by Pat Flynn
“My pop was in World War II,” said Ozzie. “Spent two years as a POW in Italy. An Italian girl helped him escape. Best time of his life, he reckons.”
Coach Hayes laughed. “Sounds like some of the guys I knew.” He shook Ozzie’s hand. “You keep up the good work out there. And remember, being a Shooter, it means a whole lot to the people who live around here.”
Ozzie nodded like he understood, but he didn’t. Not yet.
chapter 19
There were three letters waiting for Ozzie when he arrived home from training.
Dear Boofhead,
Hello, mate. Thanks for the postcard. Though next time send one with a picture of Yankeeland on the front. If I want to see my own town I can look out the bloody window.
Good to hear you’re doing all right. Mrs. Allan says hello and wants you to behave yourself over there. No playing silly buggers or those Yanks’ll chuck you in Guantanamo and throw away the key. And if they don’t, Mrs. Allan will give you a good tongue–lashing. I don’t know which is worse. Your mate Johnno said to say g’day. He’s supposed to be helping me fence right now but he hasn’t shown up, the lazy bugger.
The weather is bloody terrible. It’s hot and everything is dead or dying. Feed has gone up again. Still, the farm’s only something to make the days pass quicker for me now. It doesn’t seem long ago that I was a young buck like you, but now I get a shock every time I look in the mirror. A bloody big shock.
You got a letter from the Broncos, I’ve enclosed it. If they offer you a chance and you’re willing to give it a red hot go, then by all means take it. But if you’re going to go down there and stuff around, I’d rather you stay here and help me on the farm. God knows I need it. But I’ve gotten my pound of flesh out of you so you deserve to follow your dream. Just make sure it’s the right one. Most times I went to the city as a young fella I ended up in a padded cell. Too many pubs and too many blokes who loved a blue for my own good. But you might be smarter than me. Then again, you may not be.
I’ve heard you’re playing Yankee football. I saw it in the war, bit of a fool’s game if you ask me. Too much talking and not enough action. One thing about Yanks is they love to bullshit. They did all right in the war, though, I’ll give ’em that.
Well, not much else. Don’t reckon I’ll play footy this year, wouldn’t want to show up the likes of you! Reckon I could still tackle better than Johnno though, the gutless wonder.
Yours truly,
Pop
PS I remembered that try I scored for Queensland. It was at the Brisbane Exhibition Ground and not Lang Park, in 1948. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.
Ozzie picked up the second letter. Unlike his grandfather’s this one was typed on thick, official-looking paper, a Brisbane Broncos letterhead at the top.
Dear Austin,
You have been identified by our organization as being a highly talented junior Rugby League player. Early next year we are running a training camp and we’d like to invite you to participate. It will consist of trial games, interviews, and fitness and psychological testing. Some of the players who attend may be offered a contract with the Broncos, so it is an exciting opportunity for you.
We are happy to cover your travel expenses for the camp. Enclosed is some further information. If you have any questions please contact me.
Best regards,
Cyril Conroy
Brisbane Broncos Development and Recruiting
Manager
The third letter was on pink paper, in neat, flowing writing, with small hearts drawn around the margins.
Hey Sexy,
Thanks for your postcard. Congratulations on making the football team. (Did you have to do anything, like try out?) You and football, it’s like you’re meant for each other.
I really, really, really miss you! I’ve been walking around school like a zombie, my friends have been full-on worried and shit. The only good thing is that I’m studying more now that I don’t have this hot guy to distract me. (I wonder who that could be?) I even got an A on my last math test! (And I didn’t give Mr. Penissi a kiss from you. Though I’d love to see the look on his face if I did.)
Can you believe I’ve got less than two months of school left? It’s blowing my mind. I’m applying to Unis in Brisbane but I could defer and stay around here next year if that’s what you want. What do you really want? I know you want to help your pop but you also have to do what’s right for you. In the city you could learn a trade and play football. If you really love the farm then stay, but I’ve never heard you say much about it. Then again, I don’t think I’ve heard you use the word “love” ever, so who knows?
I went around to see your pop and he did a fair bit of bitching about Johnno as per usual. Talking about Johnno, I don’t think he’s been lifting too many weights, though I saw him lift a heap of stubbies at Jane Frawley’s party. He’ll never change, that boy. He still thinks you’re the bee’s knees, of course. He asked about you and I told him to write and find out. He just laughed. Me and Oz don’t need to write is what he said.
Well, I hope you’re thinking and dreaming about me because I can’t get you out of my head!
Love ya,
Jess
PS Just because I bought you those postcards doesn’t mean you can’t write a letter, if you want to, every now and then.
PPS Give me your phone number so I can ring you. And tell me the time difference so I don’t wake the family up.
Ozzie wanted to write back straightaway to Pop and Jess, and even to Johnno, to tell him to get his act together. Johnno needed a good kick up the arse every now and then. But there was the game on Friday night and Coach Wright was bugging him to learn the playbook. Plus he had to get up early tomorrow morning and run through some moves with Jose and Mal.
He’d write on the weekend, he decided. For now he’d just look at the photos. Johnno and him lifting the under-sixteen trophy above their heads. A younger Pop with no shirt on, so tanned he was nearly as black as Johnno, sitting on a horse. Jess in her bikini, the day they went swimming in Mitchell’s waterhole. The day they kissed for the first time. The photos made him sad and he realized he hadn’t really looked at them, or missed home, until now.
He put them away and tried to forget.
chapter 20
On Friday, Sam walked around school with knives in his stomach. When a boy asked, “So you think y’all will win?” Sam didn’t even hear the question, let alone answer. He was busy playing the game in his head.
What he saw were passes that kept hitting the open man, just like his dad had taught him. When he was on his game, Sam’s passes could hit an open beer bottle, he was so accurate. He could hurl the ball so violently he could smash that beer bottle into slivers of glass.
To Sam’s disgust, Coach was practicing more of this crazy offense run by the Australian, but Sam figured if he could get a few good throws in early he could keep Ozzie off the field for at least the first half. Perhaps if he kept throwing well he could keep Ozzie out for the entire game.
While they were reading The Catcher in the Rye during English, a message came that Coach McCulloch wanted to see Sam in his office. Walking there, Sam began to fear the worst. Surely a stupid Australian couldn’t replace him as starting quarterback? Could he?
“Take a seat,” said Coach. “How’re you feeling?”
Sam forced a smile. “Ready to go.”
“Mmm.” Coach paused. “I need to tell you something. About tonight.”
The office overlooked the school oval where the cheerleaders were refining their routine for tonight’s game. Right now Sam wanted more than anything to look out the window and see Unity, her perfect legs jumping and spinning, her perfect face smiling. His girl.
“Want some water?” Coach asked.
Sam shook his head. How long can I hold onto her if I’m not starting quarterback?He had another urge to connect with Unity, but resisted. If Coach was going to stab him in the heart he’d make it as hard as possibl
e by looking into his eyes.
“Three big-time college scouts are going to be at the game,” Coach said. “One of them is from Justice University.” He gave Sam a brief smile. “Just thought that might interest you.”
Sam took a deep breath and relief flooded his lungs.
He let himself gaze out the window and he saw Unity being thrown high into the air, her arms spread wide, and it seemed to Sam that Unity hung at her apex for an eternity.
I almost thought things weren’t going to be okay, Sam thought. I almost forgot who I was.
Under the bright lights of Shooter Stadium there is nowhere to hide, and not too many teenagers can handle the pressure of being the right arm of a team. Sam loved it. Being under the hot lights, people cheering your every move—it made him feel alive. There were nerves, especially tonight against the Porter Panthers, but they were left behind in the locker room.
In the huddle Sam was calm but firm, the way a quarterback should be. “Remember, on pass plays, go straight for their balls when you block. Then the defense’ll have their hands down, and our receivers’ll have easy catches.”
Tex nodded. “It’ll be our pleasure.”
“Okay, red twenty-seven on two. Red twenty-seven on two.” A whistle blew. “Men, we can do this. Follow me and I’ll take you all the way tonight. Ready?”
The whole offense yelled, “BREAK!”
The linemen struck at the defenders’ groins, which forced their hands down, which meant there were no fingers to deflect Sam’s forty-yarder to Malivai (who would also have been doing his best to impress the recruiters except that he didn’t know they were watching:
Coach didn’t want to make Malivai more nervous than he already was). It was a timing pattern and Sam hit his receiver in full flight, and if Malivai hadn’t stumbled after the catch it would have been a sure touchdown.
“Great throw!” yelled Coach from the sideline.
The home crowd cheered and Sam felt good. He could imagine those college boys getting excited, perhaps already reaching for their cell phones, setting up a recruiting visit. This was his night. He felt it. Jose joined them in the huddle, bringing with him Coach McCulloch’s instructions: a handoff to Malivai who would run behind Tex’s block.
Sam fidgeted with his chinstrap. He wasn’t in the mood for a handoff. He wanted to throw again, he wanted another bullet into a pair of hands for a touchdown. “I’m changing the call.”
“What?” said Jose.
“Red fourteen on one.”
“Another throwing play? But Coach said …”
“I don’t care,” said Sam. “We’re about to bust them right open. I can feel it. Come on, men. Red fourteen on one. Ready?”
Tex shook his head.
“Just run the play Coach wants you to,” said Jose.
“I’m the quarterback here! Red fourteen on one. Ready?”
A whistle blew. There wasn’t time for any more discussion.
“Break.” Sam was the only one who said it this time.
Sam play-faked to Jose and dropped back to throw. When he was wired like this everything seemed to unfold in slow motion. He could see his receivers start to run criss-cross routes and knew he could hit any one of them in the chest. He knew, that is, until the Panthers’ defense blitzed. It was like someone had hit the fast-forward button, and nine defenders forgot about their opposite numbers and ran at the quarterback like kamikazes. The blitz was a calculated gamble that only worked if the quarterback intended to throw from the pocket.
Shit! Sam thought from the pocket, as he desperately tried to find the room and the time to throw.
Tex stopped one defender with a vicious block and Sam dodged two more who sprinted through so fast they couldn’t change direction in time. Sam was just about to let a pass fly when a hand got hold of his black-and-white jersey. He tried to ignore it, pretend it wasn’t there, but the hand was strong and it slung him to the ground before he could let go of the ball. Eight bodies jumped on top of him, one for each yard of ground this play had lost, and when he finally rose, Sam was faced with a situation so unusual he couldn’t comprehend it.
“Son, you have to go off,” one of the referees said to him. “Your coach says so.”
“Time-out,” said Sam.
“What?” asked the referee.
“Time-out!”
The referee blew his whistle. “Whatever you say.”
Sam ran to the sideline. Coach McCulloch grabbed his chinstrap. “First you change the damn call, then you waste a time-out. What in god’s name are you doing?”
“I didn’t … It was an accident,” said Sam.
“Well, that’s why you’re going to the bench. So there’ll be no more accidents.”
“Please,” Sam said, “let me back in. I’ll do the job for you, I promise.”
There was a hint of desperation in Sam’s voice that Coach McCulloch had never heard, that he’d been waiting to hear for three years. Coach thought about doing what Sam asked, but the thought didn’t last long. “You run the plays I call,” he said. “New quarterback.”
The Porter coaches couldn’t believe their luck: Hope’s quarterback replaced so early in the game! They’d studied the Shooters on screen and knew that they had a talented throwing quarterback and a few good receivers. And that was it. Without their starting quarterback, Hope should be easy pickings.
“I told you our blitz training would pay off!” said the head coach of the Panthers, smiling. “One quarterback down, one to go. We’re ready to shoot the Shooters!”
They weren’t ready for Ozzie. The Shooters lined up in a formation the Panthers had never seen before, and the Porter defensive captain turned to the coaches on the sideline for guidance. The coaches held their arms out wide as if to say, “You’re on your own.” But even though they were confused, they weren’t overly worried. The Panthers’ defense was predicted to be the second best in the district, behind Denham’s. But when they saw the Shooters’ quarterback take the ball from the line of scrimmage and run, then pass the ball to a receiver as he was being tackled, they started worrying for real. And then when that receiver, after attracting the rest of the defensive team, passed the ball again, they started hyperventilating. This wasn’t football they were watching. It was freak-ball.
No one touched Malivai as he ran thirty yards for a touchdown, and a recruiter got out his phone. “The Shooters have got a receiver who also plays running back. He’s not all that big, but man, can he run!”
Mayor Green and Pastor Slipper were sitting within earshot. “He can sing, too,” said the pastor, laughing.
“We might have to hold off on that little project of ours,” said the mayor.
The pastor nodded.
The head coach of the Panthers pulled his defense together when they came off the field. The coach’s belly jiggled when he talked. “Next time lay off the quarterback! He’s gonna pass the ball, so wait until he does, then hit the running back before he can pass it. Break him in two!”
Two tackles by Tex and one from Ozzie saw the Panthers kick the ball back to the Shooters. Sam was about to run onto the field, but the coach stopped him. “We’ll stick with Austin.”
Sam hurled his helmet down.
“We can stick with Austin all game, if that’s what you want.”
Sam sucked in a breath. “No. I didn’t mean …”
The coach turned away.
The Shooters lined up in the same formation.
“Snap him like a stick!” yelled the Panthers’ coach.
Ozzie took the snap and ran toward Jose, who was taken out by four tacklers. Unfortunately for the Panthers, he didn’t have the ball. Ozzie was cradling it in two hands as he sprinted upfield, Malivai in support. By running at the safety, Ozzie made him commit to a player, and at the last second the defender lunged at Malivai and pulled him to the ground. But Malivai didn’t have the ball. Ozzie had thrown another fake and a flying dive right under the posts sealed the touchdown.
When the Panthers’ defense came off, their head coach screamed at them. “You have to hit the quarterback! Don’t assume he’s gonna pass the ball, you hear? Don’t assume the next guy will pass the ball. Just damn well smash all of ’em!”
But no matter what the Panthers’ coach told his players, every time they thought they had a handle on the next play, something would go wrong. It was like this new quarterback had turned the world upside down.
When Coach McCulloch gave Ozzie a well-earned rest, Sam hit Jose for thirty-five yards, then found Malivai for fifty yards and a touchdown. But by that time, late in the fourth quarter, the game was over. The recruiters had moved down to the sideline to meet the standout players, one a running back named Malivai B. Thomas and the other a quarterback who didn’t throw a forward pass all night.
When the clock reached ten the crowd started a countdown. As the hooter sounded, cheerleaders and Hopettes stormed onto the field to give the players the hugs of their lives. The band played the school song and the Shooters’ supporters stood and sang. They had won, and for the rest of the week there would be a hum around town, and the players could walk the streets like heroes.
Sam sat on the bench rather than celebrate. Unity came up behind him and laid a hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off. He didn’t feel like a hero tonight, and he didn’t need a girl feeling sorry for him. Especially not on a Friday night. Especially not on a football field.
chapter 21
“Let’s get messed up!” Tex’s voice bounced off the locker-room walls.
The players had showered, drowned themselves in deodorant, and patted on the aftershave that they barely needed. In blue or black jeans with cowboy boots and checkered, button-down shirts, they were ready for the triumphant lap around town in pickup trucks followed by a party at Tex’s place. They were waiting for only two players. Malivai was still outside listening to college recruiters whisper sweet promises in his ear, and Ozzie was finishing his first informal press conference.
