By the time Scobie was through and the opposition had finally made their way on to the ground, the St Daniel’s supporters were on their feet cheering deliriously and the team was champing at the bit.
Coach Hardcastle might have had a lot to learn about tact and political correctness, but no one could teach him anything about motivation and putting the wind up the opposition.
And his plan seemed to be working. In the second half, the St Daniel’s boys tackled like demons. Churchill came nail-bitingly close to scoring on a number of occasions, but a blue and white jersey always arrived at the last second to stop the try or force a fumble.
But for all their heroics in defence, St Daniel’s still needed to score to win the match. As the game wore on, this seemed less and less likely. Most of the time St Daniel’s were scrambling on their own try Une. They just couldn’t seem to make it into the opposition half. Not only that, for all the heart and courage they were showing, they were tiring rapidly, and more and more, another Churchill try seemed inevitable.
With just over five minutes left and the score line unchanged from half-time, Coach Hardcastle took his last throw of the dice. It was his final substitution. To everyone’s amazement, Juan Corianna–our lone try scorer from the first half and the team’s crack goal kicker–was pulled from the field and replaced on the wing by Peter Chung.
Now don’t get me wrong–everyone liked Peter. Although his English was scratchy, he was always joking and laughing and he was a great hit, especially with the younger boys. The problem was, he wasn’t such a great footballer. He had heaps of enthusiasm and he was surprisingly strong for his size, but he couldn’t really tackle and he wasn’t quite up with all the rules. Once, after St Daniel’s were on the end of a forty-nil drubbing, Peter asked a teammate cheerfully, ‘So which was the team that had won?’.
Chungy did have one major asset, however, that kept him in the side. If he caught the ball (and I’m talking a jumbo-sized ‘if here), he could run faster than anyone St Daniel’s had ever seen in its seventy-two-year history. Coach Hardcastle’s tactics were obvious. If we could get the ball to Peter Chung in a bit of space, with his blinding speed he just might be able to pull off a miracle try. The big question was–would Churchill try to exploit Peter Chung’s weakness in defence?
We didn’t have long to wait before finding out that the answer to the big question was ‘Yes’.
Almost immediately a huge form draped in a blanket stood up from the Churchill bench. As the blanket dropped from its shoulders, a despairing groan rose from the St Daniel’s supporters. It was Frankie Crow, with his left knee gripped in white strapping. As we watched with dread, Cranky Frankie Crow–otherwise known as ‘The Magnon’, as in the Crow-Magnon Man–began to warm up.
But there was worse to come. When Magnon got on to the paddock he didn’t take up his usual position in the forwards. He lumbered straight to the wing. He was right in front of us, a metre from the sideline, and opposing him with a beaming smile was Peter Chung. It was the mismatch of the century. Chungy was short and only slightly built. His biggest muscles were in his calves and in his smile.
Crow stood like a block of granite. From the waist up the Magnon’s torso arched out like an inverted pyramid on top of which his neck-less head seemed in the process of being swallowed by his massive shoulders. His biceps were so huge that his arms stuck out at forty-five-degree angles from his sides. When he walked, his legs rubbed together and the muscles on his thighs clicked into fearsome bulges with every step. Orazio Zorzotto claimed that Frankie Crow was so brutal, he was once sent off for gouging his own eyes. (Did I mention that he was also fast over a short distance and had good hands?)
Frankie Crow set his sights on the chirpy, bouncing form of Peter Chung. Peter’s face danced with a crazy mixture of joy, excitement and sheer terror. For his part, the Magnon had only ever mastered two expressions-the ‘death stare’ and, if he was in an exceptionally good mood, the Tm-going-to-pound-you-to-within-an-inch-of-your-life-but-let-you-live stare’.
The weird thing was that Churchill didn’t even have to score to win. They were still two points ahead and we looked as if we had no hope of crossing their line or even getting close enough to kick a goal. But Churchill being Churchill, I guess they just wanted to rub our faces in it by scoring in the dying minutes. And that’s exactly what they looked like doing.
The strong Churchill pack controlled the ball and attacked the far side of the field, dragging more and more weary St Daniel’s defence across and leaving Peter Chung on the near side more and more isolated and exposed. There was less than two minutes to go and Churchill were only five metres from our line when the inevitable happened. Churchill changed the direction of the attack, and with two long passes the ball was on the other side of the field thudding into the barrel chest of Frankie Crow. The Magnon’s big hands swallowed the ball up greedily, and he began to rumble towards the try line like a gigantic boulder careening down a mountainside.
There was only Peter Chung to stop him.
It was all over. An entire grandstand drew in its breath and waited. Parents covered their children’s eyes. The Magnon had been thirty metres out when he received the ball. By the time he had travelled ten metres he was at his maximum velocity. A hush fell around the ground like a sheet being pulled over a corpse. Suddenly, beside me, James Scobie was on his feet, and his voice blared out across the field like a trumpet call. ‘We don’t give up! We don’t give in!’
Immediately Peter Chung’s face lit up. His eyes narrowed crazily and he gritted his teeth and grinned like a madman. He shouted out what we all assumed were his dying words. ‘We don’ give rup! We don’ give rin!’ And then he set off towards Frankie Crow as if he were exploding from the starting blocks of the Olympics one-hundred-metre final. When Frankie Crow and Peter Chung met head-on at the ten-metre line, everyone expected Peter Chung to be bashed to the ground, mashed underfoot and flattened like a cartoon character beneath a steamroller.
And that’s precisely what happened.
Never in my life had I seen anyone or anything go as quickly from standing upright to flat out like a pancake as Peter Chung did that day. The crowd winced and let out a sympathetic ‘Ooooooo!’. But one other thing happened. Just as Frankie Crow was finishing using Peter Chung’s body as a treadmill, the tags of his left boot got caught up in the straps of Peter’s headgear. For a moment the Magnon was thrown off balance, and as he tried to adjust his step, his foot hit the ground at an awkward angle. His ankle wobbled. His knee twisted. A sickening Click! shot through the air. Frankie Crow dropped the ball, clutched at his knee and crashed to the ground like a detonated building.
Amazingly, when the Magnon spilled the ball it ended up in Peter’s hands. Chungy gazed at it groggily for a moment, then sprang to his feet and started running. He went from unconscious to warp three in two seconds flat. Most of the Churchill players were on the other side of the field expecting a Magnon try. There was only the fullback to beat. When he got to him, Peter Chung stepped off his left foot, stepped off his right foot, stepped off his left foot–and then accelerated to the right at full speed. The Churchill fullback was left stranded with his arms outstretched, wobbling from side to side like a zombie from a horror movie. Meanwhile Peter Chung raced under the posts and leapt about wildly with the ball above his head while the entire St Daniel’s School and supporters screamed hysterically at him that he had to ground the ball for the try.
Coach Hardcastle’s face was purple, and he added quite a few descriptive words to his instructions about grounding the ball in order to emphasise the urgency of the situation. Miss Tarango, who was sitting nearby, did a lovely imitation of a traffic light changing to ‘Stop’. In the in-goal area, Peter Chung cupped his hand behind his ear as if he was straining to hear what the roaring crowd was saying. Finally, as the Churchill players galloped desperately towards him, he gave an exaggerated nod, smiled knowingly, tapped the side of his head with his finger, bent down and gently
pressed the ball into the lush green turf.
The St Daniel’s supporters exploded with joy. Coach Hardcastle slumped to his knees and wept. The entire St Daniel’s team charged at the madly grinning figure beneath the goal posts. And Peter Chung, having survived the murderous rampage of the Crow-Magnon Man, ended up with a cracked rib and mild concussion, thanks to the appreciative embraces of his teammates.
Not that it stopped him grinning away as they carried him in triumph around the field. When the excited huddle arrived at the main grandstand, Coach Hardcastle pulled James Scobie from his seat and two big St Daniel’s forwards hoisted him on their shoulders to continue the lap of honour.
As they paraded him before the delirious home crowd, James Scobie waved and held up his own handmade sign, twirling it around slowly. On one side it proclaimed proudly, ‘St Daniel’s men: Courage forged in a lion’s den!’ and on the other it said simply, ‘Debating meetings next week. Check the noticeboard. St Daniel’s needs you!’ As I watched Scobie being swept away by the throng of supporters I wondered how many boys would take up his debating challenge.
There was one thing for sure. As much as I’d come to admire James Scobie, I knew that there was no way that I would be one of them.
20.
DANCING POLES OF JELLO
‘Ishmael, I’ve put your name down for the Year Nine debating team.’
It was the Monday morning following St Daniel’s famous victory over Churchill. James Scobie blinked up at me calmly.
‘You what?’
‘I’ve put you down for the Year Nine debating team,’ he said again, as if he was making some passing comment on the weather.
‘You what!’ I said more loudly, trying to indicate the level to which my hysteria was rocketing. I stared at Scobie in shock. I shook my head in horror. Had he gone completely mad? Could he hear himself? Did he have the faintest idea that what he was really saying was, ‘Ishmael, I’ve put you down for standing completely naked in front of a room full of strangers while your heart is ripped out through your mouth and your skin is peeled slowly strip by strip from every centimetre of your body’
‘Is there a problem?’
A problem? “Was there a problem when someone on the Titanic sent out for ice?
‘You can’t … I can’t … I’m … hopeless … I’m … I’m no good … no … no way … I can’t do it.’
What I was trying to explain to him was that I would rather have my tongue stapled to my forehead than take part in debating. I would rather whisper sweet nothings into the cauliflower-like ear of Frankie ‘The Magnon’ Crow than stand up and talk in front of a crowd. I would rather be the only Ishmael in the Barry Bagsley School for Clones than to be within a million light years of public speaking. Do you see what I’m getting at? I wasn’t really that fussed on the idea.
‘You’ll be fine. I can help you.’
‘No … no … it wouldn’t … you … you don’t … I couldn’t … it’s just … I … I … I can’t … I … I …’
Now you see why Scobie wanted me in the team–I had a way with words.
‘You could sit out the first round of debates until you felt more confident, then join in after that.’
He made it seem so easy, but he had no idea what it was like for people like me. Did James Scobie know what it was like to stand in front of a class while his face felt like it had just exploded in flames and his ears sizzled like deep fried potato scallops? Had he ever had his legs turn into dancing poles of jello and his kneecaps leap about like lotto balls? Had he ever felt his hands swell into giant air balloons till there was nowhere to hide them and his eyelids become so heavy that they forced his head on to his chest and made it impossible to look up?
How could anyone like Scobie, who could address an entire assembly or a stadium full of people as easily as talking to himself, know what it was like to be someone like me? I’m like that guy in the movie we watched in English with Miss Tarango–Dead Poets Society–Tim, or Tod, I think his name was. You know, the one who’s too shy to say his poem to the class and so Robin Williams, who’s playing the teacher, just tries to get him to yell something out in front of everyone–a ‘wild barbaric yawp’ he calls it, or something weird like that–but the kid can’t do it because the pressure of all those eyes is just killing him. Well, no disrespect to the actor, but I could have played that role with one hand tied behind my back.
I knew that James Scobie would never understand, and so I didn’t waste my breath even trying to explain. ‘Look, I’m sorry … I just can’t do it.’
‘What if you didn’t have to speak?’
I glanced up to see if he was joking, but he looked back at me blankly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘What if you were in the team but didn’t have to debate?’
Now there was an interesting proposition, and it opened up exciting possibilities. If I could do that, perhaps I could join the swim team but not swim or play first-grade rugby for St Daniel’s from the sidelines. But hey, why stop there? I could ace all my exams without actually sitting for them, leave school and find a highly paid job without working, marry a beautiful girl without meeting her and settle down and have lots of kids without …
‘What do you say?’
‘Don’t get me wrong–I like the idea, but wouldn’t that kind of … defeat the purpose?’
‘Not at all. We can have up to five members in the team. That gives us three for each debate, plus a reserve, plus you.’
‘But what would I do?’
‘You can be our research man and help with the preparation and the writing of the speeches. Look, you might have some trouble with talks, but when it comes to writing, I’d say you were probably the second-best student in English,’ he said with a slight smile, ‘and you’re smart, and unlike some of our fellow classmates, you are actually aware that the school has a library and, more amazing still, you know what it’s for and how to use it. Ishmael, I won’t make you speak–I promise that-but to put it quite simply, I need you.’
I trusted James Scobie and I wanted to help him, but I couldn’t stop the panic from rising inside me. It was like when I was little and my father took me out in deep water for the first time. He said he wouldn’t let go of me and I believed him, but I still tried to burrow myself into his chest like a giant tick.
‘But I don’t know anything about debating.’
‘I’ll teach you. Besides, there’s a big workshop on at Moorfield High-we’ll go to that.’
‘But what if more than five people want to be in the team–and all of them are actually willing to debate?’
‘Then I guess you’re off the hook, aren’t you? Look, the meeting’s Wednesday at lunchtime. Just come along and help me with it–maybe take down names or something, and we’ll see what happens. It couldn’t hurt, could it?’
‘No, I suppose not,’ I said warily as I sensed the water darken and grow colder around me.
Of course I was wrong. It could hurt very badly indeed.
Part 3
There are certain queer times and occasions in this strange mixed affair we call life when a man takes this whole universe for a vast practical joke … and more than suspects that the joke is at nobody’s expense but his own.
Herman Melville, Moby Dick
21.
GO TEAM!
Scobie’s campaign to establish debating in the school had some success, particularly in Year Eight, where there were enough volunteers to form three teams. Unfortunately there was little or no response from Years Ten, Eleven and Twelve.
The last scheduled meeting was for Year Nine. On Wednesday at lunchtime James Scobie and I arrived at the meeting room early and waited.
I didn’t really know if I wanted anyone to walk through the door or not. It was a real numbers game. If no one came I’d be in the clear, but I’d feel a bit bad for Scobie. If at least four other people showed up I’d still be in the clear, but then Scobie would have his debating team. If only two
or three others turned up, Scobie would get his team and I’d be in it. What I needed was either a famine or a flood of volunteers. Just as that thought settled in my mind, Ignatius Prindabel peered around the doorway like a prairie dog on lookout duty and asked, ‘Debating?’.
When Scobie nodded, he stepped awkwardly into the room and sat down.
Ignatius Prindabel always reminded me of an old man, I guess because he was thin and kind of stoopy and his hair started too far back on his forehead. Sometimes I had the crazy thought that he was really a pensioner working undercover for the government, you know, like an ASIO spy checking up on teachers or a stooge for the drug squad. But what I could never figure out is why they would be using pensioners. Were they cheaper? Were they the only ones with the time to spare? In the end I decided it was more likely that Ignatius Prindabel was just a weird-looking kid like the rest of us.
As I added his name to the list alongside mine and Scobie’s, I wondered what sort of debater Prindabel would make. There was no doubt that he was one of the smartest boys in Year Nine. He was a living, breathing search engine for facts, figures, and dates: he saved them up and treasured them like gold coins. His particular areas of speciality were maths, science and history. He rarely set foot into the realms of the unknown. Not only was Prindabel the type of person who flatly refused to think outside the square, he insisted on thinking in the precise geometrical centre of it. Ignatius Prindabel liked his world and everything in it to be as practical and predictable as a set square. If you could measure it, calculate it, prove it, define it, classify it, chart it, label it, dissect it, preserve it, place it on a timeline, stick it in a box or pin it to a board, then it found a home in the Prindabel universe.
Don't Call Me Ishmael Page 8
