Mongrel Punt

By Gerard Zochling

Love - what the hell was it doing? Why had it come to pay us a visit right now in Grand Final week and with me in the middle of it? It was like some massive centrifugal mystery layering misery upon madness on top of me.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9781291814484

Book preview

Mongrel Punt

Mongrel Punt

by

Gerard Zochling

Second Edition

Entire contents © copyright 2012 by Gerard Zochling

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from Gerard Zochling

http://gerardzochling.wix.com/gedzochling

email: [e-mail]

ISBN: 978-1-291-81448-4

Table of Contents

Mongrel Punt

Table of Contents

MONGREL PUNT

MONDAY

TUESDAY

WEDNESDAY

THURSDAY

FRIDAY

SATURDAY

SUNDAY

MONDAY

EPILOGUE

Dedication

MONGREL PUNT

Definition: A generally misdirected kick, which floats and swirls in an awkward and unpredictable arc through the air making it very difficult to mark. Its bounce is equally unpredictable.

MONDAY

Fog rolled over the four white goalposts. It was 8.12pm on Monday night in early September – Grand Final week. Those three words, I could say them over and over again, together or by themselves or in any group of two and they would have me thinking about the meaning of my life – especially on Monday night of this grand crazy week.

I turned my head away from the goalposts to the sounds of voices. Out of the fog I see Possum first. He hates losing anything – even nude 400 metre races.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding Poss! You were last on the other side.

Come back here you hairy-arsed cheat.

And I could hear laughter, the laughter of men at play among the voices.

What would Coach think if he saw us now?

Yeah and what about the jokers we’re playing on the weekend? Shit Poss, this is complete fucking madness.

Possum stopped and pivoted towards the voices, hands on hips, heat rising from his shoulders, chest heaving, smiling. The rest of the side emerged running from the fog one after the other, naked and tired into the weak circle of light that shone out from above the door of the changerooms. I sat there watching Poss, this leader of men take charge.

C’mon you weak cunts, all the way to the finish, good, you can laugh and run at the same time. Push. C’MON! All the way to the finish or I’ll take you out the back and clean off your laziness with a fucking hose. And you know I’ll fucking do it! C’MON!

There are times in your life when you are in the middle of something and the sheer rightness of it slams into your heart and makes you smile all inside and out, right out. Like when people say you’re beaming and you know you are BEAMING. Or when you were a kid and you walk into the kitchen and see your Mum holding your baby brother and she’s kissing the little bugger all over and he’s cooing and he looks so pink and gorgeous in his comfy clean nappy – he’s so happy, Mum’s so happy and it is so damn right. It doesn’t get any better. And you know it. But if you’re like me you begin to shake, not in that instant, but soon after because you know life is not like that all the time – it can’t be.

But right now I’m resisting the negative thoughts, trying to defy the jealousy. I could hear joy and hope in all those voices, the hoots of happiness – a firework of fun thick in the air – like youth making its own sweet stubborn call this Monday night, six days before the Grand Final. A momentum had begun. One I could hear in the voices, feel along the rim of my soul – where they say all the big things are felt, because everything is drawn into that great soul eventually or that great whole or that great hole. And now it was us, well them, the boys – the Tigers out there bonding before the biggest day of their lives as they stood together staring at destiny – their barely lit bodies – naked and steaming.

What a way to start the week. I sat there watching, sipping orange cordial from a white styrofoam cup on the cold concrete stairs. There was no way this group of blokes, led by Possum, was ever going to begin Grand Final week the right way. It was his way and no one ever knew what that was – it was the just the other way.

But Coach trusted him. The players trusted him. The club trusted him. He was as real a captain as you could get – a 33-year-old man in a small football club, in a large town, in a big world.

Bring it in tight, Poss ordered.

There in the skinny light the boys, closer to me now, self-consciously flicking at their dicks and cupping their balls, their faces tightening to serious as they crowded around Poss in the centre of the beam.

Arms round each other boys. CLOSE. That’s it boys a nice tight unit. That’s it boys. Arms round your brothers. GOOD.

They had shifted further from me now, but I could hear and watch their breathing, see their chests heave – a small circle of torsos rising in and out of the half light. Poss was on the right side of the circle from where I was and I could see his head project forward, his eyes fierce. He began:

Do believe brothers, do understand, that WHATEVER IT TAKES…

I could sense the air tensing, the heat from their backs pluming slower into the night. Their hands tightening round their mate’s shoulders, their blood refuelling with adrenaline.

…WHATEVER it takes is worth it. A man once said – goodness comes to those who work and greatness comes to those who win, but immortality comes to those who die in the battle, AND THAT’S WHAT WE DEMAND THIS WEEKEND – IMMORTALITY!

They would have torn a small grandstand down with their bare hands if he asked them right now. Poss paused. Like all good

motivational talks, it confused as much as it inspired. It was who said it and how it was said that counted. And Poss knew how to work this stage. This was his stage. Poss looked into their eyes. Every players eyes met his. There before me were twenty-five unlikely warriors arm-in-arm, naked, hoping to reward their love for each other, their sacrifices for each other and their love of the game with a victory in the Grand Final – a Premiership.

These angels built

In flesh and fog

Bleed not for God

But for football

And then Poss flicked the switch, smiled.

Excellent session brothers, fantastic start to what will be the biggest week of your lives. See you Wednesday.

The players released each other and filed up the stairs past me, roughing my hair, quiet at first, the humour slowly seeping back into their quickening chatter. Poss put his hand on top of my head.

You still coming over for a feed? Yeah.

I nodded and looked at his big calf muscles as he walked by. A few more of the boys filed through, followed by Herps who sat down beside me.

Next Monday B, you and me, we’re going to drink victory piss till we’re blue in the face and then we’re going to get you a root you’ll never forget.

I looked at Herps and grinned. My God, if I could keep up with him I’d be rooted of everything on Monday if we won on Sunday.

I can’t wait to sing the song with you Herps for your first flag.

He winked and smiled at me with such certainty and affection as he got up I felt he’d rolled me off the steps and into a field of four-leaf clovers. Herps, the most exciting talent the club had seen – twenty-three years of majestic, athletic youth. Fuck, he had some ammo in the house and a backyard full of dynamite. I’ve never seen a player make a football oval look so small. All six-foot-three and ninety-three kilos of rock hard star.

I was still pulling pieces from the empty cup imagining Herps busting packs and taking marks when Poss yelled out.

Hey B can you grab us another towel?

I walked in the sheds amongst those hopeful eyes that were staring at their boots as if they were staring at the longest week of their lives. Staring with a forced hope their boots would kick straight, run hard, leap high and in the days ahead hope that no one or nothing would take it from them now. Not a car accident, a training mishap, a flu virus, a plank of wood falling from the sky, a t-bone caught in the throat – those eyes wanted Sunday now.

Those eyes didn’t want to miss out on joining their teammates and all those gone before who had felt the euphoria of holding aloft the cup. Whatever team sport – only those who had won a Grand Final, had won a Premiership – could ever speak of its unmistakable bond to glory it gave each winner, forever.

I wanted Sunday to be here too, for the emotions that charged this changeroom now – the expectation, the apprehension, the humour, the fear, the potential for tragedy was life itself. This was the place where all footballers longed to be.

I walked into the shower room to get Poss a towel. A few of the boys stood toe-to-toe flicking towels. Jesus, what if they lost an aggot now, don’t these boys realise – it can happen. Youth doesn’t realise. I realised. Or I felt I did, how damn fragile every second really was.

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