My father liked the Dockers, so I decide to barrack for the Eagles.
Brick tells me about various players. When he tries to give me the low-down on Kade Hammersmith, I can’t help myself.
‘Oh yeah, I know Hammer – we went to school together,’ I tell the table.
Suddenly, I’m the coolest guy in the house: I have zero degrees of separation with a player everyone either loves or hates but nobody can deny is a champion. Fergus asks if I ever got a glimpse of Hammer in the showers at school. I say no, but I hope nobody asks again when I’m drunker, or I might spill the beans. I would hate to do that to Hammer.
At quarter-time, talk deviates from footy to men, which is why I love this team.
‘Hammer looks feral with a shaved head,’ Tommo reckons. ‘Like he’s a skinhead or a brawler.’
‘He was more fuckable with that blond surfy look,’ Fergus says.
‘You only watch footy to check out players, don’t ya, Pervy Potato Man?’ Tommo asks.
‘Guilty,’ Fergus says, deep-throating six Pringles at once.
‘Hammer’s either gone alt-right fag basher, or he’s secretly a poof having a full-on crisis,’ Dom suggests. ‘It’s always the most homophobic guys who are closeted, and gay crisis mode is either bleached hair or a shaved head. Just sayin’ …’
I sip my beer and keep my mouth shut.
‘I would,’ Fergus says, sucking Pringle salt off his finger longingly. ‘Even looking allRomper Stomper, I’d let him Hammer me.’
Someone launches an Esky lid at him for the bad pun. It clocks his stubby of Great Northern and makes it froth up and spill onto his boardies. Deserved.
‘I still don’t think it’s offensive to not want a Pride Game,’ Jack says, folding his arms, Disturbed demon tattoo bulging. ‘I’m out and proud but don’t wanna be defined by my sexuality. I hate that we have to all agree or get shunned.’
There’s a general murmur around the table, except Fergus, who goes, ‘Oh my God, I can’t talk about this Pride shit anymore. Can we all move on already?’
‘It’s literally on TV,’ I point out, as the Fox Footy hosts introduce a new panellist.
‘Oh fuck off, of course it’s him,’ Jack says.
Xander Sullivan is the invited panellist, talking about Hammer’s comments. He mentions the Perth Centurions Football Club by name and we all cheer and get rowdy.
Xander parrots all the talking points and the hosts thank him for his time.
Mason sums things up. ‘I agree with most of what he says, so why do I not like him?’
We watch the rest of the game. The Eagles get flogged without their key forward.
Who, apparently, is in a pensive mood, and I’m guessing drunk: out of nowhere, after seven years of silence between us, Hammer starts sending me DMs on Insta.
When he suggests driving all the way to Lancelin to see me, I fob him off. If he came here, he’d get himself into a bind with these guys, one way or another. Plus, better for us to reconnect when I’m not shitfaced – which is what I become as the night progresses.
Once the game’s over, Jack and Tommo chuck some snags on the barbie while the rest of us play beer pong. Brick cranks the speakers up. Mason volleys the ping-pong ball right into my fullplastic cup of Emu Export and everyone chants ‘scull muthafucka’ at me, so I knock back the whole thing. The boys cheer.
‘Fuck yeah!’ Tommo shouts as the bluesy opening riff of the song ‘Eagle Rock’ by Daddy Cool blasts over the speakers.
Tommo yanks his footy shorts down, letting them plummet to his ankles and showing off some threadbare Alpha undies from Kmart. He’s got a fat arse, which makes me feel better about my own.
The rest of the boys follow suit, footy shorts and jeans dropping to ankles everywhere.
Growing up, I’ve seen guys do this at parties when this specific song came on, but I never understood what it was about. I figure now is my time to learn the secret I was never initiated into. ‘Why do youse drop your pants to this song?’ I ask Rogan, the token straight guy.
‘Huh. I dunno, to be honest,’ Rogan says. ‘Firetruck? Why do we drop our dacks to this song?’
Mason shrugs. ‘I dunno. Nobody knows where it came from.’
