After all, even Will and Grace eventually had a huge fight and parted ways for years.
Maybe this is the end for me and Sabrina, too.
I am trembling as I pull my Nissan into the carpark at Coolbinia Reserve. My ears are ringing, my mouth is bone-dry. It’s dusk, the sky an aggrieved periwinkle-grey, and bright lights pelt down onto the two footy ovals either side of the cream-brick clubrooms. Big footy players the size of Rex are on the oval, backpacks and duffel bags in a circle at their feet. They’re all doing stretches I don’t know how to do, handballing footies I know I will drop, and, worst of all, they’re all wearing the same red-and-blue footy guernseys. In my new grey Nike singlet and black Sekem footy shorts and Under Armour duffel bag, all from Rebel Sport Innaloo, I’ll stand out as the only guy not in a uniform.
‘What are youdoing?’ I panic at the rear-view mirror. ‘You. Do. Not. Belong. Here. Oh God. You’re such a tryhard idiot. What were you thinking?’
Other cars rock up. Guys walk past me, smiling, swinging their arms, calling out to their mates. On the oval they’re running, handballing, kicking the footy, laughing.
I was thinking I wanted to have fun like them. I wanted to be part of something. I wanted to be one of the boys.
The effort is Herculean, but I open the Nissan’s door and walk towards the pack of players, unable to spot Jack or Brick. What do I do if someone asks if I’ve played footy before? I don’t think lying will be a good idea, given I’m useless.
I’m five steps from the group when a voice calls out, ‘Oi, Zeke! Over here, mate!’
I turn.
There’s a smaller cluster of guys on the second oval, on the other side of the clubrooms, wearing red-and-black guernseys. Jack is waving me over, and it’s the biggest relief: a message I’m allowed to be here.
‘Ayy, here’s trouble!’ Jack booms, fistbumping me. He jerks his head to the red-and-blue players on the opposite oval. ‘Mate, that’s the Coolbinia team. They’re a proper, full-contact footy club, playing A-grade in the Perth Football League. They let us share their rooms, but you might be out of your depth if you gatecrash their training.’
The big, dark-skinned unit next to Jack laughs. ‘Even I would, to be honest,’ he says.
‘We, on the other hand, are the mighty Perth Centurions Football Club,’ Jack declares, brandishing his arms out to the other six fellas in our circle. ‘Proudly mediocre.’
The Centurions boys give a range of awkward smiles. This team is way less intimidating. There’s a huge variety in body shape. Jack’s the most stereotypical muscular athlete among them. There’s two stocky guys like me, one huge unit, two lean athletic types who look related, and a very tall, lanky fellow with an overbite. It reminds me ofDodgeball. I nearly wandered into Globo Gym, but I’ve thankfully landed at Average Joe’s instead.
‘Frankly, even mediocre is a stretch,’ the lanky dude says, offering me his hand. ‘What’s your name, mate?’
‘Zeke.’
‘Fergus,’ the lanky dude says. ‘Welcome to the team, mate.’
‘Kinda stealing my thunder, you lanky little poof,’ Jack says jokingly. ‘Zeke, this is the team. Brick is our coach and key forward.’ The massive tattooed unit shakes my hand. ‘These are our backs, Firetruck and Tommo.’ A hot bear cub with a coppery beard and a pudgy, shaggy-haired dude who smells of cigarettes both nod. ‘You’ve met Fergus; he’s been playing forward withBrick. Dom and Rogan have been running through the midfield with me …’ Dom and Rogan look like brothers: both athletic but lean, with Balkan features, and Rogan has a deep scar across his cheek and a half-closed eyelid. ‘And you, Zeke, make eight, which means we’re almost a full nines team.’
‘Isn’t a full team twenty-two guys?’ I ask.
Dom and Rogan slide off their regular sneakers, sit on the grass and pull on their footy boots, so I follow suit, pulling my brand-new black Asics footy boots on.
‘We’re just starting out, and there’s not exactly a stampede to sign up since we’re a team of gay blokes …’ Jack starts.
‘Except Rogan,’ Firetruck points out. ‘Rogan’s straight.’
‘It’s an abomination,’ Fergus says, winking at me. He’s the joker of the team. ‘I don’t like him shoving his hetero lifestyle down my throat.’
Rogan pokes his tongue out at Fergus.
‘No, you prefer to reserve your throat for sucking down big schlongs,’ Tommo jeers.
I snort. Fergus blows Tommo a kiss and says, ‘Guilty.’
‘We give Rogan a free pass as our token straighty since he’s Dom’s brother, and he played footy for Quinns Rocks so he’s actually good, which is more than I can say for most of these gumbies,’ Brick explains.
‘And cos we need fill-ins desperately,’ Jack adds, redirecting the conversation back to me. ‘We’re hoping to join the spring comp, so if we can get thirteen members by October, this’ll be a viable team. We’re playing AFL 9s, which is the non-contact, social version of the game. Three backs, three mids, three forwards. Plus you want a few subs.’
‘I wouldn’t say no to a few subs,’ Tommo says. ‘If you know what I mean.’
‘We’re finding that in this team, the innuendo flows like hot cum,’ Brick says. ‘Hope you’re not easily offended.’
