The soccer player starts tearing up, and then outright crying, as he comes out to his teammates. They all look solemn as the piano music gets even slower and sappier. What, are they all gonna have a group hug and cry together? This is nauseating. I wanna chunder.
When the soccer player’s finished his classic sob story, all the other players get around him, cheering and messing his hair up and patting him on the back. Come off it. What is this propaganda shit?
The video ends.
‘That is the culture we want to foster,’ Mosey says. ‘A safe space where every bloke knows he’ll be treated with dignity and respect. We value and celebrate diversity.’
‘Value and celebrate,’ Roo echoes blandly. His hands are in his pockets and you can tell he’d rather be twerking for Tessa’s TikTok videos than doing any of this.
‘We’ll have more to say next week,’ Mosey says, ‘but you boys should be aware the club is committed to diversity and we expect players to take this seriously and show respect.’
All of us look to our captain, Reece ‘Sniper’ Snipes. He’s thirty-three, won the Brownlow four years ago, and is one of the most elite midfielders in the comp. Since Polak’s retirement, he’s the most respected player in this room.
Sniper responds to Mosey’s final statement with a thunderous clap. ‘Let’s get around it, boys,’ he says.
Everyone claps in some form, especially cos we’re on camera. Oshy claps enthusiastically, which is no surprise. Me, Tank and Kingy clap just once. I can tell from Tessa’s face that the team’s lukewarm reaction was like a lead balloon.
What do they expect, forcing this woke shit on us?
We’re dismissed for the showers and for tomorrow’s rest day.
As I stand up, Tank murmurs, ‘I can’t stand how they always bring this rubbish into sport.’
‘A-fucken-men,’ I say.
‘I don’t understand why we gotta talk about it,’ Kingy mutters. ‘Not like we got any poofs in the team anyway, and if we did, what they do is their own business, right? Not like I need a straight pride round to tell everyone I like stickin’ it to my misso.’ He puts on a face as if he’s about to cry, mocking the soccer player. ‘I first realised I was attracted to big giant funbags when I was fourteen, and I had to hide it from the world, cos the most evil, hated thing you can be in the 2020s is a straight boy who loves tiddies.’
We laugh and head for the showers. My back is killing me. I need to see the club physio before I leave today, but in front of the boys I push through the pain. I’m good at that.
You can survive just about anything by pretending it’s not happening.
After my manager landed me a seven-figure contract extension a few years ago, I bought a swish new apartment in South Perth. I’m in the penthouse of a twelve-storey apartment block and I got three bedrooms, one of which I use as a home gym, and a balcony with a jacuzzi and an ice bath. The balcony has epic, million-dollar views of the Swan River and the Perth skyline with its skyscrapers twinkling in the dusklight.
The night before our weekly rest day, I usually have Tank and Kingy over to hang on the balcony. We smash a feed and a couple of cheeky and definitely not club-sanctioned beers, and talk shit.
Tonight, instead of our usual talking points – this weekend’s game and our likely match-ups – we spend two hours slamming the club’s woke bullshit. We all agree this Pride Round is a joke, and if they push any more crap on us – like forcing us to wear gay-arse rainbow socks – then we’ll band together and do what those rugby players did years ago and boycott it. Fuck ’em. They can’t force us to endorse shit against our own values.
‘Did you see Oshy clapping?’ Tank asks, taking a final bite of his pulled pork roll. ‘He was all for it, little woke prick.’
‘You can tell he loves the D,’ I add.
‘Probably already takes it from Mosey,’ Kingy adds, shaking the dregs of his stubby of Gage Roads beer. ‘Mosey can’t get enough of him. It’s like the rest of us don’t exist.’
My phone pings. I check the notification and smirk.
Tank leers at me. ‘If it’s another chick throwing herself at you, I’m gonna jump off this balcony. Spoiled bastard.’
I show them the DM. Some random bird I’ve never met sent full-on nudes in response to my shirtless shower Insta story this morning. She’s sent pics of her tiddies with the nips showing and a shot of her arse in a G-string.
‘Goddamn, why don’t I ever get sluts throwing ’emselves at me?’ Tank says, fistbumping me. ‘Stud, mate.’
‘Gonna ask her over?’ Kingy asks.
‘Reckon I will,’ I say, making a show of grinning and tapping on my phone like I’m sending her a reply. ‘Clear out, fellas. I gotta smash.’
I’ve done this for years. It’s never been questioned. The chicks are real, after all, and the pics and DMs are evidence. I always tell the boys I’m gonna ask the girls over, and they believe I do, and I always have enough nudes flowing through to keep the image up.
I wait until the boys leave the apartment, send the girl a side-eye emoji by way of flirting and to encourage her to keep sending nudes, then forget about her.
