Coach Tindale starts me on the bench on Saturday, which I doubt would impress anyone who’s come to watch me play. Not that it seems to matter too much to Electra and Hailey, who, as far as I can tell, are looking at Hailey’s shoes. Trav, meanwhile, has started a pretend push-and-shove with an opposition player we know from state school whose name is Bernard Barnard, weirdly enough.
Obviously this push-and-shove thing is a set-up to impress the girls, as even with their mouthguards in, I can see Trav and Bernard are laughing their heads off. So I cross my arms, tap the toes of my boots, and wait for my big chance to get out there and do my thing.
‘Get up and jog, Marc,’ Coach Tindale says. ‘You’re on in three.’
I grab a footy, get up, and start jogging it down towards Electra and Hailey.
‘Other way, Jarvis.’ Coach Tindale points. ‘Run with the other guys. They’re on your team. Remember?’
I turn, give the girls a little wave, and head around the boundary line and back again, until Coach Tindale decides it’s time to release Marc E. Jarvis, white-booted (found at last!) weapon.
‘And don’t just kick it to Bradbury!’
I pretend not to have heard and run beautifully to my wing, to see that the ball is coming my way, on the bounce, bright red, and brand new.
Freakin’ bargain!
I snap it up, hit the gas, run around some idiot, ignore two guys on the lead, and kick it, somewhat backwards, to set it up for Travis.
This works, Trav launching himself upwards like some enormous but weightless space monkey, arms out, hands splayed, to take the mark, knocking over about fifteen people in the process. Quickly he moves back, as if he can kick a goal from sixty out – which he obviously can’t. So I sprint past for the handball, which he doesn’t give.
‘Go!’ he hisses. ‘Into the dead pocket!’
I lead deep into the pocket that Coach Tindale has absolutely forbidden any of us to go near, as there’s no way anyone could kick a goal into the wind from there – so consequently I’m totally on my own, and easily mark Trav’s kick.
‘Play on, Jarvis!’ I hear Coach Tindale screaming. ‘Get outta there!’
I don’t. I stop. And because it’s impossible to kick a goal from here, I just hang around looking uncertain, waiting for Trav to get into the goal square. Then I boot the ball in high, and stand back to watch the carnage.
Trav makes a huge leap, flying over the pack to prove what I think might be a pretty standard rule of the aerospace industry: that one rocket can’t fire twice – or not in the same quarter of football. Up Trav goes and down he comes, every point of his big bony body making hard contact with heads and faces, players going down everywhere, Trav hitting the deck without the footy, which hasn’t been touched.
Me? I just watch it land, bounce back at right angles over the head of an extremely surprised father in a white coat, to go through for a miracle goal. And the crowd goes wild, even some dude watching from the footpath.
‘Great kick, Marc! Good on you, mate! You’re a genius!’
It’s Mikey, with a take-away coffee, grinning and waving. I point, yelling at him to go through the gates fifty metres down the road, and come on in. But he shakes his head.
‘Can’t do, brother. Gotta keep moving.’ He hoists his coffee as if proposing a toast. ‘Great goal! You’re a legend! Catch you later.’ Then he gives a thumbs-up and heads off, before I have time to fully think out why he didn’t come in to watch.
‘You are one freak tool, Jarvis,’ Trav says, whacking me on the back as we jog back to the centre. ‘That was wild. Tindale will’ve hated it. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re dragged.’
I wouldn’t, either. Not that I care too much; I care more that Mikey thinks that he couldn’t, shouldn’t, or wouldn’t come in to watch us play. Still, I might be wrong about that, and it was a miracle goal, so I angle off happily to my wing, and hit the next centre clearance like a Zulu warrior on the rampage.
Luckily I do get the ball, take a bounce, ignore Trav this time, and spear a forty metre pass in onto Carlo’s chest, who’s come flying out of the forward pocket on a screaming, bullet-like lead. And that, even if I do say so myself, was another great kick.
‘Now yer usin’ your brain, Marc!’ Coach Tindale yells. ‘For a change!’
After the game, me, Trav and Hailey walk Electra to the tram stop. She’s off to do a weights session at school, but is meeting us later. None of us care that we lost the footy – well, Trav and I did at the time, but we don’t now because his folks have gone away for the weekend, and we’re going to hang at his house this afternoon. Thankfully, Dillon is staying at his mate’s hobby farm, probably in a barn, so the coast is clear, and the choice of multiple large-screen plasmas is all ours.
‘So when are you running next?’ Hailey asks Electra as we sit, keeping Electra company until her tram comes. ‘I mean, in a race. We could come and watch. We could say we knew you before you were famous.’
I like Hailey; she comes from Sydney, she’s pretty laidback, and she likes footy. Plus, her dad’s still up there for work – which pleases Trav, as it doubles the opportunities for him to see her without parental supervision. There’s certainly no Book of Travel Plans involved at that house.
‘In a couple of weeks there’s a meet at Olympic Park.’ Electra talks quietly, as if she doesn’t particularly want to tell us this. ‘Under lights. You know, at night. You could come to that, if you really wanted. It’s not that serious or anything. Just a chance for a good hit-out. But there’ll be some good people running.’
‘Yeah,’ says Trav matter-of-factly. ‘You. Marc says you go like an F-18.’
I didn’t, but that’s okay; Trav’s on his best behaviour. Electra smiles as if she’s walked into a surprise party. Then she looks embarrassed.
‘Oh, well, thanks, Travis.’ She’s still smiling. ‘But there’ll be other girls there who can whack me. Really.’
This I doubt. Not if she turns on that killer instinct, furious eyes-thing. No one would risk it.
‘Bullshit,’ says Trav. ‘We know you’re a freak. Otherwise you’d still be back in Broome trying not to get eaten by crocodiles.’
Electra has moved into the corner of the tram stop. At this point she doesn’t look happy or sad; she looks kind of wishful.
‘Please, guys.’ She holds up a hand. ‘No pressure. You know, sometimes I just don’t run fast, and the other girls do. I can’t always win. Even if I want to.’
It must be weird to have a talent that everyone else has an interest in, or an opinion of, and although no one has any great expectations of me, apart from hoping I won’t do crack or get run over, I understand what Electra is saying.
‘I don’t care if you come last,’ I say. ‘Except that you won’t. We only want you to win for you, not us. Although we’ll be rapt, of course, when you do. If you do, I mean. And if you don’t win, well, you know. Whatever.’ Phew. Tiring.
‘She’ll be kicked out of school,’ Trav says, and laughs. ‘And sent back home. That’s what that whatever’ll be.’
‘And this is what that whatever’ll be as well.’ Hailey gives Trav a punch. ‘Leave her alone, you big yak.’ She turns to Electra. ‘We know you can’t always win, Electra. But we’d like you to, as Marc said. I mean, look at me.’ She frames her face with her hands. ‘I can’t run without my glasses fogging up. I don’t need athletic friends. Shit, I just need friends.’
Trav looks at her as if she’s some weird specimen from the science room. I’m still laughing about the big yak thing.
‘Please don’t be such a loser, Hailey,’ Trav says. ‘You’re beginning to sound like Marc.’ He punches my arm, fist like a bullbar. Then he turns to Electra. ‘But anyway, Electra, Marc’s told me about how hard you train, so you’ll go well. And when you’ve done your weights session, call him on his phone, and he’ll meet you at the tram stop near my house.’
It’s good to see Trav acting like a human, for once, because sometimes he doesn’t seem to care about anyone too much. Then I punch him back, which proves I’m not as bad at maths as everyone seems to think.