‘Just keep getting the ball mate. Just ignore Baby and Dougy! Just keep going! Right? We don’t want Port Haley getting a sniff!’ ‘Jeeze Mitch... it’s my follow through, just cant get it right.’ ‘Yeah, I can see that, but just keep getting to the contest, alright?’ In the centre square the umpire held the ball aloft, the siren blatted its echo around the ground, and hostilities resumed for the last quarter. Almost immediately I sensed that something was wrong. Twice within the first minute the Hawks swept the ball out of the centre, but couldn’t score. Then when the ball made its way slowly back to our forwards, the Hawk defenders gathered it and barged forward again. I don’t know what their coach had said to them at the last change, but it was working. They had a sniff, and we were looking flat-footed. They goaled and then we missed twice. They goaled again and were within striking distance and we had the staggers. We’d held them in check for the whole match and I wasn’t going to let them snatch it from us at the last moment so I waved to Wally and watched as he bustled out onto the ground, all arms and legs; trying to sprint across the half forward line while holding each of his pockets shut so that his supplies of tape and chewing gum wouldn’t spill onto the grass and mud. It seemed an age before he got to me, all puffing, panting and ruddy faced. Wally, go and tell Baby, and all the other on-ballers to bloody well tighten up. Yeah, and tell them that if they get a free or a mark to go down with cramp. And hey Wally, as soon as they do, I want you out there. Rub them down, call for a bloody stretcher if you like, but make sure you can slow this game up. Know what I mean?’ Wally had been around. I watched him scoot around the on-ballers delivering my message but the Hawks drew closer and closer until Baby took a mark in the centre and then went down like he’d been hit with an axe handle. I sprinted from the forward line to where he lay on the ground writhing and got to him just as Wally and the umpire did. Wally was telling him, ‘Better not get up son, you don’t look well.’ Baby groaned back, ‘Oooohh, Arrrnhh!’ The umpire stood over him and said to Wally, ‘Is he alright Wal? Can he take his kick? What’s wrong with him?’ ‘Case of cramp, I reckon Ump.’‘Cramp? He’s making a lot of noise for someone with the bloody cramp! Can he take his kick?’ ‘Don’t think so.’ said Wally ‘Think we’ll need a stretcher.’ ‘Stretcher? For the bloody cramp?’ said the Port Haley skipper, who’d trotted over to see what all the fuss was about. ‘Shit, there’s nothing bloody-well wrong with him. Come on ump, they’re just wasting bloody time.’
‘Okay son.’ the ump leant over and said to Baby, ‘Up you get, there’s nothing bloody well wrong with you that a beer after the game wont fix’. I could hear the Port Haley crowd yelling from the boundary. They wanted action. From behind the cars that were parked around the ground I could hear the whistle of a netball umpire and the polite applause from the junior netball teams as their game finished. That meant time was running out for our game too. Baby got to his feet and swooned theatrically then went back slowly, step after painful step to take his kick as the time eked away. He went back and unloaded a long penetrating punt. ‘Nice kick son.’ said the ump as jogged off in pursuit of the ball, ‘For someone fatally injured with cramp!’ I ran back with the flight of the ball, ready to snatch it up if it spilt from the pack and as I churned through the patches of goo and grass I saw Davo jostle his way through the pack and leap in front of two Hawk defenders. The umpire’s whistle signalled the mark and I got to Davo as he turned to take his kick. ‘Davo, take all the time you need. Don’t kick until you’re ready.’ The Hawk defenders knew they were still in with a show. ‘Hey Mitch!’ one of them yelled across at me. ‘You watch him stuff this one up. He’s gonna lose the match for you!’ ‘Hoy Davo!’ another one yelled ‘You can’t kick this, you big... dork!’ We were five points up. Any score would do. Davo had to score. The players, the umpires and even the little kids doing water bottle duty knew it and all eyes were on him as marched back to line up the shot. He turned, flipped the muddied Sherrin in his hands a few times then settled over the ball and started his run up. The Hawk backmen were taunting him and goading him, reminding him of his faulty kicking style when a long triumphant blatttt echoed from small time-keepers box perched above the clubrooms. It was the final siren. And we had won the match without Davo having to take his kick. He looked over at me, ‘Still have a shot Mitch?’ ‘Yeah, why not.’ I replied as I walked past some of the Port Haley players, shaking their hands. Davo trotted in and kicked truly. Straight through the middle. He trotted over to me patted me on the back and shook my hand. ‘No worries Mitch.’ ‘Yeah, no worries Dave. Good game. Okay fellers...’ I called out, ‘in for a shower and I want to hear that bloody song too when we get in there!’ ‘Yeahhh!’ the rest of the team growled triumphantly as we trudged up the race- past the kids from the local school, past the netballers in their pleated black skirts and past the red faced trainers and coaches of the Port Haley Hawks. I grabbed a beer from the esky just inside the change-room doors and fumbled in my jeans pockets for a pack of Stuyvesant. Baby lit me up as we slouched back on the slatted bench seats.
‘Jeeze, I thought we were gone then.’ said Baby between drags ‘How about Davo, did you see that mark he took in the third quarter? If he’d kicked bloody straight, we’d have walked that in.’ We both looked over at Davo, standing against the far side of the change-rooms that were slowly filling with steam wafting in from the showers. Amongst the steam and sweat and glistening arms peeling off grass-scented jumpers, he stood tall, like a glistening Greek god, guffawing and beaming as he peeled off a strip of tape wound around his thumb. As he threw it to the change-room floor I caught a glimpse of more tape showing just below the line of his shorts, at the top of his left thigh. Suddenly it all made sense. His thigh was strapped. Bloody Davo must have had an injury that he hadn’t told me about- probably a groin strain or a slight tear in his upper thigh. He must have asked Wally not to tell me about it, worried that I wouldn’t pick him in the team. I pushed over to Wally, who was finishing strapping Stevo’s wonky knee. Wally slapped Stevo on the back. ‘There you go big-feller, a couple of anaesthetics and you’ll be fine!’ then he turned to me and as he rolled up the rest of his tape and stowed it in his medicine chest and grumbled, ‘Good game Mitch. Bit bloody close though.’ ‘Yeah, Wal. Thanks. Look, what’s the story with Dave’s thigh. You should have told me you know.’ ‘Told you what? Don’t know anything about Dave’s thigh.’ ‘No, come on, Wally. It’s strapped up!’ ‘Well, I didn’t strap it. He must have done it himself.’ Of course. That made even more sense- he’d strapped it himself and that’s why he couldn’t kick, He’d probably made the strapping too tight. ‘Hey Davo,’ I called through the mass of dripping, freshly-showered bodies and beckoned him over. ‘What’s up with your leg? ‘My leg? Nothing. Why, whaddya mean?’ I pointed at the piece of Elastoplast just below the left leg of his shorts. ‘Nope, nothing wrong at all.’ ‘Come on Dave, what’s the tape for then?’ Davo looked down and studied the muddy floorboards of the change rooms. He looked a little sheepish. He hesitated. ‘You know how I got here late, right?’ ‘Not the sort of thing I’d forget Dave’ ‘Well, I slept in and I was in such a rush that when I got here, I realized I’d left my jocks at home.’ He gave me another dumb, sheepish look. None of this made any sense to me. But he must have read the expression on my face so he went on. ‘Well, I couldn’t go out there without jocks. My shorts are all baggy. You know how I said I couldn’t follow through properly when I kicked’ I nodded. Then it dawned on me. ‘That’s why I couldn’t kick straight!’ He paused, then added, ‘Yeah, Mitch I didn’t want my old feller hanging out and flopping around while I was chasing the footy...so I taped it to my left leg!’
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The Last Post magazine - Autumn 2012 - Anzac Day Special