Chapter 7
THE Devils lost that night and the next morning it was all over the papers that Declan Tyler should have been playing, as if he was singlehandedly the saviour of his team and they were dying without him. They didn’t care about his injuries, and I thought for what was really the first time how hard it must be to be him. The old man’s words from the Napier kept coming back to me; it was like Declan could never win. What would happen when he returned from the field, and his injury was too bad for him to start over again?
His previous record would be tarnished, people would feel justified in saying that he was like a beginner in poker, with a run of good luck that never had the test of time to show his true worth as a player. If he did come back, and the Devils started winning again, it would only set him up for a greater fall when they would inevitably come down again. It seemed like too much pressure to me.
I wondered how Declan felt. Maybe he didn’t even read the papers anymore because he didn’t want to read what they said about him. I tried calling him on his mobile, but it was switched off, and I didn’t know his landline as it was a silent number and he hadn’t given it to me yet. Luckily Fran had imbibed a bit too much at the Napier and called off our shopping date, so I was still in relatively good spirits when I met Roger in town for the game despite not being able to reach Declan.
Roger was in a mood. He wasn’t wearing his Hawthorn scarf, and I could tell he was still dwelling on the whole traitor thing.
Of course, my Richmond scarf was wrapped securely around my throat in preparation for the cold winter wind that always blew through the MCG and seemed to make a beeline straight for you.
“You look a bit naked for a football game,” I said lightly as I approached him under the clocks of Flinders Street Station.
Roger stared at me grumpily, and we began to walk, melting into the crowds heading for the G. We cut through Federation Square and down like we were heading for Parliament Gardens, to where the new gates were for the plebes like us that didn’t have gold passes or corporate boxes.
“So, seriously, Rog, where’s your scarf?”
He gave me that look which, to his mind, meant I should shut up. But always contrary, I took it as a please-press-the-issue glance.
“Did you do something to piss Fran off, so she’s punishing you?”
“I just didn’t think it was cold enough to wear a scarf today, okay?”
We edged into the queue for our gate, the crowds awash in divided loyalties of yellow and black, and yellow and brown. “Are you kidding? Even the penguins are wearing mittens.”
“Drop it,” he warned.
You never tell me to drop it. It’s impossible for me. And Roger knew that. “You’re taking to heart what that crazy old man said?”
“No.”
“Bullshit.”
“Well, didn’t you take what he said to heart? You went riding up on your big white horse to defend Declan bloody Tyler—”
“What, are you pissed you didn’t do the same for Fitzroy?”
He glared at me. “You don’t understand.”
“Fitzroy’s dead, Rog. Just because some old man in a pub can’t accept it, doesn’t mean you have to go the same way. You want to be without a team for the rest of your life, yelling at younger footy fans across the bar?”
“No,” he mumbled.
Our queue remained at a standstill. Funnily enough, the queues for the rich were nonexistent.
“Hold my spot,” I said, like he wouldn’t.
“Hey, where are you going?” he yelled after me, but I ignored him.
I found one of those family-business stands like you see at weekend markets, where some bored fifteen-year-old was manning it, obviously forced into child labour in order to earn his pocket money for the week. I picked up a Hawthorn scarf and handed it over with the money. He snapped his gum and looked at the Richmond scarf around my neck.
“Trying to hedge your bets?” he asked.
“No, I’m trying to be nice to a friend.”
The kid looked unimpressed. I refused the bag he tried to stuff it in and then jogged back to where Roger had barely progressed in the queue.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Don’t say I’m never nice to you,” I muttered, throwing the scarf at him.
He looked down at it as it lay coiled in his hands, like a dormant snake, almost as if he thought it might bite. “What’s this for?”
I jammed my hands into my pockets. “For you to wear your colours with pride.”
“But I already have a scarf.”
“Yeah, but you’re not wearing it today, idiot. Now put it on. Seriously, even just touching it seemed to burn my hands, so you can’t make me suffer for nothing.”
Roger grinned. “Do I have to hug you?”
“No. A simple thanks would suffice.”
“Thanks, mate.” He punched me on the arm affectionately.
“You’re welcome.” I shook my head and rubbed my arm as he wrapped the scarf around his neck and threw the tails over his shoulder. “There, that looks more like my football buddy.”
“Now I have two. Does that make me a super-special fan?”
“Only if you get your wife to sew them together into a super-special scarf.”
We both chuckled at the thought of Fran actually sewing.
“Well, maybe her mum can do it for you,” I suggested.
“She can’t sew for shit either. But her dad can.”
“What?”
“Yeah, from when he was in the Navy. They had to know how to sew to repair their own uniforms. Fran said back when she used to go to school it was her father that always did their mending.”
“Wow. I can’t picture that.” And seriously, if you had ever met Fran’s dad, you wouldn’t be able to either. The man had the handgrip of a steel-jaw trap. A needle would get lost in his meaty paws.
Our queue finally started to move, and we made our way into Mecca. As usual, we were in the nosebleed section—the one where you get vertigo just from looking down and seeing the building drop away from you down into the faraway oval.
“I think these seats are even worse than the last ones we had,” Roger said. “If that’s possible.”
I grunted my agreement, and he suddenly perked up.
“Hey, do you think if you-know-what continues happening with you-know-who, you might be able to score us better tickets?”
“Roger!” I hissed. “Shut up!”
He looked hurt. “I didn’t mention any names.”
“Yeah, well, you’re still no Mata Hari.”
“Who?”
I considered strangling him with his new scarf, but decided against it. One of the teams from Auskick were playing on the field, and the crowd was suitably oohing and aahing for the little kids as they were able to do what very little of us could; that is, touch the hallowed ground of the G.
“Do you think we’ll ever see one of your kids down there one day?” I asked Roger.
He looked horrified at the thought of there being a kid in his future. But I saw the little smile he tried to hide as he stared at his knees and then looked back at me. “Maybe we’ll see yours before mine.”
I scoffed at that for many reasons. Logic was never part of Roger’s repertoire.
“Hey,” he said instantly, “there are plenty of ways it could be possible—”
Thankfully, my mobile rang. “Hold that thought.”
My smile could not be hid when I saw Declan’s name pop up on the screen.
“Hello?”
That voice, starting to become so familiar to me, came through loud and clear. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”
“No,” I said honestly. “Perfect timing, actually.”
Roger’s eyes narrowed.
“I just rang to wish you luck for today.”
“Really?”
He laughed. “Only because you’re not playing us, of course.”
“Of course.”
“I still want to have that talk with you, you know.”
Yikes. “You know, normally when someone says something like that, I dread it.”
“Not in this case?”
“Okay, a little bit. But looking forward to it more than any other time.”
“You’re so quick with the compliments, don’t strain yourself.” Declan snorted. “I was thinking we should make a bet for when the Tigers play the Devils.”
“Oh. Really?” A thousand and eight possibilities ran through my mind, and I bet Roger could tell just what I was thinking by the way he was looking at me.
“A carton of beer. Good beer. Not the cheap shit.”
Fuck. That wasn’t one of my thousand and eight possibilities.
“Of course,” Declan said slyly, “I think the loser should help the winner drink it.”
Aha! That was more like it. “Sounds good.”
“Anyway, I’ll let you get back to the game. I’ll speak to you soon.”
“Yeah, good. You know how to reach me.” I felt like slapping myself in the head as soon as I said it.
Declan chuckled. “You’re on speed dial.”
Cheesy. But I liked it. And I had a sneaking suspicion he knew that I did.
“See you, doofus,” I said, and I let him go.
Roger’s mouth was hanging open. “See you, doofus?”
“What?”
“No wonder you’re always fucking single.”
I couldn’t believe Roger was critiquing me on my romantic etiquette.
“Seriously,” Roger said. “You need help.”
“This from the man who once called his wife Frangipanidellasqueegymop?”
“Hey, I was drunk. And it was cute! It was from Strictly Ballroom.”
“Yeah, it was used as an insult against that character.”
Roger opened his mouth to try and defend himself once again, but luckily at that moment, I was saved from certain death by the roar of the crowd as Hawthorn ran out onto the field. I couldn’t believe he still really thought that Fran thought that was cute, but as he said, he was drunk at the time. And he didn’t know her well enough back then to properly interpret the expression on her face, although, one would think that now they had been together for almost six years that he would have cottoned on to what bad impressions he may have given on their first meeting.
From where we were sitting, the players appeared as very small yellow and brown specks on a green mass. But that didn’t matter to Roger, as he was out of his seat and jumping up and down like a man possessed.
Of course, I did the same a minute later when black and yellow blobs appeared on the opposite side of the green. All thoughts of romantic rules and regulations were quickly forgotten about in the face of the game.
RICHMOND lost, of course. Because they were playing Hawthorn, it wasn’t by much. Not that that really means a thing. Despite my loss, I was still strangely happy, and Roger couldn’t help but miss it as we made our way back to the tram stop to take us home.
“So, aren’t you going to tell us?”
“Tell you what?”
“You know what.”
I did know what, not that I was going to admit it.
“Declan Tyler called you at the game, didn’t he?” Roger asked.
We paused at the kerb while waiting for the little man to turn to green, and we raced across the road as we could see our tram coming in the distance.
“Yes, he did,” I admitted.
“And?”
“And what?”
“This is like pulling fucking teeth,” Roger hissed. “How did he seem?”
“Fine.”
“Just fine?”
“Uh-huh.”
“No mention of why no-no on the blow?”
I stared at him, trying to make sense of what he had just said. It finally hit me a moment later. “No, gross, Roger!”
Roger shrugged. The tram rumbled up beside us, and we clambered on, opting for seats at the back. I stared out the window while Roger continued to press for details. “So what did he call you for, then?”
We passed under the lights of the French end of Collins Street, and the tram seemed aglow from within before it fell back into shadow under the edifice of Parliament House.
“To wish me luck for the game.”
Roger looked appalled. “That’s dangerous, that is.”
“Why? I did the same for him when he played on Friday.”
“You never wish another team luck!” Roger leaned forward, his earnest expression becoming intense. “It’s like betting against your own team in the office pool. You never do it.”
There was really no way I could refute that. I mean, I never bet against Richmond in the office pool, but it didn’t seem like I would be adding to their woes if I wished another team luck in a game the Tigers weren’t involved in.
“You must really like him,” Roger said solemnly.
“He’s okay,” I said flatly.
Roger chuckled to himself. “Hah, you really, really like him!”
Watching my best friend morphing into Sally Field was disturbing to say the least.
“Just admit it,” he provoked me.
“It’s too early to say one way or another,” I shrugged.
He knew I was lying. I knew he knew I was lying. But the bonds of friendship meant that he couldn’t question me about it too much right at this point of time. But all gloves would probably be off after the second date, and he would come in at me with a right hook.
I HADN’T been home for very long when another game of message tag began.
Guess we’re both losers this week, then.
I managed to multitask by responding while feeding Maggie and pulling a beer out of the fridge:
As long as we’re losers together.
He must text like a demon.
But what happens when one of us wins?
That looked pretty doubtful at the moment, for either the Tigers or the Devils.
Then we’ll try not to lord it too badly over the other one.
I grinned to myself as my fingers flew over the keys. Maybe some comforting will be involved.
This time he took a little longer to respond.
I like the sound of that. Even better than the beer.
Bloody mixed signals in light of the incident on our first date. It was probably why he hesitated.
Just have to make sure our differences don’t tear
us apart like any other doomed romance.
Declan obviously had no shame in acting like a sap or a geek:
To quote INXS, they can never tear us apart.
I wished I was at that stage. But it always took me a while. Like it took me a while to reply to that last message:
Yeah, well, to quote Aimee Mann, you’re with stupid now.
I could almost hear his laugh through the tips of his fingers.
Stuck with stupid, more like.
I couldn’t help but laugh myself:
For a while, at least.
His reply was brief, slightly insulting, but also sweet:
Goodnight, stupid.
As was what seemed to be my regular sign off now:
Goodnight, doofus.
As I closed up my phone again, I could hear Roger’s indignant words replaying for me: “No wonder you’re always fucking single.”
Maybe I was getting ahead of myself, especially as some things with Declan were still obfuscated by his actions, but perhaps I wasn’t going to be for much longer.