Kelsey Flood picked himself up from the soggy ground, a tiny trickle of blood creeping from his temple. He heard the wet thump of the ball as the Eels booted it out of defence and his opponent sneering, ‘You just lost the premiership, ya useless lump of cat shit.’
He’d narrowly missed a tough chance at goal, on the run from the flank. With only minutes remaining, it would have put the Cats in front. Bent over, hands on his knees, gasping for air, ten seasons of humiliation thumped through his head.
The Eels’ kick was haphazard, a desperate attempt to clear it out of their back line. It tumbled out of bounds just forward of the wing. Midfielders from both sides were rushing to the throw-in area, frenzied pointing and shouting from the Cats defenders, ordering each other into position, their voices edgy and flustered. With a two-point lead, the ball in their forward line and only minutes to go, the Jeridgalee Eels screamed at each other to maintain possession, slow it down, use up the clock.
The noise from the Cats’ supporters was thick and hoarse now, an intermittent roar since halfway through the third quarter, when Richie Jones had snapped back-to-back goals in the space of three minutes, closing the gap and giving hope. The Plains mob had sent up a huge cheer as Richie had nailed the first one. And Clancy, sitting on the sideline in his wheelchair, unable to yell through cracked ribs, had broken out into a broad smile, gripping the arms of his chair and hissing, ‘Yes, yes, yes!’ Standing next to him, Melissa had hugged their son tighter to her chest. She could feel Clancy’s excitement spreading like a wave—he was like the Clancy she knew back in their schooldays, before everything got so hard, before all this. She wanted to share that excitement, transfer it somehow through the soft folds of the blanket to the tiny soul in her arms. Benjamin Jones Kennedy.
The umpire was jogging back to the point where the ball had crossed the boundary line for the throw-in. A giant figure in Cats blue and white was thundering towards the boundary, desperate to make it to the contest in time, mud flying from his boots, smaller players parting to clear the way. With fatigue twisting knots across every muscle in his body, Torrens slowed to take his place in the drop zone, then slammed a shoulder the size of a horse into the Eels’ ruckman—a good three inches shorter, with a look on his face that said he’d rather not be there.
The umpire arched his back, heaving the ball over his head back into play. The crowd noise dropped as the ball curved in the breeze, the trajectory favouring Torrens’ opposite number. Their bodies were locked in a battle for position, Torrens thrust his bulk sideways with an almighty grunt, nudging his opponent just enough to shift him from the prime piece of grass under the ball. They stood, two gladiators pushing against each other for territory, ball peaking and starting its descent, Torrens managing to hold the other man off for one more gruelling moment, timing his jump. Then, launching upward, his boots cleared the ground by just a few weary centimetres and his huge meat-boning mitt stretched up. His hand inches clear of his opponent’s, Torrens tapped the ball straight down to the waiting Maggot Maloney, roving hungrily to his right.
Maloney’s opposite number pounced, locking him in a bruising tackle. Maloney grimaced as he wrenched his arms out of his opponent’s grip, up and free above his head. From the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of a flying Cat, the glistening head of Todd Wakely exploding from halfback, screaming for the ball. The tackle spun Maloney around in midair, his back to Wakely as he fell toward the ground. Arms still free, he lobbed a handpass high over his head towards Wakely’s run as the tackle brought him crashing to the ground.
It was as if the ball was suspended, waiting for something. Wakely, legs flashing, arms pumping, elbows high, eyes wide with anticipation, ran straight onto it without breaking stride. A roar from the crowd as it snapped into his grasp. He stepped right, dodging a lunging Eels defender, accelerated again, heard his teammates yelling, ‘Clear! Clear!’ spreading his fingers wide around the ball in his right hand, curling it safely against his forearm. One bounce, stride, stride, stride, another bounce, all limbs, graceful, flowing—no one could catch him.
On the sidelines, John Wakely was in his Cats jersey, hands cupped in front of his mouth, yelling for all he was worth. ‘Go, son! Go, you bloody good thing, go, son!’
Clem watched from the sidelines, checking on the forwards preparing for the kick, willing them to clear a space for Kelsey’s lead. Richie Jones sprinted out from the pocket then darted right, towards the far flank, the ground opening up—a paddock for big Kelsey Flood to run into. The big forward jinked around his defender, set off towards centre half-forward like a galloping cement truck as Wakely dashed up the wing.
Eyes up and Wakely spotted him. He took one more step to steady, leant back, guiding the ball gently to his boot, right foot stabbing it sweetly, low and sharp, like a missile, landing with a loud thwack straight into Kelsey’s outstretched hands.
The shrill of the umpire’s whistle sounded the mark but was swiftly drowned by the thunderous boom from the Katinga crowd. The ball in the hands of their leading goalkicker directly in front of goal—this was it, the kick that could put the Cats in front with only minutes, seconds maybe, to go.
There was a hush as Flood walked back to take his kick, ball on his hip. And, in the stillness that fell upon the ground in that moment, came a tiny voice from the front of the Katinga crowd, beneath a hand-knitted blue and white beanie barely a foot above the boundary fence, like a fairy-wren chirping: ‘This one’s for Tom!’
A rousing chorus of ‘For Tommy Lemmon!’ rang out among the Katinga folk. Somebody squeezed her bird-like shoulders and Mrs Lemmon’s smile lit up the space across the ground to where Kelsey Flood was going through his customary preparation, resting the ball on the ground like a fragile egg, pulling up each of his blue and white hooped socks.
The Eels defender manning the mark began yelling, punching the air, star jumping, anything to distract. Then, amidst the frenzied boos of the Eels crowd, Kelsey Flood cantered in his usual ten steps, leaned back and calmly booted a fifty-metre drop punt. The goal umpire shuffled towards the left-hand goalpost, crouched, watching it soar over his head, as the crowd held their breath. Then, standing tall, feet together, eyes forward with the deadpan face of goal umpires across the country, the man in white began to raise both hands, forefingers pointing, signifying the goal. The supporters were bewildered at first, unbelieving, then a deafening cheer rose directly from the hearts of the Katinga townsfolk, the glorious taste of triumph denied them for so long.
All eyes swung toward the scoreboard:
Clem felt her ribs stretching and she couldn’t seem to breathe out properly. Looking out, she saw the tiredness of men who had spent every cent of energy they had ever possessed, half of them with hands on their knees, bent over, gasping for air. She sent up a prayer for the final siren to come and then, with perhaps seconds, at most a minute left in the game, made her final substitution from the bench, sending a message to maintain possession at all costs.
As the field umpire jogged the ball back to the middle for the centre bounce, Torrens was struggling, barely able to lift his gigantic boots above the turf, in the downward gape of his mouth a look of utter exhaustion. He found the energy to give Todd Wakely a wordless pat on his bald head as he lumbered past. Todd turned, ran with the big man for a few steps, urging him on. ‘C’mon, Mattie, give us one more, mate, you can do it.’
Clem had kept Torrens on the field unchanged for the last twenty minutes, with instructions to be at every ruck contest and get back behind the Eels’ forward line to defend the high ball whenever he could. She would have liked to sub him off for a rest, of course, maybe she should have, but the Eels still had enough time for a winning goal. She needed one last burst. She just hoped he had the strength to give it.
The Cats supporters, sensing the situation, began yelling, ‘C’mon, Mattie, get in there. One more, Mattie!’
Mick Torrens, standing next to Rowan, shook his head in disbelief. He’d driven down from Brisbane for the game, hadn’t seen Matthew since he was eighteen. That was six years ago now. Mick had left town, too ashamed to face the father of the lad who’d had his arm broken by the teenage Matthew Torrens. Now—well, now he could hardly recognise this young man. A menacing, hulking presence still, but no sign of the cruel-spirited violence he’d once been renowned for. And here he was, playing with the heart of a lion, loved by his team, cheered by the townsfolk. Mick realised, with something of a shock, that tears were forming in his eyes. He brushed his sleeve across his face roughly, hoping no one noticed.
In the centre of the ground, the umpire was steadying for the bounce, midfielders jostling and shuffling for position around the circle, Torrens taking his place with his opponent inside the circle, both men crouching slightly, preparing themselves for one last clash.
The umpire stepped forward, banged the ball into the turf, bouncing it straight, true and high. Torrens took two steps and launched himself into the air, his body crashing into his opponent with a smack you could hear from the post office. Reaching above, he gave the ball an almighty thump with his closed fist, sending it as far as he could towards the Cats’ forward line. It sailed twenty metres in the air, bouncing to the feet of little Richie Jones as he powered into the centre square. Jones gathered the ball smoothly but was immediately tackled by his opponent, and it spilled to the ground. A huge pack of players swarmed onto the ball, Eels grabbing for it, Cats grabbing at Eels, the ball completely invisible inside the heaving mass of limbs and bodies.
It never came out.
A loud blast sounded like a trumpet across the ground, time slowing as the noise went on and the realisation set in. The final siren calling time on fifty-three years of loss, half a century of disappointment.
Arms thrown jubilant in the air, blue-and-white-clad supporters flooding onto the ground, players lying exhausted in the mud, others hugging, Torrens kneeling inside the centre circle, his head resting on his arms, sobbing. Clem turning toward Clancy, wrapping both hands around his raised hand, her smile stretching wide across her cheeks, Clancy holding his ribs with his other hand, laughing, shaking his head.
People crowding around her, thumping her back, tousling her hair, then she felt her feet go out from under her, her body lifted high. She was looking down at John Wakely and Mr Nicholls from the IGA carrying her on their shoulders out onto the ground, the players flocking around, high-fiving her outstretched hand.
She glanced back at the boundary. The Eels supporters were still, hands thrust deep in their pockets, dejected players slumped on the ground. And there it was, a police car, half-hidden behind the sheds. Constable Miller was gripping Gerard’s arm, marching him toward the car, Gerard’s head turning towards her, a look of utter shock on his face. Sergeant Phillips opening the rear passenger door, Constable Miller pushing Gerard into the back seat, Bernadette standing there, one hand over her mouth.