Eight o’clock and the team had finished their warm-down. Bathed in the harsh oval lights, steam rose from their bodies, the smell of smashed grass and sweat filling the air.
‘All right, boys, that’s it for the night. Well done,’ she said. ‘Looking good for Saturday.’
The men made their way towards the sheds. The click-clack of their boots on the concrete seemed to give Clementine confidence. They were strong and fit, and as the season moved on they were gaining momentum, working together now like a well-practised rock band—a long way from the discordant rabble that had turned up that first day. She smiled to herself, not wanting to jinx anything, but it was hard not to predict a win this weekend against Jeridgalee.
Not for the first time, she wondered how she’d ended up with this job. Must have been the only applicant. There was no other way she could explain it.
As she bent down to pick up her backpack, the last of the players trotted past her, a small group of five. A voice came from the pack. ‘Nice tits, Jonesy.’
She stiffened. A top button had worked its way loose on her shirt. ‘Hey! Stop there!’ she called with a ferocity she hadn’t had to use for a while.
They pulled up, shuffling, dirt-spattered, sheepish.
‘Who said that?’ she demanded.
‘Just a joke. Nothin’ in it,’ said Beasley. She knew it wasn’t him, but she also knew no one would own up.
‘Right then. Twenty push-ups. All of you,’ she said, her voice stony.
Groans, headshakes, hands on hips.
‘All right, if you want to act like high school kids, get going and keep going, all of you, and don’t bother turning up to the game.’ Stunned looks. ‘Yes, that’s right—anyone who’s never seen a woman’s breasts before, keep walking,’ she barked. ‘I only want men on this team.’
The giant ruckman, Torrens, dropped to the ground, the others falling over themselves to follow. Bodies stretched taut, hands square, Torrens keeping count through clenched teeth. She stalked off when they got to fifteen, too annoyed to speak to them again tonight.
As she walked to her car, someone called her name from the other side of the car park. Jenny Rodham—fifty-something club treasurer and business manager at the only bank in town—waving something at her.
‘System’s down,’ Jenny called as she hurried across. ‘Had to write out an old-fashioned cheque! Haven’t done that since Noah was a boy!’ Her raucous laugh was hard not to enjoy as she handed Clementine her weekly wage, all $140 of it. ‘Oh, and by the way,’ she said, ‘you’ve been here nine months, high time you came round for dinner.’ She cocked her head sideways, her neat black bob falling across the beginnings of a double chin. ‘Are you free this Sunday? I do a damn fine lamb roast, and Trev does an amaaaazing gravy.’
Clementine’s smile faded. Holed up in the hills, she’d stuck to the plan, never going anywhere or doing anything that wasn’t mandatory—certainly not hanging around chatting in car parks like these country folk seemed so keen on.
‘No thanks, Jen. I’m having a quiet one at home.’
All her evenings were quiet ones, and they both knew it.
One of the players, Clancy Kennedy, was jogging towards them, looking like he wanted to speak with her. A diversion from the dinner invitation. Good.
‘Hey, Jonesy,’ he called. ‘Could I have a word with you?’
‘Sure.’
His eyes darted around the remaining cars. ‘It’s kind of private. Can we talk in the sheds?’
Clancy sat on a red plastic chair on the other side of the fold-up table, feet spread wide and his hands resting on his knees. The biting chill of the evening air hung solid and heavy between the concrete block walls.
She was still speechless.
‘I’m sorry, Jonesy, I just have to look after Mel, you know. She’s nearly due, and she’s a bit scared.’ His voice was unusually soft—she could barely hear him.
‘But there’s still five weeks to go till the baby comes, right?’
He nodded, dropped his head. Something odd, she thought, something he wasn’t telling her, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. In fact she couldn’t think straight at all. His words were ringing in her head: Quitting the team. Quitting the team. Quitting the team. Her star player, the key to the midfield. It didn’t make sense. The bloke just loved to play, lived for footy. She was doing her best to stay calm, but it felt like she had one of those huge antibiotic capsules stuck sideways in her throat.
Clancy said nothing, staring at the grey cement floor.
‘Couldn’t you at least play the home games? We could have someone on stand-by ready to drive you to the hospital as soon as we get the call.’
Clancy shook his head. ‘Our first kid and all. Just gotta be there. Wouldn’t be right not to.’
The words sounded rehearsed and he shifted nervously in the chair as he spoke. If this were a negotiation she’d feel like she had only to dig a bit further, find a weak spot, and an opening would appear, a way to take a point, a win for her client. But this was a long way from the corporate office towers of Sydney and a long way from anything that smelt vaguely like business. No, this young man sitting in front of her, coiled tight like a spring—nothing could be more personal.
She stood up, walked over to the dirt-smeared window looking over the oval. The lights were off now and the car park empty. It was a clear night, and once again she marvelled at the thick smudge of stars across the midnight-blue sky. She thought of the conversation she’d had with Mrs Lemmon at the club fundraising fete. Standing at a stall packed with knitted beanies and crocheted tea-cosies, the old woman had grabbed Clementine’s hand as she was leaving.
‘My Tom would have loved you, Miss Jones. Yes, yes,’ she crooned, ‘he would have loved you. Would have called you a bottler of a girl.’ She patted Clementine’s hand, the soft crepe of her skin and lavender perfume reminding Clementine of her gran.
‘He played for Katinga back in the sixties, you know, before he went to Vietnam. Yes, he was one of those high-flyers, full-forward mostly, deadeye Dick with the boot. Of course Tom couldn’t play anymore after the war—his back was never the same. Well, I guess you can’t fly high when part of your spine’s missing, can you now?’ She chuckled sadly. ‘Oh, but did he love going to the game, though! Oh yes, he was the Cats’ number one supporter for five years running.’ Her eyes glazed with the sheen of Tom’s memory.
‘They gave him life membership, you know. That was just before he died, the year after we made the finals in ’82. He was gutted when we lost in the semi, but oh was he chuffed to get the life membership.’ Her voice trailed off, and she’d smiled kindly at Clementine. ‘Hmm, yes, Tom would have said you were the best thing to come to Katinga since Jesus.’
Clementine didn’t feel like she could walk on water right now. The town was counting on her to save them from a decades-long losing streak, and now she was going to disappoint them. She should never have taken on the coaching role. Stupid idea.
Turning back towards Clancy, she heard herself say, ‘Family always comes first, Clancy. You have to do what’s best for Melissa and the new bub.’
He flashed her a look and then quickly glanced away.
After he’d left she sat down with her head in her hands, the edge of the chair cutting into her thighs. The smell of thirty-four years of disappointment overwhelmed her, the echo of hundreds of men, the steam from their panting and the exhaustion in their eyes, the murmurs and bowed heads of the supporters and Mrs Lemmon putting flowers on her Tom’s grave.