When Matt Tognolini ran onto Fremantle oval he was raring to go. He was on his home ground, his muscles were full of glycogen, and he believed.
A huge roar went up from the crowd as the teams appeared. Toggo looked around. There were two huge overlapping seas in the stands and banked along the sides of the ground: one was red and white and one was blue and white. The game was a sell-out, and every blob of colour seemed to be cheering the teams on.
Toggo loved this ground and he loved playing in a derby. He’d been eighteen the first time he’d done it. He was older now but he felt the same surge of adrenalin, the same desire to win pumping in his veins.
It was contagious — they were all feeling it. Some of the younger players were jumping out of their skins. He’d have to be careful though, and pace himself. He wasn’t eighteen any more and this was his first game after a long time out. He’d have to go easy in the first quarter and be sure his leg and his fitness could carry him through. He felt great though — as soon as he was sure his body was up to it, he’d let rip.
The full-back against him was in his first season. He’d probably never played in front of a crowd like this before. He was a Regan, one of Freo’s old footy families. The stand was more than likely packed with his rellies, and girls he wanted to impress.
At twenty-four Toggo was close to being a veteran. This kid certainly thought he was. He was eyeing him off like Toggo was an old gunslinger and there was going to be a shoot-out at high noon. The young gun wanted him as a notch on the barrel of his colt 45. Well hang on, Sonny, there’s some life in these legs yet.
The bounce down seemed a long time coming. Slow down, Toggo told himself. Don’t waste energy. The kid was rocking forward onto the balls of his feet and taking small jumps. He thought he was keeping his muscles warm. The old gunslinger smiled. The young gun was so keyed up he was burning into his reserves. Good. Keep this up and he’d shoot himself in the foot.
Greg and Nathan were watching from the stands. Greg’s eyes had been on Toggo’s feet as he ran out onto the ground. It was hard to tell from this distance but he was sure he was wearing the boots.
The South Fremantle under fifteens had played in their semifinal yesterday, and they’d won. Greg hadn’t had such a good day himself, but the rest of team had lifted and played like they were inspired. Which they were. The game the week before had given them all heart. All except Greg, who was missing the boots like crazy.
The coach had told him not to worry. He said that Greg couldn’t expect to have a magic game every time he played. But the coach didn’t know the magic was in the boots. And those boots were now on Matt Tognolini’s feet.
Finally, the umpire bounced the ball. Greg was on the edge of his seat like he was expecting Toggo to burst out of full-forward with flames on his heels. Come on, Toggo.
When the siren went to end the first quarter, Greg and Nathan were pretty glum. Toggo hadn’t done anything much really. Just chased the ball a bit and kicked a point. There was a niggle at the back of Greg’s mind that he was trying to stop becoming a thought: maybe Toggo was finished. Maybe the boots weren’t enough to bring him back.
Toggo was quiet at the quarter break, but happy inside. He’d tested the hamstring out in match conditions and it was fine. And the rhythm and sense of playing in a game had fed back into him through his skin like sunshine. You couldn’t get that from training. Only playing in a game could get you ready for playing in a game. It had been hard keeping himself from going full out but he’d managed it. And worn the young gun out quite a bit in the process.
The Regan kid was stoked. He’d run after Toggo the whole time and managed to keep his score down to just one point. The uncles would be impressed. Even if this guy was coming back from an injury, he was still the great Matt Tognolini.
Alison, watching from the members stand, could see how quiet and still Matt was. He was psyching himself up, focusing his energy. Please, she begged silently, let him play well.
The young gun was just as jumpy at the start of the second term. That would take its toll on a guy his size. He was tall and heavy for a Regan — the mother must have had a big say in the genes department.
Toggo strolled forward a few steps and the kid bounced after him. Good. Keep it up, Sonny.
When he saw Jason Tomizzi, the centre half-forward, moving on the ball at midfield Toggo moved too. When Jason looked up he had a perfect lead. Toggo took the mark on his chest a metre in front of the young gun and forty metres out from goal. It wasn’t a difficult kick and he took it quickly. Straight through, no worries. The old gunslinger had the first notch on the barrel of his gun.
The young gun didn’t know what hit him. What was with this guy, he wondered. Toggo seemed to know where the ball was going to go and when. He would be really still and then make these full-on runs. And sometimes he’d stay back a bit, then take a screamer from behind. The one where he kneed him in the back, then used him as a vaulting horse was wicked.
It was almost a relief for the Regan kid when the coach dragged him seventeen minutes into the term. He was exhausted. And Toggo had booted three goals and looked like going on with it.
Sam Godden, a half-back flanker, was thrown in against Toggo next. Toggo had been waiting for Godden. This was a different kind of player — faster, less predictable, more game-wise. Sam took the play up to Toggo and Toggo accepted it with a smile. Thank you very much. At half-time the old gunslinger had four notches on his gun.
Greg and Nathan were ecstatic. The Regan kid, watching from the bench, was sad but mighty impressed. He knew he was seeing something special. He was seeing a champion in touch at the height of his powers. He would never forget. Nor would Mr and Mrs Tognolini listening on the radio. Nor would the two punks watching from behind the goals. Nor would Alison watching from the members stand. Nor would the Dockers match committee watching it on replay that night — twice. Nor would the little sprog watching in the stands with his grandad. Nor would Dempsey, when Toggo came home that night. Nor would anyone who loves football and loves a champion and loves a happy ending.
Next day the back page headline said it all:
TOGGO IS BACK.