Chapter 10 #2
It’s one of the only nights out in my life where I don’t end up at the sauna or in some strange guy’s bed. I’m having too much fun with random mates I barely know and will never see again. We laugh and drink and party until closing time.
This feels like what I moved to the city for: the freedom I always wanted.
On Sunday, I see a headline about Hammer. He’s gone viral and is in hot water for publicly opposing the AFL’s Pride Round and refusing to wear the guernsey.
When it comes up at Curtis and Ahmed’s anniversary brunch on Sunday morning, it dominates the conversation, during which Charlie tells everyone how we went to school with Hammer and he was a douche-canoe.
‘Back in the nineties, we thought those attitudes were starting to change,’ Curtis says. ‘And here we are thirty years later, the best we’ve ever had it, and it still only takes one comment to throw us right back.’
‘Or remind us we never left,’ Ahmed quips.
When we’re getting into bed later that night, Charlie says, ‘It’d really throw a spanner in Hammer’s gears if we told the truth about him, wouldn’t it?’
I freeze. ‘As in, to Curtis and the guys?’
Charlie has fire behind his eyes. ‘No. Publicly. We’re the only ones who know he’s gay.’
‘I don’t know that he is anymore,’ I say. ‘He ran from me and never came back …’
‘You know what I mean,’ Charlie says, sliding his socks off. ‘If he’s not gay, he at least experimented, which makes him a stinking hypocrite.’
‘Always the closet cases who are the loudest homophobes, right?’ I say, performing the nightly routine. ‘Goodnight, Tom.’
‘He’d have to eat his words,’ Charlie says, with a savage grin. ‘Nasty, bullying dickwad he is. Goodnight, Tom.’
He turns the light off.
‘But we wouldn’t do that, would we?’ I ask. ‘Outing someone is messed up. You know that after what Alicia Stratton did to you back home.’
Charlie pads across the carpet, trips over his own socks, and almost somersaults into the bed beside me. ‘Yeah, I didn’t deserve it. But I wasn’t a famous footy player going on homophobic rants on TV, was I?’
‘He doesn’t deserve it, either,’ I say firmly. ‘It’s one thing to think about outing him. But to actually do it would make you the bad guy, not him.’
Silence has stretched between me and Sabrina for days now.
I’ve opened Messenger a few times when I’m in Charlie’s bed at night, staring at the last message she sent me on graduation night: I’m here up the back. See you in the ballroom after! So proud of you.
I feel guilty when I see that. The last message she sent was nice – and I didn’t even reply, cos by the time I saw it, we’d already fought. It’s crap to go from thinking someone got you, and cared about you, to total silence.
I try typing a few messages but always stop cold cos I don’t know what to say. Do I want to reconnect? Do I want to grab my property from her flat and run? Do I want to move back in? I could never stop watching porn, but I could hide it.
But why hide, when I could live like Charlie or Jack?
And every time I wonder what the best move would be, I remind myself Sabrina hasn’t said anything to me, either.
I’ve never broken up with someone, but that fight felt like a break-up, which is probably a sign that the whole scenario was unhinged anyway.
After all, even Will and Grace eventually had a huge fight and parted ways for years.
Maybe this is the end for me and Sabrina, too.
I am trembling as I pull my Nissan into the carpark at Coolbinia Reserve.
My ears are ringing, my mouth is bone-dry.
It’s dusk, the sky an aggrieved periwinkle-grey, and bright lights pelt down onto the two footy ovals either side of the cream-brick clubrooms. Big footy players the size of Rex are on the oval, backpacks and duffel bags in a circle at their feet.
They’re all doing stretches I don’t know how to do, handballing footies I know I will drop, and, worst of all, they’re all wearing the same red-and-blue footy guernseys.
In my new grey Nike singlet and black Sekem footy shorts and Under Armour duffel bag, all from Rebel Sport Innaloo, I’ll stand out as the only guy not in a uniform.
‘What are you doing?’ I panic at the rear-view mirror. ‘You. Do. Not. Belong. Here. Oh God. You’re such a tryhard idiot. What were you thinking?’
Other cars rock up. Guys walk past me, smiling, swinging their arms, calling out to their mates. On the oval they’re running, handballing, kicking the footy, laughing.
I was thinking I wanted to have fun like them. I wanted to be part of something. I wanted to be one of the boys.
The effort is Herculean, but I open the Nissan’s door and walk towards the pack of players, unable to spot Jack or Brick. What do I do if someone asks if I’ve played footy before? I don’t think lying will be a good idea, given I’m useless.
I’m five steps from the group when a voice calls out, ‘Oi, Zeke! Over here, mate!’
I turn.
There’s a smaller cluster of guys on the second oval, on the other side of the clubrooms, wearing red-and-black guernseys. Jack is waving me over, and it’s the biggest relief: a message I’m allowed to be here.
‘Ayy, here’s trouble!’ Jack booms, fistbumping me.
He jerks his head to the red-and-blue players on the opposite oval.
‘Mate, that’s the Coolbinia team. They’re a proper, full-contact footy club, playing A-grade in the Perth Football League.
They let us share their rooms, but you might be out of your depth if you gatecrash their training. ’
The big, dark-skinned unit next to Jack laughs. ‘Even I would, to be honest,’ he says.
‘We, on the other hand, are the mighty Perth Centurions Football Club,’ Jack declares, brandishing his arms out to the other six fellas in our circle. ‘Proudly mediocre.’
The Centurions boys give a range of awkward smiles.
This team is way less intimidating. There’s a huge variety in body shape.
Jack’s the most stereotypical muscular athlete among them.
There’s two stocky guys like me, one huge unit, two lean athletic types who look related, and a very tall, lanky fellow with an overbite.
It reminds me of Dodgeball. I nearly wandered into Globo Gym, but I’ve thankfully landed at Average Joe’s instead.
‘Frankly, even mediocre is a stretch,’ the lanky dude says, offering me his hand. ‘What’s your name, mate?’
‘Zeke.’
‘Fergus,’ the lanky dude says. ‘Welcome to the team, mate.’
‘Kinda stealing my thunder, you lanky little poof,’ Jack says jokingly.
‘Zeke, this is the team. Brick is our coach and key forward.’ The massive tattooed unit shakes my hand.
‘These are our backs, Firetruck and Tommo.’ A hot bear cub with a coppery beard and a pudgy, shaggy-haired dude who smells of cigarettes both nod.
‘You’ve met Fergus; he’s been playing forward with Brick.
Dom and Rogan have been running through the midfield with me …
’ Dom and Rogan look like brothers: both athletic but lean, with Balkan features, and Rogan has a deep scar across his cheek and a half-closed eyelid.
‘And you, Zeke, make eight, which means we’re almost a full nines team. ’
‘Isn’t a full team twenty-two guys?’ I ask.
Dom and Rogan slide off their regular sneakers, sit on the grass and pull on their footy boots, so I follow suit, pulling my brand-new black Asics footy boots on.
‘We’re just starting out, and there’s not exactly a stampede to sign up since we’re a team of gay blokes …’ Jack starts.
‘Except Rogan,’ Firetruck points out. ‘Rogan’s straight.’
‘It’s an abomination,’ Fergus says, winking at me. He’s the joker of the team. ‘I don’t like him shoving his hetero lifestyle down my throat.’
Rogan pokes his tongue out at Fergus.
‘No, you prefer to reserve your throat for sucking down big schlongs,’ Tommo jeers.
I snort. Fergus blows Tommo a kiss and says, ‘Guilty.’
‘We give Rogan a free pass as our token straighty since he’s Dom’s brother, and he played footy for Quinns Rocks so he’s actually good, which is more than I can say for most of these gumbies,’ Brick explains.
‘And cos we need fill-ins desperately,’ Jack adds, redirecting the conversation back to me.
‘We’re hoping to join the spring comp, so if we can get thirteen members by October, this’ll be a viable team.
We’re playing AFL 9s, which is the non-contact, social version of the game.
Three backs, three mids, three forwards. Plus you want a few subs.’
‘I wouldn’t say no to a few subs,’ Tommo says. ‘If you know what I mean.’
‘We’re finding that in this team, the innuendo flows like hot cum,’ Brick says. ‘Hope you’re not easily offended.’
‘I’m not,’ I say. ‘I don’t get offended by anything.’
‘Ay, you’ll fit right in,’ Fergus says, before kicking a footy short to Dom. The two of them jog a few metres away and start kicking the footy to each other.
‘Until October, we train twice a week, play little scratch matches against each other when we have enough blokes rock up, and learn basic skills,’ Jack says. He rummages in a Rebel Sport bag. ‘What size shirt are ya?’
I feel like everyone is suddenly looking at how chubby I am.
‘Uh, extra-large, usually,’ I mutter, staring at my footy boots.
Jack flings a generic red-and-black guernsey at me. ‘Chuck that on.’ He raises his voice to the rest of the team. ‘Alright, boys, let’s warm up. Two laps of the oval.’
‘Two?’ Fergus moans. ‘You demented sadist.’
I take my grey singlet off, momentarily fearing the guys will judge my exposed flab.
I pull the guernsey over my head and see they’ve all started jogging already, and nobody is looking at me at all.