‘I’m not,’ I say. ‘I don’t get offended by anything.’
‘Ay, you’ll fit right in,’ Fergus says, before kicking a footy short to Dom. The two of them jog a few metres away and start kicking the footy to each other.
‘Until October, we train twice a week, play little scratch matches against each other when we have enough blokes rock up, and learn basic skills,’ Jack says. He rummages in a Rebel Sport bag. ‘What size shirt are ya?’
I feel like everyone is suddenly looking at how chubby I am.
‘Uh, extra-large, usually,’ I mutter, staring at my footy boots.
Jack flings a generic red-and-black guernsey at me. ‘Chuck that on.’ He raises his voice to the rest of the team. ‘Alright, boys, let’s warm up. Two laps of the oval.’
‘Two?’ Fergus moans. ‘You demented sadist.’
I take my grey singlet off, momentarily fearing the guys will judge my exposed flab.
I pull the guernsey over my head and see they’ve all started jogging already, and nobody is looking at me at all.
I sprint to catch up, and something sparks in my brain I have never felt before. Adrenaline or endorphins or both. I know, biochemically, I must have had adrenaline release into my system before, in moments of fear and anger. But this is different. Running in unison with a pack of teammates, forcing my legs to move my body, triggers a powerful sensation that floods my muscles. This adrenaline is productive, for exertion and play: it is joyful.
For two laps of the oval, there is nothing deficient or wrong with me. I am part of a team. I am one of the boys.
But I am immediately exposed as unco and unfit. I’m already panting from the two laps and the dynamic stretches, and when Brick starts us with a simple handball drill, I drop the footy so many times I know it’s clear I was full of shit when I claimed to have played. When we do a kick-to-kick drill, the footy comes offmy boot at a messed-up angle every time. I keep calling, ‘Sorry!’ to Rogan in an increasingly pathetic voice as my cheeks burn.
It’s when Brick sets up cones for goal-kicking practice that I feel truly humiliated. It’s not just my inaccuracy: I can’t even kick the footy hard enough to make it travel all the way to the goalposts, even when I’m at the closest cone fifteen metres from goal. Isuck. My legs are weak and I don’t have any power in my kicks. All the other boys can do this, but I can’t. Brick and Jack call out encouragement, but I’m sure they’re all thinking what a flog I am. I want to sink through the patchy grass and get dry-drowned by dirt.
By the time we do a gameplay drill – which I don’t understand – I have never been more publicly embarrassed. I feel like such a joke of a man I want to neck myself. I can never come back here again.
Brick says we’re gonna finish with a match sim – four on four. I tell him I have to go to the toilet and find myself standing in some dark bushes on the edge of Coolbinia Reserve, peeing onto a shrub with my heart hammering and my breath short in my chest.
I consider sprinting from the oval, never to be seen again.
While I’m still pissing, a voice behind me says, ‘You orright, bro?’
It’s Jack.
I shake my dick and tuck him back under my footy shorts. ‘Just a bit rusty,’ I say, focusing on the grass.
‘You’ve never played footy before in your life, have you, mate?’ Jack says flatly.
I want to cry and/or die.
I look up to face Jack squarely. ‘No,’ I admit. ‘I’m a geek. I’ve never played any sport, let alone footy. I’m so sorry. I think this was a mistake.’
I wait for Jack to sneer at me, or laugh, or screw up his face in disgust, but instead, as I walk back towards him, he puts his arm around me.
‘I figured,’ he says simply, giving me a rough squeeze. ‘No need to be so hard on yourself. You look like you’re trying to pass a kidney stone, bro. This is meant to be fun.’
I try to smile back at him but it’s shaky. ‘I might head off,’ I say.
Jack frowns at me. ‘Like hell you will, mate. Four on four. The team needs you. Without you we can’t play our scratch match. You’re not gonna let the boys down, are ya?’
I swallow. ‘Well, if you need me, I guess I can stay for the game.’
‘Good,’ Jack says. ‘Never dog the boys. Come on, get amongst it.’
Jack jogs me back to where the other guys are chugging Gatorade. I’ve almost run out of water; I didn’t realise how badly you need to hydrate at footy training.
The other boys are talking about Hammer and his TV interview. Apparently a bunch of people are going down to Eagles HQ to protest tomorrow.
