by Pat Flynn
Approaching the line of tacklers, Johnno dropped the ball onto his boot, which somehow missed a tangle of defenders’ feet and was scooped up one-handed by Ozzie, shooting through.
“Go!” screamed the Yuranigh fans.
“Stop ’im!” yelled the Golda supporters.
Ozzie tucked the ball under his right shoulder and scurried over the forty-yard line, his feet skimming across the brown grass like stones on water. He was the youngest player on the field, with a face not yet scarred by fights and harsh sunlight, and looked too fragile to be carrying the hope of a town in his hands.
The rangy Golda fullback crouched low in anticipation, arms forward and palms outstretched, and the cover defense dashed across to help. Ozzie looked left and right, but no support was in sight.
Just before he reached the twenty, Ozzie chip kicked over the fullback’s head. The ball bounced forward and appeared to be rolling uselessly over the dead-ball line, but then, as footballs sometimes do, it leaped high in the air, as if jumping over an invisible bar. It fizzled to a halt just behind the try line, and Ozzie, the fullback, and five defenders rushed toward it like it was made of gold.
The crowd held its breath.
Ten yards from the line, Bryan Gardner—a ringer from Sydney—was nearing Ozzie’s shoulder, and the Golda crowd erupted as if they were watching the favorite bolt home at the Melbourne Cup.
“Go, Bryan!”
“Go, Ozzie!” yelled Jess.
Gardner’s legs were tree trunks and each stride cut into Ozzie’s lead. Five yards out, the two jostled for position, and Ozzie was knocked off balance. He felt himself falling, and briefly considered throwing out his arms and appealing for a penalty, but instead he pushed hard against the ground, diving low across the turf. Ozzie landed yards short of the ball but momentum carried him forward. If the ground had been wet he would have slid farther, but it hadn’t rained out here for months. As Ozzie slowed, Gardner dived, hands outstretched.
The crowd was silent once more.
chapter 4
Cyril Conroy tucked in his shirt the way men used to—undoing his belt, button, and clip before unzipping the fly halfway down. Shirt completely out then completely in, tight like a sheet on an army bed. He sucked in a breath, gave his pants a final yank, and knocked on the door.
“Any luck?” The coach let Cyril in and shook his hand warmly.
“Not much,” said Cyril, tugging at his tie. It was eighty degrees in the Brisbane shade but he wore a suit because it was the way he had been brought up. He wouldn’t have been comfortable in anything less.
“Saw some talent though,” Cyril continued. “A boy from Cherbourg runs the hundred meters in eleven flat. Watched him score four tries, and that was only the first half.”
“He interested?”
“Said he’ll think about it. Plays bloody baseball as well. Apparently he’s being chased by a Yankee scout.”
“Baseball? In Cherbourg?”
“My sentiments exactly.” Cyril shook his head. “Did sign a big bloke from Dalby. Six foot, seventeen stone.”
“What’s that in pounds?”
“Umm. Two hundred ten? Should see his shoulders.” Cyril held his arms wide, as though describing a huge fish.
“Skillful?”
“Nah. Flat out catching a cold. But has a bit of go in him and he’s only seventeen. Did I mention he’s big?”
The coach smiled. Big was always good. “Other definites?”
“Not for now.”
The coach nodded. “Keep an eye on the Cherbourg kid. We need some good ones for the future. Any more leads?”
Cyril took a notepad from his breast pocket and held it close to his face. “Got some time for a boy out west—place called Yuranigh. A five-eighth.”
“Don’t tell me. He’s big.”
“No.”
“Fast?”
“Not as fast as the Cherbourg kid. But there’s something about him. Can’t put my finger on it.”
“Have a go.”
Cyril looked up at a print hanging on the office wall, a mountain rising into thick clouds. “Grand Final. Team’s down by four. The young halfback rolls it through for our mate, who scoops it up one-handed, kicks over the fullback’s head, and races Bryan Gardner to the line.”
“Gardner? What’s he doing out there?”
Cyril rubbed his fingers together. “Mining money buys more than a pick and shovel these days.”
“You’d need a car to race him, wouldn’t you?”
“I know. He’s lightning. Still, the kid’s holding his own until he cops a shoulder and falls, but then slides five yards on his belly, like he’s on ice.”
“Did he score?”
“Yeah. Got a hand on the ball just before Gardner punched it clear. Saw it with me own eyes.”
The coach smiled. “The ref agree with you?”
“Nah. But he had the crowd in his ear.” Cyril shook his head. “Best try I’ve seen in a long time. The kid can spot an opportunity like a pretty girl.”
“The halfback doesn’t sound bad either.”
“Actually he’s just as talented, but lazy. I’d only recommend the five-eighth.”
“Can he tackle?”
“The five-eighth?”
A quick nod.
“Yeah. He’s a tough little bugger.”
“Mmm.” The coach nodded slowly, thinking about what positions the team needed to fill, not just next season but five years down the track. A good five-eighth is like a general to a football team, and generals aren’t easy to find. “Tell me his story.”
“Property kid. Eighteen, or thereabouts. His grandfather could play as well—I remember watching him once when I was a boy. ‘Mystery,’ they called him. There’s a girlfriend who’s still at school—had a chat with her, actually. Good sort. If I were forty years younger …”
“You’d be pulling out your boots and playing for us.”
The men laughed.
“So you think he’s worth a go?” said the coach.
“Hard to tell. Heard he’s off to America soon. Some sort of exchange.”
“Probably end up playing for the Cowboys.”
“North Queensland?”
“No. Dallas.” The coach smiled. “I’ll leave it up to you, Cyril. Let Liz know if you want to make an offer.”
“Yep.”
The two men stood and shook hands. Cyril lingered, his left shoulder stooped from too many tackles gone wrong.
“Something else?” said the coach.
“Yeah.” Cyril looked back up at the mountain on the wall. “It’s just … it’s not the same out there anymore. I used to be able to pick raw talent like apples. Now they’re all playing bloody basketball, wearing shorts around their ankles and hats the wrong way round.”
“They call it fashion.” The coach put his hand on Cyril’s right shoulder. “Look, you’re one of the best. ‘No one can spot a player like Cyril Conroy,’ that’s what everyone says.”
“I can still spot ’em. It’s talking to ’em that’s the problem. Sometimes I think I grew up in a different country from these young blokes.”
The coach looked out the window, onto a field with grass worn thin from a long season. “I still think that, deep down, they’re just like you and me were. Half-full of themselves and half-scared out of their wits.”
“Dunno. These kids seem different. Or maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’ve had my day.”
The coach looked back at Cyril. “Enough. We’d be lost without you.”
Cyril straightened a little. “I’ve always said that as long as you want me, I’ll keep working for ya.”
“We want you.”
“Thanks. It means a lot.”
At the door he turned as the coach called out, “Things are always changing, but that’s not a bad thing. Keeps us on our toes.”
“Change is hard for an old fella.”
“You’re only as old as you act. You might try pulling down those pants a lit
tle.”
“I’d rather keep me jocks to m’self, if that’s all right.”
They shared a smile.
chapter 5
Ozzie’s last night in Australia began before the sun went down. It was Wazza’s shout, and because Wazza owned the pub, by closing time Ozzie and Johnno were missing the dartboard and making drunken promises.
“When you get back I’m gonna be Superman,” said Johnno, tapping his gut. “Gonna cut out the booze, the smokes, and put on twenty pounds of muscle, lifting.”
Ozzie aimed at the twenty but hit the one instead. “Mate, if you’re Superman, who will I be?”
“You can be his mate, Tonto.”
Jess lifted her head above the beer-stained green of the pool table. “That’s the Lone Ranger.”
“No, no, no,” said Johnno, loudly. “The Lone Ranger doesn’t have a mate. That’s why he’s called the LONE Ranger.”
Jess shook her head and sank the eight ball.
“Let me say this,” said Ozzie. “I don’t care if you’re Superman or Batman or the lone wolf. If you get fit, I’ll get us both a tryout for the Broncos next year.”
Johnno looked at him. “You’re talking about the Brisbane Broncos?”
“Yep.”
“How the hell are ya gonna do that?”
“After the Grand Final old Cyril told me they might be interested. I’ll tell ’em I’m not coming without you.”
Johnno lined up to throw. “Swear?”
“Shit, yeah.”
Johnno laughed so hard that the dart missed not only the board but the protector as well.
“All right, boys. Think you’ve had enough.” Wazza pulled the dart out of the wall.
“C’mon, Wazza, it was an accident!” said Johnno.
“Could’ve happened to anyone,” said Ozzie.
The boys laughed again.
“Look after yourself, boy.” Wazza shook Ozzie’s hand. “Want you back next season, fit as a fiddle.”
“One for the road?” asked Johnno.
Wazza ignored him. “And good luck with Jack’s driving. You’ll be bloody lucky to make it to Brisbane.”
Jess drove the boys home. Though the winter days were warm, the night wind whipped off the plains and slapped their faces. They cruised down Yuranigh’s main street, which was lined with fat bottle trees dedicated to dead soldiers. Some boys leaned on a parked car and drank out of paper bags. Johnno yelled and the boys called for them to stop, but Jess didn’t.
Outside Johnno’s house, three dogs circled the car, barking and baring teeth. “Shut up, ya mongrels!” Johnno got out and kicked in the dogs’ direction, though in his condition he had as much chance of connecting as throwing a bulls-eye. The dogs kept barking.
“We’ll stay in the car, if that’s all right,” Jess said.
Johnno stuck his head through Ozzie’s window. “Mate, can’t believe you’re going.”
“Be back before you know it.”
“Did I tell you I’m gonna get real fit while you’re away?”
“A few times, yeah.”
Johnno looked at Jess. “I’ve been playing footy with this bloke since the under tens, you know?”
Jess raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, I do. I’ve known you losers since primary school.”
Johnno was undeterred. “Halfback and five-eighth, flair and discipline, black and white. That’s me and Ozzie.”
“Which one are you again?” asked Ozzie.
“Black.” Johnno thought for a second. “I think.”
Jess laughed. “See ya later, Johnno.”
“Yeah, see ya, mate,” said Ozzie.
Jess eased the car into reverse but Johnno banged on the hood and she stopped. He bent down, arms resting on the door. “One thing I wanted to ask ya, Oz. Do you think …” He started chuckling.
“What?” asked Ozzie.
Johnno’s eyes closed. “Do you think I should’ve passed it? To Mick?”
Ozzie didn’t answer.
“I should’ve, eh? Lost us the game. But I wanted you …” Johnno opened his eyes. “When you score, it’s like me scoring too, you know?”
“Yeah, I do.” They clasped hands.
Johnno ran alongside the car. “You and me gonna play for the Broncos next season.”
“See ya, you crazy bugger,” said Ozzie.
“You and me.”
“Yeah. You and me.”
Ozzie’s house was a few miles out of town; past Yuranigh’s one tourist attraction—a desert spa rising from the Great Artesian Basin, famous for its supposed healing qualities; past the wheat silo with GO MAGPIES! painted across it; over the railway tracks where a freight train and a road train collided last year, leaving hundreds of bleating lambs strewn across the road (the lucky ones died instantly); and down a long, dirt driveway that smelled like cows.
A brown kelpie was there to meet them. Jess bent down and scratched her neck. “Let’s go for a walk.”
“You talking to me or the dog?” said Ozzie.
“Both.”
“I still have to pack.”
Jess shook her head. “You leave in the morning and you still haven’t packed? You’re hopeless.”
“I know. That’s why I was hoping you’d help me.”
“We’ll walk first.”
It was a crescent moon and the stars shone like fire-flies. Even if it had been pitch black it would’ve been fairly safe walking in the paddocks. There was hardly a tree in sight and most of the dams were empty.
A dingo howled and Jess slipped an arm around Ozzie’s waist.
“Scared?” he asked.
“Nah. Cold.”
They climbed a ladder to the top of the feed loft, sitting on a platform overlooking the property, legs dangling. From up here Ozzie always had visions of falling backward, into the darkness of the loft. One of his grandfather’s favorite horror stories was of the time he’d worked on a farm outside Roma. A migrant worker from the city had disappeared, and they’d all assumed he’d shot through because the work was too tough. Weeks later they found him, buried alive in fine grain.
“So, you excited?” asked Jess.
“Haven’t really thought about it.”
“What about going on a plane?”
Ozzie shrugged.
“You don’t think much about the future, do you?”
“No point. What if the plane crashes?”
Jess punched him. “Don’t talk like that.”
“Sorry.”
A star burned a white trail in the sky.
“See that?” asked Ozzie.
“Yeah.”
“Make a wish.”
“I already have.”
They were quiet for a bit.
“What do you think’s gonna happen to us?” Jess asked softly.
Ozzie didn’t answer.
“What do you want to happen?”
“What do you want?” asked Ozzie.
“I asked you first.”
Ozzie thought for a moment. “What I want”—he slipped an arm around her—“is to give you the best kiss of your life.”
“And after that?”
“I’ll give you an even better kiss.”
Jess took a small box out of her pocket.
“What’s this?” asked Ozzie. “I didn’t …”
“It’s okay.”
Ozzie unwrapped it slowly. He didn’t want to drop it, especially from up here.
She helped him put it on, clipping the silver watch tight so it pinched the hairs on the back of his hand. It didn’t hurt, though. It made him feel alive.
Ozzie kissed her lips.
Jess laid her head on his shoulder and whispered into the night, “I love you, Oz.”
They sat for a long time.
chapter 6
From Western Queensland, all roads lead to a town sometimes called Bris-Vegas. People from the far west don’t go there often; it’s thousands of miles of deep potholes and dumb animals that walk, hop, or fly into wi
ndscreens like an endless supply of kamikazes. If people from the outback do come to their state capital, there are three main reasons.
One is the Brisbane Exhibition, known as “The Show,” a chance every August to check out some prize cattle and give the kids a look at the fireworks and the big smoke.
The second is to watch the State of Origin, an annual football war between the cane toads of Queensland and the cockroaches of New South Wales.
The other reason to come to Brisbane is to leave it again.
Outside of Toowoomba, after they’d traveled for hours in silence, Ozzie Eaton suggested they take the toll road. Jack Freeman snorted, as expected. Ozzie knew that his grandfather would rather rot in hell than pay for the privilege of driving on a road, but his plan was to try and swing the Gateway. Near Gatton, Ozzie put money in the ashtray. There was a barely visible lining of gray ash from when Jack had smoked. He’d given it up the day Ozzie had come to live with him.
Jack glanced down. “What’s that for?”
“The Gateway Bridge,” said Ozzie.
“We’re not driving over no bloody bridge.”
Ozzie tapped his watch.
Jack ignored him. “The government builds a bridge using taxpayers’ money and then charges $2 to drive over the bloody thing. I’d rather rot in hell.”
It’s $2.40, Ozzie thought, but he didn’t say it. Instead he said, “I’ll miss me plane.”
“Good. More work to be done around the farm.”
They both smiled, maybe because there was truth in it.
Ozzie left the money in the ashtray but Jack took the city turnoff, like they both knew he would. Soon, they were engulfed in a sea of cars paddling from one traffic light to the next. Exhaust fumes crept into the cabin of Jack’s pickup, making him cough and open the window.
“I played there once, you know?” he said. They were inching past Suncorp Stadium, where the Brisbane Broncos play their National Rugby League games. “Of course it wasn’t named after a bloody bank then.”
