Chapter Thirteen #2
For most of the first quarter, the Mustangs fought themselves as much as the Wolves.
A kick inside fifty went over Darcy’s head when the shorter option was open.
Corey got caught holding the ball after trying to do too much near the boundary.
Harry saved them twice across half-back, reading the incoming kick and cutting it off.
The quarter ended with the Mustangs down by nine.
The second quarter was better because Marcos made it better.
Sebastian felt the shift before the scoreboard did.
Marcos started moving the Wolves’ ruck around, taking body early, then slipping away late.
His taps became less ambitious and more useful.
He stopped trying to create perfect exits and started creating contests the Mustangs could win.
The ball came to ground in places Sebastian could reach.
If not him, then Phetmany. If not Phetmany, then Parker folding in from the wing.
The first goal of the quarter came from ugly football.
Marcos tapped to ground. Sebastian took the loose ball, got wrapped, and forced it out by hand before his knee hit the grass.
Andrew hacked it forward. Corey chased, tackled, and won a free kick when the Wolves defender dragged it in.
Corey’s set shot went through, and the MCG lifted around them, Mustangs supporters finding their voice in a way that made Sebastian’s skin tighten.
By halftime, the Mustangs were down by one.
The rooms felt alive in a way they hadn’t for weeks. Not loose or satisfied. But there was something under the noise now. They had played a good quarter. They had corrected. They had absorbed pressure and pushed back. They were not waiting for the game to turn for them.
Jacob made sure they knew that wasn’t enough.
Sebastian sat forward, towel over his shoulders, listening.
Marcos stood across from him with one foot on the bench, forearm resting on his thigh, head slightly lowered as he took in the same words. Sweat ran down the side of his face. His jersey clung to his chest. He looked tired in the way everyone looked tired, but his eyes were clear.
The third quarter went badly enough to test every part of them.
The Wolves adjusted. They blocked Sebastian more aggressively and brought a spare around the defensive side to cut off the exit Marcos and Sebastian had used twice already. They slowed the game after marks, chipped the ball around half-back, and forced the Mustangs to defend for longer stretches.
The margin reached eighteen before the Mustangs steadied.
Marcos was the one who dragged them back to the contest again. He stopped letting the Wolves ruck control where the ball fell. He tapped it. Scrapped. Followed up. Took contact and held his feet. Gave Sebastian half a chance instead of waiting for a perfect one.
Half a chance was enough.
At three-quarter time, they were down by ten.
Jacob’s message was simple because the game had become simple. Ten points. One quarter. No room for error.
Sebastian barely heard the words as words.
He felt them in the bodies around him. Players breathing hard, nodding, taking water, shifting weight from one leg to the other because standing still made fatigue heavier.
He looked out toward the ground, the MCG spread huge around them, noise moving even during the break.
The last quarter became the kind of football Sebastian hated and loved in equal measure.
Everything mattered too much.
The first five minutes were all pressure.
Tackles. Smothers. Hands knocked away. Marks dropped because someone arrived half a second too late.
The crowd rose for every contested ball as if the sound itself could force a decision.
Sebastian ran until his lungs burned and then kept running because stopping would have meant a lost ball and wasted time.
They got the first goal through Corey after a direct kick from centre.
The margin dropped to four.
Then the Wolves answered with a behind after Harry forced a shot wide under pressure.
Kick-in from the goal square. Randal went long to the pocket, which turned into a boundary throw-in.
Marcos brought it to the ground, and the umpire called a ball-up.
Then another ball-up. The clock ran too quickly and not quickly enough, every second dragging and vanishing at the same time.
They were running out of time. Sebastian didn’t know exactly, and he refused to look at the clock, but the noise was giving him an indication. And he trusted the noise.
The Wolves kicked another behind with three minutes left, pushing the margin to five.
Randal took the kick-in quickly, playing on from the goal square and sending the ball to Harry near the pocket.
Harry marked, turned, and went down the line.
The contest spilled, and Parker gathered it, passing off to Sebastian, but just as the ball hit his hands, a hard body slammed into him, bringing him to the ground.
The impact was hard. The ground against his head was harder. The ball was locked into his chest, and the umpire blew his whistle, calling a ball-up.
Sebastian unravelled from the opposition and stood. He could feel the blood from his nose and mouth before anything else. He waved off any help.