The Whole of My World Page 4

  ‘Eddie,’ the redhead announces.

  Tara shoves the loose pages at me and joins the others in the rush towards the new arrival. They all wave autograph books, club jumpers and brown-and-gold footballs under the player’s nose, and bombard him with questions.

  ‘Pull up all right, mate?’

  ‘Not sore I hope?’

  ‘Good game, Eddie.’

  Mick ‘Eddie’ Edwards limps towards us, his left leg turned out like he doesn’t want to bend it. He looks older than he does on telly, but handsome too. He is really tall. Lanky and narrow, except for his chest, which is a thick wall of muscle. His arms, too, seem heavy compared to his skinny legs. Basically, he looks like a full forward. Like he was born to be one. I can barely contain my excitement that he’s playing with the Falcons this year. Of all the teams, he chose mine.

  Eddie smiles and nods at the noisy fans as if this kind of thing has happened before, but also like he isn’t really used to it yet and doesn’t know what to say. ‘Wow, you guys are keen,’ he manages eventually, although he sounds more confused than impressed. He has a point. The real season starts Saturday. So far, we’ve only played a handful of pre-season games that, luckily, we’ve won. They showed a few of them on telly. Dad always tapes them for me so I can update my scrapbook with the kinds of stats The Sun ignores: the goal assists, the shepherds and tackles – the selfless stuff that I’m sure wins games. Dad says the same thing.

  Eddie signs whatever is pushed in front of him without slowing down, juggling pens and paper in one hand, his bag in the other, maintaining this balancing act all the way to the gym entrance. Then, giving up on any chance of escape, he drops his training bag and finishes signing everything that’s handed to him. I stand back, wondering if my pathetic-looking scrap of paper will earn an autograph.

  ‘You were robbed, mate, in the last quarter,’ the redhead says, snapping her bubble gum and nodding. We played the Panthers at Valley Park Oval on Saturday and won comfortably. Doesn’t mean much for the team – some players don’t even try in the pre-season. But new guys or those coming back from injury are always keen, hoping it will be enough to earn them selection for Round One. Eddie kicked two goals but missed a few too. Not ideal but not terrible either.

  Eddie smiles. ‘You think?’

  ‘He hit you way too high. Should have been a free.’

  ‘Hard to tell from where I was,’ Eddie says.

  We all laugh. He’d ended up sprawled out in the mud.

  ‘Seriously. And you were right in front, too. Would have been a goal. A definite gimme.’

  ‘Actually,’ I start, unable to keep quiet when someone’s so completely wrong, ‘you ducked into it.’ I watched that game over and over, slowed it down, played it back. It was clear as day. ‘Panoli went straight for the ball.’

  ‘Really?’ Eddie isn’t smiling but he seems more curious than upset.

  No point backing down now. ‘He got you with his shoulder, not his arm. The ump was right. No free there.’

  Eddie studies me, his face giving nothing away. ‘I’ll check the tape tonight,’ he says. And then, like a bolt of lightning, Eddie smiles at me – right into me – like he’s known me for years. ‘You’re new.’

  ‘So are you,’ I shoot back, blushing so deeply I can feel it in my shoes.

  He laughs. A rich, low, strong sound. ‘Fair enough.’ He signs his name then pauses, his pen hovering over the page. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Shelley.’ I don’t stutter but my brain seems to, and I’m not even sure I’ve spoken out loud. ‘With an “e”. Like the author.’

  He looks up at me, amused. ‘Frankenstein fan, are you?’

  Stunned, I shake my head. ‘Not me. My mum.’ I rush on, so surprised by this that I know I’m blabbing. ‘It was that or Mathilde.’

  Eddie laughs. ‘I’m glad she picked Shelley,’ he says. ‘Probably my favourite name. I’ve always said that if I ever had a daughter, I’d call her Michelle. Shelley for short.’ And he writes ‘Dear Shelley, Best Wishes, Your Friend Mick Edwards’. He winks at me. ‘Since we’re both new here, I think that makes us friends, don’t you?’

  I can feel the other kids’ eyes boring into me and I know my face is as red as a Sherrin. No one’s ever said they like my name or have known what it means. ‘Uh, thanks, Eddie,’ comes out more like a grunt than any recognisable word, but Eddie smiles again and hands back my pen and paper.

  ‘Call me Mick,’ he says unexpectedly. I glance up to see who he’s talking to, but he’s looking right at me. ‘The papers call me Eddie.’ He runs his hand through his hair, his smile lopsided. ‘But my friends call me Mick.’

  My mouth is so dry I’m not sure I can form the words. ‘Okay. Mick,’ I croak.

  ‘See you after,’ he says with a wave to the group, then disappears into the gym.

  I don’t know what to do, so I just stand there while the others stare at me. Tara recovers first. ‘New players are always like that,’ she says. ‘They try harder to fit in.’

  The others nod at each other and return to their assigned posts outside the training-room entrance as another car drives towards them.

  ‘Killer,’ the redhead announces. And sure enough, Kevin Compton climbs out of his car and makes his way to the gym entrance. He signs a few autographs and stands for a photo with Tara then says he’s running late and disappears inside, all within about two-and-a-half minutes.

  Bono Boy shrugs as we watch him leave. ‘When you’re that good, you don’t need to be nice.’

  Tara hangs her camera back around her neck.

  ‘Cool camera,’ I say, nodding at her Brownie. ‘Do you have other photos of the team?’

  ‘About a thousand,’ Red chips in before Tara can answer.

  Tara smiles proudly, the blush staining her pale cheeks. ‘I’ve got a few.’

  ‘They’re all coming now,’ Bono Boy informs us, as a parade of cars files into the car park. I watch the players arrive, one by one. Most of the players know the kids by name and answer questions about their post-game condition or their plans for next week’s match. No one else speaks to me except to sign the bit of paper I offer them or to ask for my pen so they can sign someone else’s book.

  Mossy doesn’t appear – he’s had surgery and is still in hospital. But bit by bit, I see every other hero from the telly show up and follow the same routine. I’m in heaven. I never want to leave.

  After most of the team has arrived Tara and I collect our stuff. I follow her around the outside of the gym, towards a tall pair of chain-link gates.

  ‘Can’t we go in?’ I ask Tara as we wait for Red to fiddle with the rusted bolt. It seems stupid to wait outside the gym for so long and then not actually go inside.

  ‘In the gym?’ Tara yelps, as though I suggested we all strip naked.

  ‘Well, yeah.’

  ‘Not in the gym.’ Tara stares in disbelief. ‘Men only. Officials.’ She keeps her lips together when she talks, as if she’s holding back the words.

  ‘Oh.’ I decide not to ask any more questions in case I stuff up again. I follow Tara and the others into the stadium, where we squeeze onto a wobbly wooden bench along the boundary. The air is already cold and the sun is setting. The Fernlee Park lights are on low, but I can hardly see anything in the dusty twilight. After a bit, the lights come on full beam. The players run out onto the field, their bodies steaming in the still air, and I wonder if I’ve ever seen anything more thrilling in my life.

  Everyone claps like they’re thinking the same thing, although it isn’t so much out of excitement as expectation, the way they applaud. I realise then that the crowd has grown since I first arrived. Men, women, families, people young and old have collected here like I have, numbering a hundred or so, all of them focused on the action on the ground. Some wear official Glenthorn Football Club clothes, others are in the usual supporter gear – tired-looking footy jumpers or heavy brown duffle coats decorated with players’ badges, sewn-on name tags and lar
ge numbers emblazoned on the centre of their backs.

  There are a lot of 3s, a good number of 24s and four or five 17s. No one is wearing number 5. Killer, Mossy and Buddha are popular, but no one has bothered with Mick Edwards. He might have been a star in WA, but that counts for nothing once you cross the Nullarbor. Footy fans love a sure thing, and we had a great year last year, winning the premiership after five years without making a grand final. There’s every reason to be confident of winning again this year.

  All except one: we’ve never done it before. We’ve never even played in grand finals back-to-back, let alone won them.

  We need a star full forward. Someone like Peter Hudson, or even someone half as good as him. Dad says they broke the mould after Huddo retired. But Mick Edwards has something special too – an edge that could make the difference. If he doesn’t step up, I don’t see how we can go all the way.

  For an hour and a half the players run laps, perform drills, polish their kicking and practise short plays, grunting and calling out in the quiet Glenthorn night. Their bodies flash across the ground, slick and smooth, gliding more than running. I can’t believe these men are made of muscle and sweat just like everyone else. Their shadows fly under the lights and, even though I know they’re tough and athletic, to me they look more like dancers than anything else. And the game is a ballet.

  Every now and then a train passes by on its way to Yarra Valley and I keep thinking, How can they go past like that and not get out to watch? To miss out on all this just so they can go home to their boring lives to watch the boring telly. Who wouldn’t love this? Who wouldn’t want to join them? Right now I feel like the luckiest person on earth.

  Tara and I head up to the press box, which, she seems surprised to discover, is empty. ‘I usually have to fight the rest of the cheersquad,’ she says. I glance down at the others who are all clustered on the boundary. I pick out Bono Boy, who is leaning against the cyclone fence, a boom box on his shoulder, U2 pumping at full bore. Red is on one side, and beside her is a bloke the size of a small house, with more tattoos than I’ve ever seen on one person.

  Tara and I take a seat on a bench and watch the amazing scene below.

  ‘There used to be games here,’ Tara says after a while. Her face is calm, her whole body seems relaxed – different to the Tara I’ve come to know.

  ‘Let me guess: the press sat here.’

  She grins sideways at me, a real smile that changes the whole shape of her face. ‘I hardly ever get to sit here alone.’

  ‘You’re not alone,’ I laugh.

  She shakes her head. ‘No.’ But she doesn’t seem to mind.

  More and more people shuffle into the ground during the training session until there’s a crowd of about two hundred, all yelling out to the players, the coach – whoever will listen – making suggestions, offering encouragement and generally just being here. Being part of it.

  When it’s over, the players head back up the race, their boots clicking on the cement, their voices joining with the rising chorus of encouragement that swallows them as they disappear into the gym. It’s electric. The whole place is buzzing.

  ‘Let’s go inside,’ Tara says. She opens the door to the stadium and leads me down a winding set of stairs.

  ‘I thought we weren’t allowed in the gym.’

  She doesn’t turn around to answer. ‘After training everyone goes in,’ she shoots over her shoulder in exasperation. ‘The players are all in a meeting anyway.’

  I follow her through the standing-room area and up the race and find myself inside the gym, the air thick with eucalyptus and liniment. The crowd is made up mostly of men but there are some women and kids too, all standing around drinking beer or Coke and eating sausages in bread. The barbecue penetrates all the chemicals so that soon it’s all I can smell. The effect is mouth-watering. I’m starving.

  ‘Can we get some food?’

  ‘The barbie’s in the trainers’ room. You have to be invited, or someone can get one for you.’

  ‘Like who?’

  ‘A trainer, an official or a player.’

  ‘Oh.’ My stomach growls like something feral. ‘What do we do now?’

  Tara shrugs. ‘Wait. The players will come out again. Usually, they announce the team.’

  ‘Aren’t you hungry?’

  ‘Yeah. Wanna go to Greasy Joe’s?’

  ‘What if we miss the players?’

  Tara looks around. One or two of the under 19s have already surfaced. ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Maybe someone will get us a sausage?’ The barbecue is in full swing, and people everywhere seem to be eating.

  ‘I s’pose we can see.’

  We hover near the entrance to the trainers’ room, watching men wander in and out, some with glasses of beer, others taking great hunks out of a sausage. After a while a few more players show up. One by one they appear from the dressing-room hallway, the younger reserves players first, then the senior players. Some of them slip into the trainers’ room, disappearing into the cloud of barbecue smoke, standing shoulder to shoulder with trainers and spectators – all of them men. Some smile at us as they go by. The other cheersquad kids join us, and most of them have something to say to the players.

  Mick Edwards appears after a while, his limp almost gone, his step somehow lighter.

  ‘You in?’ Red asks him as he approaches the trainers’ room.

  ‘Think so. Have to pass a fitness test on Saturday.’

  I’m standing behind Tara, trying not to be too obvious but also hoping he will speak to me again.

  As if he’s read my mind, he looks up, smiles at me and winks. ‘You must have brought me luck, Shelley. God knows I need it right now.’

  This player is talking to me like I’m the only person in the room, and I feel myself grow taller, bigger, better just listening to him.

  ‘Thanks for waiting,’ he continues, swinging his bag over his shoulder, straightening to his full height, towering over me. ‘You were right, by the way, about the free kick. I watched the tape inside. I ducked into it – it was all me.’ He nods, impressed, and pats my arm. ‘You’ve got a good eye.’

  I can’t believe Eddie – no, Mick – has picked me out of the crowd like this. I wish I’d changed out of my school uniform before I got here. It’s so square and bland. So . . . forgettable. He’ll never remember me next time. ‘Um, thanks.’

  ‘Hungry?’ he asks, pausing at the entrance to the trainers’ room.

  I nod. He winks again then disappears inside the smoky room, returning a few minutes later with a steaming hot snag and a glass of Coke.

  ‘Shhh. Don’t tell anyone,’ he says, although there isn’t a single person nearby who isn’t staring at me.

  I smile, croak a thankyou and take the food and drink.

  ‘Gotta go, guys!’ he says to the group, giving us a small wave as he hoists his training bag on his back and pulls out a set of keys. Then he stops and swings his gaze right back to me. ‘You live round here?’

  ‘Um, no, not really. I catch the train from Stonnington.’

  ‘I live near the station. Need a lift?’

  I can feel Tara glaring at me. But this is a player – a footballer – offering to drive me home. Of course I’ll go. I’d follow him to the moon if he asked me.

  ‘I thought we were going to Greasy Joe’s,’ Tara says, her voice flat.

  I stare at the food in my hand, look back at Tara, then smile sheepishly. ‘You can have this,’ I say, handing her the sausage and drink – the only consolation I can think of. Then I follow Mick out into the car park.

  A streetlamp lights the way as we head towards his shiny blue Holden. It’s a long way from the best car there but it’s not the worst either. Dad says Mick would have been paid more to come a couple of years back, before his knee problem. More of a risk now – so late in his career. Still, it’s a pretty nice car. Nicer than ours, anyway.

  ‘Hey, I didn’t get you into any trouble, did I?’ Mick unlock
s his car and yanks it open, the sudden noise sharp against the quiet night.

  No one else is around and I begin to feel nervous. Not afraid, just uncertain. It doesn’t seem real.

  ‘Sorry if I caught you off guard. I thought, since you’re new here too . . . that you’re kind of a kindred spirit.’

  And I know instantly that there’s nothing to worry about – something in his eyes, how direct and clear they look. Honest. His eyes are honest. I suddenly feel very grown up, very together as I wait for him to open my door.

  ‘They’ll be okay,’ I say, ducking into the front passenger seat. ‘Actually, I barely know them.’ But even as I say this, I know I’ve crossed a line with Tara without planning to. I don’t know if I’ll be welcomed back, but right now I don’t care.

  The Fernlee Park Road lights roll over us in waves as Mick’s car moves in front of a labouring tram. The clattering racket fills the silence between us, trampling over the hum of Mick’s Holden. I want to ask him why he picked me. Why I mattered more than the others. I long to ask him what it was that allowed me, in my square grey school uniform, to stand out from the other kids. Was it a moment I should treasure in case it never happens again? Or is it, as I hope, the beginning of something new and real? ‘What’s it like in WA?’ I say instead.

  Mick glances at me as though he forgot I was there. But there’s an odd smile on his face that seems to look right into me. Maybe that’s where his head was already – back home, on the other side of the country.

  ‘Beautiful,’ he says simply. ‘Beautiful. Especially the beach.’

  I nod, as though I have an idea what a Western Australian beach looks like.

  ‘You ever been out there?’ he asks, half watching the road, half turned towards me.

  I want to be able to say yes, and a part of me is tempted to lie. But I can feel the heat in my throat moving up to my cheeks, guaranteeing that I won’t get away with it. Even in the dim car, brightened irregularly by passing streetlights. I shake my head and shrug, covering my embarrassment as best I can. ‘I’ve never been out of Victoria.’