road, and I tried to run, but my body wasn’t going to let this happen.

  A truck’s horn blared, as I ate it hard – catapulting through the air, twisting and turning, until my helmet made a nasty cracking sound as it slammed against the bitumen. My knees starting to burn as the road ripped through my jeans and shredded my skin like a cheese grater. Then everything went black.

  Through the dark, I could hear the blare of the truck’s horn again.

  Getting louder and louder.

  But I couldn’t move.

  And then hands grabbed me, dragging me.

  Opening my eyes, I saw Dad, his face full of worry. ‘Michael, you okay? You okay?’

  I couldn’t make sense of this, the pieces were not fitting together.

  ‘I’m okay,’ I said, wriggling my legs, arms.

  ‘You sure?’ he said.

  ‘I’m sure,’ I said. ‘But what are you doing here?’

  ‘I got a phone call from the school,’ he said. ‘So I came looking for you.’

  ‘And you just happened to come here?’

  ‘No, Michael,’ said Dad. ‘I sort of knew where you’d be.’

  ‘You knew about the skating?’

  ‘Well, I knew about the skateboard,’ he said. ‘Under some plastic swans probably wasn’t the best hiding place for your board. But let’s not worry about that now. We need to get you to the hospital.’

  Dad helped me to my feet.

  I really had eaten it hard, but I figured that the adrenaline that was still pumping through my veins was masking the pain.

  I unbuckled Gabe’s helmet – it was now a broken chunk of foam, plastic and torn Sector Nine stickers.

  My jeans were more like rags than clothes and my knees and elbows were skinned and bloody. I could feel a giant patch of gravel rash on my hip.

  Dad opened the passenger-side door. ‘You okay to get in?’ he said.

  ‘I’m okay,’ I said, but when I was inside I remembered something.

  ‘My board!’ I said.

  ‘I’ve got your board, Mike,’ said Dad.

  It was then that I looked at Dad. Looked at his eyes. There were tears.

  ‘Dad, what’s wrong?’

  ‘I was scared Mike,’ said Dad. ‘You could have killed yourself. What were you doing?’

  What was I doing?

  ‘Dad,’ I said. ‘I just wanted to do something else. Something not swimming.’

  ‘I get that Mike,’ said Dad. ‘There’s time to talk once we’ve got you to the hospital.’

  A few days later the bruises were still there, but Dad and I had talked a lot. My body still hurt but my head felt better.

  And now we were, once again, driving up the Hill, on our way to the Aquatic Centre. I needed to talk to Coach too.

  When we reached the top, Dad looked over at me, and he opened his mouth, but he didn’t say anything.

  ‘It’s okay, Dad,’ I said. ‘You can tell me what an idiot I was to try and bomb something like this first go.’

  ‘No, Michael,’ he said. ‘It was our fault, too. We put you under too much pressure with your swimming.’

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, we did,’ he said. ‘Maybe we didn’t mean to, but we did.’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said.

  ‘And I understand why you wanted to be like that boy, the skater.’

  I was about to tell Dad that the boy was a girl, but bit my tongue – my poor dad had had enough shocks lately.

  Dad continued. ‘You saw somebody who had no pressure.’

  ‘Somebody who was free,’ I said.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Dad. ‘A free spirit.’

  We pulled into the Aquatic Centre.

  ‘Coach is here,’ he said.

  I must have looked worried because Dad looked at me and smiled.

  ‘It will be okay, Mike, just tell him what you told me.’

  Dad turned off the engine, and I reached in the back for my sports bag, but it wasn’t there. I hadn’t brought it. I wasn’t swimming.

  A huge four-wheel drive pulled up alongside us with a squeal of rubber.

  ‘Seems like the Jenkins have arrived,’ said Dad.

  ‘Seems like it,’ I said, getting out of the car.

  ‘Morning, boys,’ said Mr Jenkins. ‘Have I ever shown you my Olympic medal?’

  Okay, he didn’t exactly say this. Instead he moved closer to our car, and gave the front tyre a kick. ‘This old rattler just won’t give up, will she?’ he said.

  ‘No, she won’t,’ said Dad, in his usual friendly tone. ‘And she’ll probably still be going when that ridiculous ga
s-guzzler of yours has given up the ghost.’

  I knew exactly what Dad was doing, he was telling me that he could look after himself, that I didn’t have to fight his battles for him.

  ‘Let’s go, son,’ said Dad.

  I put my arm around my dad’s shoulder, and together we went inside.

  Coach must’ve seen us enter, because he made a beeline straight for us. ‘Michael,’ he said. ‘How are the injuries?’

  ‘Much better,’ I said.

  ‘When did the doctor say you could start swimming again?’

  ‘A couple of days,’ I said, looking over at my dad.

  ‘It’s not an ideal preparation,’ said Coach. ‘But we’re still aiming for the Nationals.’

  ‘Coach –’ I started, but I didn’t get any further than that, because somebody yelled out, ‘Coach?’ and he hurried away.

  I sat down by the side of the pool, and I did something I hadn’t done for a long time: I watched other people swimming, going up and down the pool.

  Wow, I thought, they’re really fit.

  Wow, I thought, they’re really fast.

  Wow, I thought, they’re actually pretty amazing.

  Even the backstrokers.

  As I watched I knew. I was one of them. I wanted to be one of them. I wanted to swim.

  Coach had Bev Jenkins doing ten hundred-metre sprints. But Bev wasn’t swimming that well; he didn’t have his usual rhythm and speed.

  Mr Jenkins kept yelling at his son from the side of the pool. ‘Come on, Bev!’

  ‘I’m going to the toilet,’ I said to Dad, as Bev turned for the eighth hundred metres.

  ‘Righto,’ he said.

  I went into the change rooms, making straight for the lost-property basket. Inside I found a grungy pair of Speedos that were about my size. And a pair of goggles that looked like they’d fit.

  I took off my clothes, revealing a body that was road map of grazes and bruises. I put on the Speedos, put on the goggles, and hurried back outside.

  Dad was intent on his phone, Coach was looking at his clipboard, Mr Jenkins only had eyes on his son as he made his way back for the last hundred split.

  So nobody really saw me make for the edge of the pool, and I was already diving in when Dad yelled out, ‘Michael, what are you doing – the doctor said absolutely no swimming.’

  Raw skin and chlorinated water – not a good combination, and the sting factor was pretty nasty. But when Bev Jenkins reached the wall I was waiting for him.