Chapter 15 Stiff #2
Oshy takes a step back. ‘Yeah, you know what, fine,’ he says. ‘I was trying to help you, but some people don’t wanna be helped. Keep biting the hands of everyone who feeds you. See how it turns out.’
He leaves.
I drive away from the club ranting to myself about Oshy, and the AFL, and everyone. I hate Oshy. I also wish I could’ve not snapped at him. I just make everything worse. Every choice I make is another step into quicksand I’m too dumb to rescue myself from. I’m sinking.
That last DM sounded like the stalker or whatever is ramping up.
But even if I do what he says – jump before I’m pushed – I don’t see how it works out any better.
If I stay silent, I remain public enemy number one.
If I speak up, the only people who like me now will hate me, and the people who hate me now will either never forgive me anyway, or force me into some Oshy-style rainbow-poster-boy role I would hate.
I can’t win.
I automatically gravitate to Hammersmith Automotive, the only place I know I won’t be chased out by angry villagers with pitchforks.
When I walk into reception, Raelene isn’t warm like usual. She asks if I’m holding up okay, and when I say it’s been rough, she says, ‘Well, free speech, I suppose …’
Mick, Doug’s worker, walks past me on his way back to the dyno and fistbumps me heartily. ‘You’re a bloody legend, mate,’ he insists, snapping a selfie with me. ‘Sticking it to the woke Nazis. Fuck ’em up. Give it time, you’ll be seen as a hero.’
I’ve never felt less heroic after a fan selfie.
Doug’s got both hands coated in grease and his face twitches with annoyance when he sees me. ‘Bit busy today, bro,’ he tells me. ‘What’s up?’
I lean against the hoist. ‘Nuffin.’
‘Got nowhere else to go?’ Doug smirks. ‘Not playing tonight, ay?’
‘Club managed me out. Nothing to do with footy. All fucken political.’
Doug shakes his head. ‘I told you not to be a dickhead about the Pride shit. Faggots get hell angry about that. Shoulda kept your opinions to yourself.’
‘Yeah, no shit,’ I say.
‘Is the club mad?’
‘Yeah, pissed,’ I admit.
‘Roo?’
‘Disappointed.’
‘Sniper?’
‘Same. They all are.’
‘What about Mum and Dad?’
I shrug. ‘Mum understood. She’s more worried about the online crazies coming after me in real life. Dad reckons I’m right, but said to keep my head down so it blows over.’
‘It’ll blow over,’ Doug says. ‘Just stop being a dickhead and making it worse.’
So easy to say that when you’re not in the eye of the storm.
‘I got free time all weekend,’ I say. ‘Could do a video for your socials to promote your business, like you kept asking me for?’
‘What, now?’ Doug snort-laughs. ‘You kidding, mate? We want to attract new customers, not lose them.’
I end up at home by myself on Friday night, watching the Pride Round match between the Eagles and Swans on Fox Footy, whiskey in hand.
Both teams are decked out in gaudy eyesores of multi-coloured Pride Guernseys, running onto the field across a rectangular patch of turf painted with a rainbow flag.
I don’t wanna be out there in a rainbow guernsey, but I do wanna be out there. I wanna be with my team. I wanna be playing footy. I wanna help us flog the Swans.
It kills me that I’m not there.
I kick a little plush promo footy into the wall over and over, alone.
At half-time, the Fox Footy team interviews Xander Sullivan. He’s the influencer prick who posted those videos ranting about me online. His face is too shiny and his teeth are too white. He’s draped himself in a rainbow shirt with an Eagles scarf around his neck.
Katy asks him why the Pride Round is so important and he goes on a rant about how homophobia affects closeted football players. As if he has the first clue what that’s like.
Hardwick follows up with a question about ‘the elephant in the room – Kade Hammersmith being managed out for this game’. Xander says it’s not enough. He says I should be banned for several matches to send a clear message.
‘It’s clear Kade Hammersmith has no idea of the harm his comments could do to a closeted football player,’ Xander says smugly.
Bet you a million bucks you’re wrong, dickwad.
Xander goes on to mention a gay footy team. I scroll onto my Insta and search for them. It’s the same team Brick mentioned in the gym.
Perth Centurions only have ninety-seven followers on Insta.
They don’t have a website or a proper uniform yet, just a cheap-arse logo of a red Roman Centurion’s head on a black background.
I scroll to their grid photos. There’s one of Brick, club president, his arms around a tatted Italian-looking bloke, both in footy gear after a training session.
The second photo is of the team – they look unfit, clearly amateurs – and, unexpectedly, I recognise one of them.
‘Piss off,’ I say. ‘As if.’
I tap on the tagged profile in the footy team photo.
Zeke Calogero.
Insta has a blue ‘follow back’ button staring me down.
I wonder if Zeke’s been following me since school, or if he followed me after I got famous.
He’s still stocky and his expression is still awkward and shy, like he doesn’t know he’s hot.
His last selfie is at an oval in his guernsey, captioned: Guess I’m a footy boy now?
Something hijacks my fingers. I DM him: Piss off you’re into footy now. As if.
Unexpectedly, the word ‘seen’ appears right away. Zeke’s read my DM.
And he replies: Wow didn’t expect to hear from you, Kade. Yeah I’m a footy boy now haha. How are you man? Been a while.
I feel all warm. Maybe he doesn’t hate my guts as much as everyone else.
I reply. I saw you in PE class mate. You were shit at footy. What changed?
Zeke messages back. Suddenly, we’re chatting. Lol I’m still shit. But I don’t care. Footy’s fun, I like it. Nice to be part of a team. I’m sure you get that?
Ha. Footy used to make me happy. Now it’s a job.
Do I really feel that way? Or am I just bitter cos of the last few weeks? I remember the joy of footy when I was a little tacker doing Auskick, and booting bags of goals as a teenage prodigy in Gero. It was fun and exciting then. Not a headache.
Zeke sends a bit of a novel to me.
I’ve been meaning to message you about the pride stuff and how you’ve been cancelled. I didn’t know if you’d reply after how we left things years ago. Guess it’s not easy to be in your shoes. The media doesn’t know what I know about you. It makes me a bit more forgiving of what you’ve done.
It’s the nicest anyone’s been to me for at least a week. Zeke’s this little rope coming out of nowhere to save me from the quicksand I’ve trapped myself in.
I’m real sorry for what I did, I type back.
I get it, Zeke replies. I understand if you’re in the closet, something like a pride guernsey might set you off or make you feel threatened?
Not that, I reply. I’m real sorry for what I did to you. Back in Gero. When we were at school and I was a cunt to you. And in that hotel room. I shoulda slowed down if you weren’t ready. I’m sorry ok.
Zeke sees my message but doesn’t reply. No speech bubble with dots or nothing. I feel like a dick. I’d delete my message if he hadn’t already seen it.
I watch the game on TV. Oshy kicks a goal and taps the rainbow on his chest, dedicating it to the homos. The commentators say it’s a thoughtful, beautiful touch that shows strong leadership.
My phone finally vibrates with Zeke’s reply.
This is a conversation I never thought I’d have with you. I’d rather do it face to face.
Not until he offers that do I realise I wanna see him, too. I don’t wanna be alone tonight.
Yeh ok, I write. Where u? I can cum over right now.
Lol no, Zeke says. I’m on a footy trip with the boys up at the Beach Shack, some Airbnb in Lancelin. It’s over an hour from Perth.
I could drive there, I offer. I’ve had a few drinks, but I’ll make it work. An hour’s not too far.
No, that’s crazy, don’t do that. I’m busy with the boys anyway. Look, let’s grab a beer when I’m back in Perth next week?
It’s my turn to go silent. I throw my phone on the couch. It’s like someone hauled me out of the quicksand, saw what I really look like, and kicked me back into the mud.
Then I grab my car keys.
It’s a wintry August night and I freeze my nuts off on the drive up to Lancelin.
I’m wearing a Rip Curl beanie and a Mad Hueys hoodie and I’m still shivering behind the steering wheel.
The reverse cycle doesn’t seem to be able to generate air warm enough.
My breath is misting; the windscreen keeps fogging up dangerously on the dark road, forcing me to wind the windows down to unfog it, making it even more freezing.
I pull into Lancelin around nine o’clock. I park beside the IGA and check my AFL Live app. Oshy, Tank and Kingy got two goals each, but the Swans beat us. Shit.
I google the Beach Shack again and drive around the corner to find it. My engine idles outside, headlights illuminating a two-storey wooden house.
The Beach Shack is way bigger than a real shack, but it’s got beach house vibes with wooden steps and a mezzanine deck and ropes and buoys dangling outside like decorations.
The place is rowdy. I can hear guys laughing.
A ping-pong ball bounces off concrete and someone shouts.
A chorus of blokes chant at someone to ‘scull, muthafucka’.
The muthafucka does scull, and everyone claps.
Daddy Cool’s ‘Eagle Rock’ starts playing loud from a speaker and everyone cheers.
If this was me and my Eagles teammates, we’d all be dropping our dacks to this song.
I can’t see any of the Centurions boys from here: they’re all in the backyard.
I type a message to Zeke. I’m here. I drove to Lancelin. Let me in?
I swallow the lump of fear in my throat and it doesn’t go down. This was insanity. I can’t walk into this house. They’ll either crucify me, or they’ll find out. I can’t survive either. And now I’m here, I don’t trust myself to be around Zeke without forgetting myself.
I delete the message.
I stay parked outside, listening to the lads laugh and sing and swear and scull. I want so badly to be in there running amuck with them. Walk into the shack, grab a beer and a ping-pong paddle and hang with the lads. A whole team of guys like me.
Instead, I am outside, looking in on something I will never have.
I reverse away from the Beach Shack in silence, and the raucous laughs of the Centurions chase me down the road like ghosts.