Chapter 3 Big Dog #2
Tessa looks confused. ‘Oh, I don’t know if I’m familiar with that one.’
Oshy snorts as he starts to walk towards the rooms.
‘Are you kidding?’ I say. ‘It’s famous. Everyone talked about it as goal of the year. Everyone still talks about it. I won the game against Richmond with that goal.’
‘You won the game, did you?’ Oshy mutters. ‘Did the fixture say Richmond Tigers versus Kade Hammersmith, did it?’
Tessa winces, realising she’s waded into a rivalry but not knowing how to chart the current.
‘Uh, I’ve only been working here a few months, so I haven’t gotten on top of what happened before I started,’ she says bracingly.
‘But I’m sure it was amazing, Hammer. You are our leading goalkicker, after all. I’ll make sure to check it out soon.’
I like her a lot for that.
‘Boys, make sure you head down to the theatre,’ Tessa adds. ‘Roo has called all the players together to address you.’
I nod to her and try not to show how much I’m hobbling. It’s not my hammy. My lower back has frozen and it’ll need physio attention. This is either gonna be something I can pretend isn’t happening and can power through, or something that fucks me up bad.
Oshy is a few steps ahead as we descend underground into the rooms.
‘Cheers for calling me your chief, buddy,’ I call after him. ‘Cos I am the Chief. And don’t you ever forget it.’
Oshy mutters something I can’t hear and keeps walking, his back still to me.
‘Don’t be a coward,’ I blurt out. ‘If you got something to say to me, say it to my face, faggot.’
My blood immediately chills. I forgot myself. They drill it into us not to use slurs or you’ll face fines or suspensions. It just slipped out cos he makes me so angry.
Oshy pauses near the theatre entrance, where the other boys are filing in.
‘What’d you call me?’ he asks, deathly quiet.
Then again, the main thing is not to use slurs against another team, or you can cop a solid five-week suspension. Oshy would be insane to report his own teammate for a little quip at training. Nobody would forgive him: not the boys, and defo not the fans.
‘Dunno,’ I say, shoving my shoulder into his back. ‘You musta misheard me.’
I head into the theatre, grab a Powerade and squirt it into my mouth while towelling down.
I take a seat between Tank and Kingy. They’re the boys I’m closest to in the team.
Tank’s a big ugly unit, all scars and sunburn and taped shoulders, with a face like a dropped pie.
He used to be a full-back, but Roo played him up forward once he came to us: he has a build like Leigh Brown and the same MO of ploughing straight through any prick who gets in his way.
Kingy’s a skilled small forward with a bit of X factor to him; he’s an Aboriginal man from Yamatji Country where I’m from, so when he joined the team, we both bonded about being from Gero.
He crumbs the footy from contests better than anyone I ever seen, and he’s running out of space on his body for tatts.
When we’re all settled in our seats, Roo takes the lectern and cops the usual jeers and woos.
‘Settle down, this is a serious one today,’ he announces.
Mosey is beside him, and Tessa is filming the theatre from the back. What’s this about?
Roo clears his throat. ‘The Club’s board has decided that this season, as part of our club’s commitment to diversity and inclusion, West Coast will take part in an inaugural Pride Round match to support the LGBTQIA+ community,’ he says, in a monotone as he reads from a printed script.
He sounds like he just got told he has gonorrhoea.
‘Our game against the Sydney Swans in three weeks will show the AFL is a safe place for same-sex-attracted male players, from the west to the east. We welcome diversity in our men’s team the same way we do in our women’s team. ’
There’s a deathly hush around the theatre. Nobody knows how to react.
Least of all ya boy Hammer. My ears are ringing, like a fire alarm just went off but my legs won’t let me run from the flames.
Then it’s a cold shiver of goosebumps all over my skin, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up like I just got caught stealing.
My heart starts thumping. I feel like I have to be totally motionless or I’ll give the whole game away.
No. No. No. Fuck this shit forcing its way into my life. Into footy. Footy should be sacred.
Roo steps back from the mic and Mosey takes the lectern. Unlike Roo, he has an earnest look, and I wonder if this whole thing was the board’s idea, or his.
‘The AFL is now the only major sporting code without a single openly gay male player, and as a club, we are dedicated to combating the homophobia within the footy community that led to this,’ Mosey says, talking to us like we’re in trouble for it or some shit.
‘We have a short video to show you from a brave soccer player – please give your full attention to the screen and show the respect we know you are capable of as elite sportsmen.’
Mosey nods to one of the marketing team, who hits play on a laptop. A video booms to life on the theatre’s projector screen. Some European soccer player is on a stool in front of his team, in a theatre like this, while sappy piano music plays.
I exchange a look with Tank to my right, then Kingy to my left. We all have that look where you’re about to roll your eyes, but you know you can’t cos people are watching. We’re all on the same page here.
The soccer player starts tearing up, and then outright crying, as he comes out to his teammates. They all look solemn as the piano music gets even slower and sappier. What, are they all gonna have a group hug and cry together? This is nauseating. I wanna chunder.
When the soccer player’s finished his classic sob story, all the other players get around him, cheering and messing his hair up and patting him on the back. Come off it. What is this propaganda shit?
The video ends.
‘That is the culture we want to foster,’ Mosey says. ‘A safe space where every bloke knows he’ll be treated with dignity and respect. We value and celebrate diversity.’
‘Value and celebrate,’ Roo echoes blandly. His hands are in his pockets and you can tell he’d rather be twerking for Tessa’s TikTok videos than doing any of this.
‘We’ll have more to say next week,’ Mosey says, ‘but you boys should be aware the club is committed to diversity and we expect players to take this seriously and show respect.’
All of us look to our captain, Reece ‘Sniper’ Snipes. He’s thirty-three, won the Brownlow four years ago, and is one of the most elite midfielders in the comp. Since Polak’s retirement, he’s the most respected player in this room.
Sniper responds to Mosey’s final statement with a thunderous clap. ‘Let’s get around it, boys,’ he says.
Everyone claps in some form, especially cos we’re on camera. Oshy claps enthusiastically, which is no surprise. Me, Tank and Kingy clap just once. I can tell from Tessa’s face that the team’s lukewarm reaction was like a lead balloon.
What do they expect, forcing this woke shit on us?
We’re dismissed for the showers and for tomorrow’s rest day.
As I stand up, Tank murmurs, ‘I can’t stand how they always bring this rubbish into sport.’
‘A-fucken-men,’ I say.
‘I don’t understand why we gotta talk about it,’ Kingy mutters.
‘Not like we got any poofs in the team anyway, and if we did, what they do is their own business, right? Not like I need a straight pride round to tell everyone I like stickin’ it to my misso.
’ He puts on a face as if he’s about to cry, mocking the soccer player.
‘I first realised I was attracted to big giant funbags when I was fourteen, and I had to hide it from the world, cos the most evil, hated thing you can be in the 2020s is a straight boy who loves tiddies.’
We laugh and head for the showers. My back is killing me. I need to see the club physio before I leave today, but in front of the boys I push through the pain. I’m good at that.
You can survive just about anything by pretending it’s not happening.
After my manager landed me a seven-figure contract extension a few years ago, I bought a swish new apartment in South Perth.
I’m in the penthouse of a twelve-storey apartment block and I got three bedrooms, one of which I use as a home gym, and a balcony with a jacuzzi and an ice bath.
The balcony has epic, million-dollar views of the Swan River and the Perth skyline with its skyscrapers twinkling in the dusklight.
The night before our weekly rest day, I usually have Tank and Kingy over to hang on the balcony. We smash a feed and a couple of cheeky and definitely not club-sanctioned beers, and talk shit.
Tonight, instead of our usual talking points – this weekend’s game and our likely match-ups – we spend two hours slamming the club’s woke bullshit.
We all agree this Pride Round is a joke, and if they push any more crap on us – like forcing us to wear gay-arse rainbow socks – then we’ll band together and do what those rugby players did years ago and boycott it.
Fuck ’em. They can’t force us to endorse shit against our own values.
‘Did you see Oshy clapping?’ Tank asks, taking a final bite of his pulled pork roll. ‘He was all for it, little woke prick.’
‘You can tell he loves the D,’ I add.
‘Probably already takes it from Mosey,’ Kingy adds, shaking the dregs of his stubby of Gage Roads beer. ‘Mosey can’t get enough of him. It’s like the rest of us don’t exist.’
My phone pings. I check the notification and smirk.
Tank leers at me. ‘If it’s another chick throwing herself at you, I’m gonna jump off this balcony. Spoiled bastard.’
I show them the DM. Some random bird I’ve never met sent full-on nudes in response to my shirtless shower Insta story this morning. She’s sent pics of her tiddies with the nips showing and a shot of her arse in a G-string.
‘Goddamn, why don’t I ever get sluts throwing ’emselves at me?’ Tank says, fistbumping me. ‘Stud, mate.’