Battle Royale, page 2
That was why Leo Kransky was roaming the boundary line, outside the fence. That was why he’d picked out Joel.
‘Hey, Gloverboy — who do you want to be when you grow up? A boundary umpire or Michael Jackson?’
Joel pretended not to hear. He jogged away, eyes on the play. Joel was nothing like Michael Jackson. He wasn’t some crazy pop star who wore only one sparkly glove (seriously, why would anyone do that?).
‘Gluuuuuuuuuuverboy!’
It was getting louder with every throw-in. Other Swallows kids were joining the chorus. They were like laughing hyenas joining in with their pack leader now that he had the scent of fresh meat.
‘Gluuuuuuuuuuuuverboy!’
Joel was careful not to look at Kransky or his cronies. He felt a thickness in his throat, like he was about to cry. Well, if he did cry, at least it was too wet for anyone to spot his tears.
Troy jogged over and gave him a pat on the shoulder. ‘He’s a loser,’ Troy whispered. ‘Don’t listen to any of it.’
Then he raised his voice so that Joel’s tormentors could hear. ‘Kransky’s just a big, slow loser who picks on boundary umpires because he’s not tough enough to actually take the field.’
Leo Kransky clenched a fist and started to jump the fence. He got halfway over but then found himself stuck, with a picket jamming into a place where you don’t want pickets jamming into.
‘Yoooooow!’ Kransky howled, until his bully-boy cheer squad dragged him back to safety. Joel thought he heard the sound of shorts ripping. Ouch.
‘You okay?’ Troy asked, giving him a gentle tap on the back.
‘I’m fine,’ Joel said, blinking quickly. ‘Keep going. You guys are playing well.’
FOUR
Adam and Troy were playing well.
Adam was playing on the Swallows’ star centre half-forward, a skinny blond kid they called Dods. Dods had a tremendous leap, but Adam had allowed him just two handballs in a half. The ball was as slippery as soap, but Adam used flat palms in front to control the ball to his chest. He also took three sliding intercept marks just when it looked like the Swallows might score.
Troy was finding it tougher, because it was a very difficult day for key forwards, but he’d still kicked two of the Sharks’ five goals. Nick Dal Santo had scored another two, and when the half-time siren sounded, the Sharks were leading the Swallows, five goals to one.
‘Dad, can I have some lollies?’ Scott asked, tugging at his dad’s shirt. Half-time treats were a bit of a footy tradition. His dad was talking to another dad — something about a suit sale.
‘Daaaaaaaaad! Can-I-have-some-lollies!’
Dad groaned as Scott grabbed one of his arms and dangled from it, like an abseiler jumping off a cliff.
‘Can you at least say please, Scotty?’
Scott had his father where he wanted him. ‘Please, Dad — I’m sorry, Dad.’
His dad dug out a coin from his pocket. ‘How much is a bag of lollies? Fifty cents, right?’
‘I think it’s gone up to a dollar.’
‘Really?’
Uh-oh, his dad’s eyebrows were up. Scott opened his eyes very wide and moved his head the tiniest fraction. Not quite a nod, not quite a lie.
‘Okay, go on,’ Dad said, finding another fifty.
Scott ran for the canteen. Margie already spotted him extra sherbet bombs for his fifty cents. With a dollar, it could be a bonanza.
Ten minutes later, buzzing with sugar, Scott sprinted onto the empty arena.
‘Scott, you’ll be drenched!’ He heard his dad, but he didn’t stop. He bolted down the race, wanting to try out his new screw-in boots in the mud.
Scott always had a kick at half-time, shooting for goal at the railway end, commentating to himself the whole time. Usually, he’d pretend to be Richmond star Matthew Knights. Sometimes he’d be Richo.
Most weeks his dad joined him for a kick, but today Scott was on his own. Just him and the rain.
He had half a bag of lollies in one fist and a juice box under his arm. Water poured over the sides of his new boots and into his socks. Scott started to have second thoughts.
‘C’mon, Scotty, it’s ridiculous out there!’ Dad called again. ‘Come back under cover.’
Scott really didn’t want his boots to get quite this wet. He sloshed his way back to the fence. A few of the parents gave him a cheer for braving the rain. Or maybe they were cheering him for fitting a whole killer python in his mouth.
‘Good onya, Scott! Keep up the practice and you’ll be as good as Troy and Adam!’
‘Bewdy, Scott! You’ll be the next great Selwood.’
Scott knew he wasn’t the next great Selwood. Joel was the next great Selwood. In the backyard, or on the tennis court, or during kick-to-kick at recess, Joel was amazing. The twins still dominated him because they were so much bigger, but even they admitted that Joel had speed and skills like no other eight-year-old. He could already kick with both feet! He could hit the basketball post on the tennis court seven times out of ten, from fifteen metres.
And he was tough.
Joel would be the next great Selwood. Scott knew he had to settle for being the Selwood after that. The little one.
He looked around for Joel. Sometimes he came out for the half-time kick, too. Scott scanned the line of shivering parents with their coats and umbrellas until he spotted him.
There was Joel, halfway up the grandstand.
He was sitting by himself, arms hugging his knees, wet hair over his face.
He wasn’t looking very tough now.
FIVE
‘You cold?’ Scott asked.
‘Nah,’ Joel replied.
‘You want a lolly?’ Scott offered.
Joel took a fruit tingle. One of the speckled ones. Scott’s favourite. He didn’t say anything. It had been a rough half for Joel. Everyone had heard those kids shouting ‘Gloverboy’.
‘You gonna take the gloves off for the second half?’ Scott asked.
Joel shrugged. ‘Dunno. Probably not.’
Scott took a mint leaf and offered the bag to Joel again. ‘Don’t worry about them. You’re great at running the boundary. I wish I could run the boundary.’
‘I wish I could play,’ Joel said.
Scott chose a red snake. He was glad Joel hadn’t taken the red snake. ‘Yeah, I wish I could play, too.’
Scott jogged up and down the aisle of the old stand, dribbling his footy down the concrete. He handballed it into the wooden seats and tried to catch the rebounds.
At the top of the stand, he heard voices.
‘So how many backs do we need? Eight?’
‘No, nine, I think. Nine for the squad.’
Scott eyed two men in tracksuits. They were speaking loudly, while sipping hot drinks and pointing at names on a pad.
The one holding the pad was short and bald with a round belly. He had a raspy voice and an odd grey moustache that looked like a lopsided slug sitting on his face.
The other one was thinner and had wild blond hair, like he was the lead singer of a heavy metal band. His voice was loud and nasally.
Both of them wore blue tracksuits with a white V on them. They had to be Vic Country selectors.
Scott ran down to Joel, who was still slumped in his seat.
‘Hey, Joely. Those men up there. I reckon they’re Vic Country selectors. Do you think they’re gonna pick Adam and Troy?’
Joel turned to look at the men in the tracksuits. He sat up straighter. ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ he said. ‘They’re definitely Vic Country bomber jackets.’
‘I heard them talking about the team,’ Scott said. ‘We should listen! We might hear about the twins!’
The idea of playing spies seemed to perk Joel up.
‘Scoot . . . if we climb up the back of the grandstand, we’d be right behind them.’
The boys sprinted down the steps and then around to the rear of the grandstand. Scott and Joel shimmied up the wooden beams like monkeys.
When they reached the top, they could hear the grown-up voices through the gaps in the seats.
‘Dal Santo?’ said the nasally one, with the hair.
‘Tick,’ said Slug Moustache. ‘He’s silk — even in this weather.’ There was a pause. ‘What about another tall? For down back.’
‘We’ve got our fullback sorted, haven’t we?’ asked Heavy Metal Hair.
Neither man said anything. Slug Moustache scratched away with his pen. Heavy Metal Hair continued, ‘Well we need A. Selwood, don’t we? Been huge today.’
Scott and Joel looked at each other. This was the big moment. They were going to find out if Adam was in the Vic Country team.
‘Picks himself,’ Slug Moustache replied. ‘Best on ground.’
Scott extended a palm and offered Joel a silent high five. Adam was in.
‘D’you want T.?’ Heavy Metal Hair asked.
Scott crossed his fingers. T. was Troy. Hopefully Troy was in, too. The twins would be devastated if one made the squad and the other didn’t.
Slug Moustache didn’t respond for a moment. ‘No thanks, Rosco. One’s enough for me.’
There was a smattering of applause as the players ran back onto the field. Joel and Scott slithered down the back of the grandstand and into a pool of water. Scott stared miserably at his feet. They weren’t new boots anymore.
‘Unbelievable!’ Joel said. ‘How could they not pick Troy? It’s not like today is a day for key forwards. He’s kicked two out of five!’
Scott shook his head. One was in and one was out. It was the worst possible result.
‘Should we tell Troy?’ Scott asked.
‘Definitely not!’ Joel replied. ‘He’ll be devo. Don’t tell anybody about this, Scooter. Promise me. We gotta keep quiet.’
Scott nodded. ‘You gotta go umpire,’ he said, pointing to the ground. ‘Field umps are back on.’
Joel jogged slowly towards the gate.
Scott bounced his footy dejectedly on the concrete. He watched Troy tiptoe through the mud to his position at centre half-forward. He was laughing about something with Nick Dal Santo. Scott swallowed. Soon Troy wouldn’t be laughing.
Scott wished he didn’t know.
SIX
‘Gluuuuuuuuuuuuverboy!’
Kransky and his goons were at it again in the second half. The Sharks were winning seven goals to three, and the ground was a sloshing sea of water and mud.
‘Ignore them, ignore them,’ Joel murmured to himself. But it was hard because the wind was blowing the rain, and the play, his way. He seemed to be throwing the ball in every other minute.
‘Gluuuuuuuuuuuuverboy!’
There was a mob of Swallows hangers-on around Kransky now. Most of them were older kids who had arrived early before their Under-14s game. Some weren’t even players. They were skater kids Joel saw at the Butcher Street milk bar.
Joel concentrated on the game, blocking out their taunts.
They could tease him all they liked.
Next year, he’d be playing. Then he’d shut them up.
Oh no, the ball was out of bounds again.
Another throw-in . . .
‘Gluuuuuuuuuuuuverboy!’
‘Take ’em off,’ Adam whispered as the ball was whisked away by the Swallows rover. ‘No need to wear the gloves anymore. Those kids are bullies.’
Joel didn’t want to let them win. He shook his head.
This time Adam spoke loudly enough for Kransky to hear. ‘Hey, Joel — I’m struggling with my grip. Give us my gloves, will ya?’
Joel paused, unsure what to do. Adam had given him an out. He pulled off the sopping black gloves and tossed them to Adam. Adam put them on.
‘Joel Selwood. What a stupid name. What are you gonna do for a job? Sell wood? Get it? Sell. Wood!’ Kransky laughed himself silly at his own joke. ‘That’s what they’re all gonna do! Sell. Wood. Get it!’
Joel ran off so he didn’t have to listen. Unfortunately, the ball rebounded off the half-back and ended up out of bounds and in his hands, right in front of Kransky and Co.
‘Um, I have five dollars, Gloverboy. I’d like to buy some wood.’
Kransky’s posse thought this was hilarious. Joel didn’t want to look, but he couldn’t miss the sight of the meathead Kransky, hanging over the fence, waving a five-dollar note and yelling, ‘Do you sell wood? Yo, Gloverboy! DO YOU SELL WOOD!’
‘Settle it down, boys,’ the field umpire said. ‘Nothing more from over the fence.’
Kransky snorted, as if to say, ‘try and make me’. He kept waving his five-dollar note.
Joel felt the sting of tears. He just wanted to be left alone. What had he ever done to that big bully? This non-stop heckling wasn’t fair.
He dipped his knees and prepared for one of his perfect throw-ins. The ball was heavy now so he had to put his whole back into it. One, two, three — fling!
He didn’t mean it, he honestly didn’t. It was his strongest throw of the day, by far, but he must have become used to tossing the ball in with the gloves. This time instead of the ball sticking to his hands, it shot off at forty-five degrees. It flew straight towards a wide, pasty, leering face hovering over the fence, mouthing, ‘Sell wood! Get it? Sell wood!’
The ball smashed into Leo Kransky’s nose with a loud, wet thwack. His head rocked back, and he screamed in pain. He buried his gargantuan melon in his hands, and grunted swear words. When he finally came up for air, his face was smeared with blood and grass. There were thick red lines streaming from his nostrils.
‘Sorry,’ Joel said. ‘It slipped. Because, you know . . . no gloves.’
Kransky roared again, stamping like an angry water buffalo. ‘You meant it!’
‘No I didn’t,’ Joel said, but it didn’t sound convincing. Maybe he had meant it? Somewhere deep inside of himself. His brain hadn’t meant it. But maybe . . . ‘I told you. It slipped,’ he repeated.
Kransky shrugged his way clear of his friends. ‘I’m going to get that Selwood kid.’ He went to climb the picket fence again. The field umpire thundered at him to get back down, and Kransky’s friends tried to haul him back. The result was that Kransky ended up with another picket to the groin.
This time it was the moan of a humpback whale.
‘Throw it in again, Joel,’ the field umpire said.
Kransky hobbled away, a blubbering, bloody mess. ‘I’m gonna get him,’ he said, loudly enough for Joel to hear. ‘I owe that kid, bad!’
SEVEN
Of all the semi-violent, ultra-competitive games his brothers played, Scott hated ‘BUTT’ the most, because he often ended up being the target.
The rules of the game were simple. Each of them stood on the tennis court in the four service squares. Each boy patrolled a square. If the ball was hit out or into the net, the player who made the error was given a letter. ‘B’ for the first lost point. ‘U’ for the second. ‘T’ for the third and another ‘T’ for the fourth. Whoever got to ‘BUTT’ first had to stand on the T at the middle of the service court, with his back turned, and wait for all the tennis balls on the court to be fired at his backside.
The whackers couldn’t get too close. They had to stand behind the baseline. But that was plenty close enough. If Troy or Adam landed one of their monster bullet serves, it left a red pockmark that stayed there for an hour. On wet days it could even leave bruises. But the loser wasn’t allowed to run away, or complain, or cry, or dob, or flinch, or look around to see if more missiles were coming. The loser just had to stand there, because he was the BUTT.
Today, once again, Scott was the BUTT. It was difficult for him to compete. After all, the twins were seriously good, often up there in district tennis tournaments. Tennis was definitely their second sport after footy. And they were so much older and more powerful than Scott and Joel.
Joel knew that if he didn’t score points against Scott, the twins would pick him off and make him the BUTT. So Joel fired balls at Scott, and Scott struggled to get them back.
Whooooosh. A tennis ball skimmed past Scott’s ear. ‘Nice try, losers,’ he heckled, not knowing who had nearly taken his head off.
Whack! A ball thwacked into his ankle and he jumped in surprise more than pain.
‘Didn’t hurt,’ Scott said, which wasn’t the smartest thing to say because the next one came twice as fast. It landed hard on his hip, and it did hurt.
Balls were flying now. A rapid-fire hail of fluffy yellow projectiles, like some sort of insane, out-of-control serving machine. Scott panicked at the sound coming from behind, and lifted his hands to cover his head.
‘No moving when you’re the BUTT!’ Troy warned.
Scott stood up again, determined to be brave. He felt a stinging whack in the small of his back. The ball dribbled around in front and he saw it was one of Sally’s chewed rubber balls.
‘Hey, that wasn’t a tennis ball! You’re cheating!’
He spun around, just in time to see Troy launch a serve from halfway between the service and base lines. Whaaack! It cannoned into Scott’s upper thigh.
‘Hey! You’re over the line, Troy. That’s not fair. You’re meant to be behind the baseline.’
‘Well, you’re not meant to be looking,’ Troy replied. He served another one, and scored the other thigh.
Scott looked down at the red mark, just below his shorts. He’d taken enough punishment. This wasn’t fair. Troy was too close.
‘You’re a cheat,’ he said to Troy, his lip wobbling.
‘Well, you’re a crybaby,’ Troy replied.
Adam came to Scott’s defence. ‘You were too close, Troy. You should’ve been behind the baseline.’
‘He’s the BUTT,’ Troy said. ‘He’s not allowed to look. And he’s sooking like a baby.’
Scott threw the chewed-up dog ball at Troy. ‘You should listen to Adam,’ Scott said, unable to control the tears. ‘He’s a better brother than you.’
‘He is not,’ Troy said defensively.
‘He’s better at EVERYTHING than you!’
‘Like what?’ Troy asked, laughing at Scott’s fist-clenched fury.
