The ball sailed through the goal posts like a dream. Why can’t I do that when it counts, Toggo asked himself. But there was something about being here, back where he used to play as a kid. He felt secure, somehow, and really connected. The bad feeling had mostly left him now and he was feeling okay.
He picked up another ball and tried a quick snap over his shoulder. Bullseye. Hey! He was really pumping.
‘Did ya see that, Ash? What a kick.’
Greg was pushing the pram along the side of the field towards where Toggo was playing. He wasn’t going to say anything to Matt Tognolini. He wouldn’t know what to say anyway. He’d just watch from the sidelines and keep real quiet …
Toggo saw Greg and Ashley as he walked back from retrieving the balls. Oh hell, he thought. Spectators. Still, that might be good. It was more like real conditions to have people watching. And anyway, a zit farmer pushing an ankle biter hardly counted.
He lined up and let one rip from fifty metres. Straight through. He couldn’t help sneaking a glance to the side. That kid had the same look on his face that he’d had when he first clapped eyes on the Mustang. Oh, what the hell.
‘Hey, kid. Yeah, you. You wanna kick?’
Greg was dumbstruck. The great Matt Tognolini was actually speaking to him. ‘Um, yeah … sure.’ His voice came out a bit funny but not too bad.
‘What about going behind the goals and kicking back to me? Reckon you can do that?’
‘Sure. No worries.’
Greg parked Ashley so that she had a good view of what was happening, and prayed she wouldn’t start crying and slobbering. He should be taking her home by now. But how many times do you get a chance to play kick to kick with Matt Tognolini?
Toggo sent through a short drop punt to start with. Greg marked it cleanly on the chest and sent back a shaky drop kick. Oh, shit! Why didn’t he stay with a simple punt?
Toggo gathered it in without too much trouble, then walked back on an angle to try a kick from the side. It came in curving, low and accurate, and Greg took a tricky mark behind the posts.
‘Not bad,’ Toggo yelled, running back and towards the centre. ‘Give us your best torp.’
He wanted a torpedo punt. Greg took his time, tried to relax into the kick. The ball hit his boot perfectly and spiralled through the air like a dream kick in a made-to-order fantasy.
Toggo pulled it in fifty metres down the field. ‘Good one,’ he yelled. He came running in full pace and let one go from forty metres. Greg went up for it, made contact, lost it, then clawed it back in with his fingertips. Yes! It was, by anybody’s standards, a great mark.
Greg was ecstatic. That was the best overhead he’d ever taken, and he’d taken it in front of Toggo.
The longer they played, the more confident Matt Tognolini got. It was something about this day, this ground, this kid, and these boots. He’d hold on to the boots and wear them next week in the game against North Melbourne. He wouldn’t even clean them. If a bit of the local dirt fell off on the MCG, all the better.
Greg had been so absorbed in what was happening he’d forgotten about Ashley. She hadn’t forgotten about him, though, and let out a bellow like he’d never heard before. It brought him back to earth with a thump.
‘I’d better sort out my sister,’ he yelled to Toggo. ‘She’s probably wet.’
Ashley was wet — both her nappy and the front of her jumpsuit. The jumpsuit had dried out a bit, but not enough.
Toggo and Dempsey came over while Greg checked the damage.
‘What’ve you done to that poor kid?’ Toggo asked. ‘Made her eat her own mudpies or what?’ He had memories of feeding Peter snails and telling him that was what sailors had on top of their icecream.
‘No, she’s just a bit of a grub,’ Greg said. He shot a look at Ashley, who didn’t seem to mind what lies were being told about her. ‘That your dog?’ he asked, changing the subject.
Dempsey had flopped down between them, exhausted. ‘Yeah, her name’s Dempsey. After Bill Dempsey. You heard of him?’
‘I got books with all the old League stars in them. There’s one with a photo of him taking a real high mark against East Perth in the 1969 grand final. He won the Simpson medal in that game.’
Toggo smiled and nodded.
Now that Greg was talking he didn’t want to stop. ‘Our dog’s called Turley.’ He paused for a second when he remembered that Craig Turley had played for the Eagles. ‘My brother named him. We got him before the Dockers started.’
‘It’s a good name. Pesky little guy is he?’
‘Yeah.’ Greg suddenly dried up. It was just hitting him that he was actually talking football with the great Matt Tognolini. He swallowed. He couldn’t think of anything else to say.
‘That was a great session, thanks,’ Toggo said. He was getting ready to go. ‘I needed to get a few kinks out of my game. I haven’t been kicking too straight lately.’
‘I saw you Friday night against Essendon,’ Greg said. Words had come back to him as suddenly as they’d left.
‘You did, eh? Well then, you’ll know what I’m talking about.’
‘Anyone can have a bad run. You kicked great today. That one over your shoulder was unreal.’
Toggo smiled. Was this kid actually trying to encourage him? It made a bit of a change from the armchair champions putting him down. ‘Thanks. You didn’t do too bad yourself — what position do you play?’
‘Full-forward.’
Toggo laughed. ‘Another goal sneak, eh? Well, I better be careful then. Might lose my job if you get any better.’
Greg could have stayed all day listening to this kind of stuff, but Ashley let out a low level grizzle. A full on roar would not be far away.
‘I got to take her home,’ he said.
They walked back down the field together. Greg lingered, checking out the Mustang, while Toggo changed back into his shoes.
‘It’s a 1968 model, right?’
‘Close — 1969. You know about American cars as well as football?’
‘A bit. I got some magazines and —’
‘Oh hell.’ Toggo cut in suddenly, looking at his watch. I’m supposed to be meeting my girlfriend in Freo for lunch. Look, mate. I gotta fly, okay? Thanks again.’
Toggo shook hands with Greg, whistled Dempsey into the car, and took off as fast as he could without spinning the wheels.
Greg watched the Mustang until it was out of sight, and for a while after that. It had burnt an image into his mind that would stay forever. But the whole thing had been like a dream. No one was going to believe it when he said he’d played kick to kick with Matt Tognolini, and had taken a truly awesome mark from one of his kicks.
Greg looked down at Ashley. She was nodding, half asleep. He started to wheel her home. It was only then that he noticed something lying on the grass. A pair of football boots. Toggo had taken off in such a hurry he’d left his boots behind.