An Iron Rose (30 page)

Mick put his hands in his anorak pockets, looked around for understanding. ‘Can’t, Billy, boy’s in the golf tournament of his life tomorrer. Tiger Woods in the makin, how kin I put him out there, some great lump kicks him in the leg, stands on his head? Great career ruined. My fault. Swore I wouldn’t play him except in an emergency.’

‘Emergency?’ said Billy. ‘You think a bloody emergency is like what? Only bloody Grand Final I’ll ever play in, thirty-six points behind, side’s absolutely bloody knackered. Not an emergency? You off your bloody head?’

‘No need to shout, Billy,’ Mick said. ‘Don’t want ’em to think we’re not of one mind, gives ’em a psychological hold over us…’

‘They don’t need a bloody psychological hold over us, you mad Irish prick,’ Billy said. ‘They’ve got a hold on our actual balls, squeezin.’

I was at full forward, second game back after four weeks out, leg almost healed. Garrett and company had got along fine without me, winning three out of four.

Flannery and I walked on together. ‘Christ, be glad when this is over,’ he said. ‘It’s not the losin I mind, it’s havin to play so long after you know you’ve lost.’

‘No time for defeatism, Flannery,’ I said. ‘We mature players are supposed to set an example.’

Flannery was walking in the direction of his opponent. Over his shoulder, he said, ‘You’ll see an example if this cockbrain doesn’t stop puttin his elbow in my ribs. Example of how to get a two-hundred-game suspension.’

For the first five minutes, Kingstead were all over us, winning the ball everywhere, four shots at goal, four behinds.

Then something happened to them. Billy Garrett won the ball from four consecutive ball-ups, everyone seemed to have found some speed.

Three goals in four minutes.

At the centre bounce, Billy knocked it out to Gary Weaver, who ran twenty metres, kicked the ball to Flannery, who appeared to have stood on his opponent’s instep. Flannery played on, kicked it my way. I got in front of my man and took it on my chest.

Goal.

‘Reckon they peaked too early,’ Flannery said after taking a mark right in front of goal. ‘Field’s comin back to us.’

He kicked it. Supporters back in full voice.

Ten points behind.

And there we stuck. It began to rain, steady rain. We wrestled with them in the mud, almost everyone ending up in midfield, all mudmen, unrecognisable, exhausted. My thigh was aching, must have opened the wound. The clock ticked on, every second taking Brockley’s first Grand Final victory in seventeen years further away.

Out of nowhere, Kingstead kicked another goal. Ball spun free from a collapsing pack, man ran thirty metres and kicked a goal. Supporters in total ecstasy.

Sixteen points behind. Three goals.

As we were picking ourselves up, Billy Garrett said to me, panting, ‘Mac, for Christsake, do it. Talk to the little bastard.’

I looked at Lew sitting on the bench, wearing an old overcoat of mine. He didn’t look happy. I was his guardian. What would Ned have done? I didn’t really have to ask myself the question. I knew what Ned would have done.

I went over to Mick. ‘Fuck the golf,’ I said. ‘Give the boy a run. You only get one chance in life to save a Grand Final for Brockley.’

Mick opened his mouth, looked into my eyes, closed his mouth. He turned towards the bench.

‘You’re on, fella.’

Lew was up and out of the overcoat, jogging on the spot, big smile.

Minutes to go. Lew on in the centre.

Billy tapped the ball out. It bounced off the shoulder of a Kingstead player, Lew took it out of the air with one hand, slipped between two opponents, perfect balance, ran, one bounce, two bounces, three bounces, sidestepped two Kingstead players, handballed over the head of another one, ran around him, caught his own handball, running, another bounce, kick.

Goal.

Centre bounce. Billy made a superhuman effort, took the ball over his opponent, came down, threw off a tackle, handballed to Lew, who was already running.

Lew ran around three players, stopped, delivered a kick to Gary Weaver, perfectly weighted kick, hit Weaver on the chest.

Weaver kicked the ball to the square, where Flannery and I and several other Brockley players were in hand-to-hand combat with half the Kingstead side now drafted into defence.

The ball came out of the dark-grey sky. Four of us rose to it, tired men, desperate men, men willing their arms to lengthen.

Lew floated across the front of the pack, fully a metre off the ground, took the ball one-handed, landed like a ballet dancer, perfect pivot, no hesitation, cannon shot through the posts.

Goal.

One goal to victory.

Crowd like Visigoths on a rampage. Grown men would weep in the last light of this day.

Umpire looking at watch. Seconds left.

Centre bounce. No-one was going to take this away from Billy Garrett. He rose like someone called to ascend to a higher place, seemed to grip the ball in a large hand, sent it flying to where Lew was waiting, sent it as if he knew exactly where the boy was, sent it as if they’d arranged it.

Lew went through the Kingstead players with the calm arrogance of someone sent to instruct others on the correct way to play the winter game. No-one put a finger on him. They chased, gave up. Two players collided, heads meeting, fell down senseless.

He came down the field towards me, to where I stood alone, my opponents sure that he was going to goal.

Stopped. Goals in front, thirty metres, no-one within reach of him. Crowd suddenly silent.

Lew kicked, perfect swing of the leg, leg born to kick a football.

Kicked not at goal. Not at exposed, waiting goal.

To me.

Like a father kicking to his son in the street. Kick meant to be marked, on the chest, not high, give the boy confidence.

Instead of kicking it himself, could kick it in his sleep, be a hero, he wanted me to kick the winning goal for Brockley. Brockley, seventeen years in the wilderness, object of derision. Lew was handing me the chance to bring the barren years to a close.

I marked the ball under my collarbone. It fell into my hands, stuck there.

The siren went.

Kick to win after the siren. In a Grand Final. People had never recovered from missing one. Moved away. Changed their names. Never played again.

I went back, pulled up my socks.

It looked like a long way, impossible angle.

Flannery walked across behind me.

‘Not saying anything,’ he said. ‘But…’

There was not a sound from the crowd. Total silence.

I took a deep breath. No-one should be given this kind of responsibility. No-one.

I ran up and kicked.

Closed my eyes.

Flannery grabbed me from behind, seemed to want to dance with me.

Lew came up, punched my shoulder, put his arm around my waist. I put an arm around his shoulders.

‘You little bastard,’ I said.

We walked off, shaking hands with opponents, ruffling team-mates’ hair, listening to the supporters shouting. Mick was kissing players.

In the gloom, I could see Allie, pale head, standing on the bonnet of her truck, fists raised in the air, shouting something. Next to her, Vinnie was doing what looked like the samba.

And then I saw the black Mercedes, person leaning against the grille. Hadn’t seen her, spoken to her, since the night I killed two men on her fire escape. Wanted to, scared to, she didn’t call.

I cuffed Lew on the back of the head, walked down the line, wet, covered in mud, people patting me on back.

Anne Karsh was in jeans, tartan coat, hair wet, beautiful. Wary eyes, not smiling.

I stopped a metre away. ‘Owe you a coffee machine,’ I said.

She shrugged. ‘Been meaning to throw out that machine for years. Makes really bad coffee.’

We looked at each other.

‘Must’ve read your mind. Threw it out for you. You in the country going back?’

‘In the country staying over. Not sure where yet. Leon’s divorcing me. Met a neurosurgeon in Switzerland. I get Harkness Park.’

‘Nice place,’ I said. ‘Got the Bobby Hill memorial tennis court. Want to come back to the pub?’

Anne smiled, nodded, touched my muddy arm.

‘C’mon, Mac,’ Flannery shouted. ‘Got to sing the team song. Got to learn it first.’