Footy

GRAND FINAL (35)

It was the last Saturday in September, the traditional day for Grand Final. This year, as every year, it took place in Melbourne, home of the High Temple of footy worship, center of the footy universe. And fickle as ever, that great city had laid on a splendid spring day, all the more pleasant after a miserable winter. Temperatures in the low twenties, a mild zephyr off the warming interior of Australia, a sky washed blue and clean. Only a few wispy cirrus clouds warned that this perfection would not last, that over the Southern Ocean a cold front was on its way, and would bring rain on Monday or Tuesday. No one cared. For now, it was Grand Final weekend, and the weather was just right.

Archbishop's had made it into the Grand Final, and were playing against an old enemy, the West Coast Eagles. Of course, everyone from the Carlton house had to attend, every one of them, whether they loved footy or not. They had tickets in the stand in the first tier, overlooking the goal posts, high enough to have a clear view of the action, but close enough not to need opera glasses. General Sir Roger Sutton, now by his own determined insistence Roger to all of them, had offered to get seats with the directors as soon as it became obvious that Archbishop’s was going to be in the Grand Final. But Tom hadn’t wanted to meet the members of his team again. There were too many memories of smiles and jokes after parties and in the locker-rooms after games, while all along they’d been fucking his wife behind his back. As it turned out, the damage hadn’t lasted – with Adam, he was happier than he’d ever been. All the same, he wouldn’t have been comfortable with the team any more. He had new, real friends – Fiona, Markie and Jas, not to mention Emma, Will and Sean. Their friendship was easy but deep, reminding him of the kind of ties he’d had with his friends at school, when friendship is more important than anything else – fun but serious, close, comfortable and warming.

After Tom’s public proposal to Adam had made the news, he had had phone calls from just two fellow players, both friendly, both encouraging. He’d seen them a couple of times for a beer, and he’d invited them back to the house. He’d been amused at the wary way his former team mates had approached the ménage à cinq at the house, but as the evening had progressed, they’d relaxed. When Tom had brought out his guitar and started to play after dinner, and they’d all had a sing-along, they’d evinced a marked reluctance to go home. At first, when they’d arrived, Tom had been sure they’d been sorry for him. By the end of the evening, that had gone, and Tom would have sworn that he’d seen something akin to envy in their eyes. Yet that was a mere two from a team of eighteen, even without counting the reserve players and all the other people he’d worked with – the team physio, the coach, the business manager, none of whom had phoned or kept in touch. It had saddened Tom.

It had been Fiona’s idea to invite Will and Sean and Emma along to the Grand Final, and Adam’s to expand the party by asking Beryl as well.

“Will is your fan, Tom. And he’s mad about footy. It’d be good for him. And Emma will be company for me,” Fiona said.

“Not to mention that we should ask the three of them out together. A trio! I wonder how they play together.” added Adam, grinning. Fiona cuffed him. “Pig! Behave!”

“And I’d like to ask Beryl. We could have a barbie afterwards if it’s warm enough.”

“We’ve got that portable gas heater to warm the patio.”

“Remind me to get a new gas cylinder.”

“What did your last slave die of? Remind yourself!”

So Beryl came down to the city from Somersetville, to spend the night and join the post-Grand Final party at the house in Carlton. They all took the tram down Swanston Street to the Yarra and walked along the riverbank to the stadium.

The game was tightly fought. At half time, Archbishops was ten points behind, and two players, one from each side, had been taken off injured. As the second half drew closer to its conclusion, Archbishops fought harder for control of the ball. Siggy Prinz, the newest member of the team, deftly intercepted a pass from the West Coast Eagles star, Jerom van Rothbaard and holding it firmly except to make the regulation bounce off the turf every fifteen metres, ran like an arrow towards the Eagles' goalposts. Just as he was about to be tackled, he let the ball drop and with perfect aim and timing, punted it between the posts. The stadium erupted in a tumultuous cheer. Archbishops was just four down. Tom felt as if he was out there on the grass, part of the unity and good fellowship of the team, his hurts and alienation forgotten.

Fifteen minutes into the final quarter! Archbishops retained possession of the ball but a kick by d’Odile was marked by van Rothbaard. The near capacity crowd of over ninety-five thousand people in the stadium was as close to silent as it ever gets as van Rothbaard prepared to use his free kick from close to the 50-metre line. He could kick a gnarly banana, which would make the ball curve in a unique way to within the posts no matter the starting angle. It was almost a goal. But... the ball went behind! Only one point to the West Coast Eagles. The stadium filled with groans and roars, depending which team each spectator barracked for. Van Rothbaard hung his head in disappointment. Two or three of his teammates consoled him.

“Arsehole,” muttered Tom into Adam’s ear.

Adam raised his eyebrows in inquiry.

“Once he... Tell you later! I don’t wanna miss this!” And he turned to face the field again.

Twenty minutes in. And only a couple of minutes of free time, say twenty-two or -three minutes total. If Roundbush didn’t score now, the game was lost.

Then Siggy Prinz again intercepted the ball, his tougher, slighter build giving him greater speed than the two West Coasters he was marking, and performed a perfect drop kick smack bang in the middle of West Coast’s goalposts.

The final siren blew. Roundbush had won the grand final again, third time in a row, by one point. It would go down in the history books. Tom leapt up, and screamed “Yes!” forgetting for the moment that that he might himself have been playing, that this was the same team whose members had comprehensively cuckolded him, the team that he’d been forced out of. He pulled Adam out of the seat next to him, and embraced him. They stared deep into each others eyes, their arms around each other, unaware of the hooting of car horns, the cries of jubilation from Archbishops supporters, and the hustle and bustle of fans talking to each other as they packed away their stuff for the trip home.

“Siggy Prinz is a man after my own heart,” murmured Tom his eyes locked on Adam’s.

“Really? He’s in love with me too?”

Tom kissed him, right there, in front of everybody.

They were unaware of the TV cameras. They would not have cared, even if they had been. An enterprising cameraman had seen Tom on the stands in his front row seat, quite by chance, as he was panning the crowd before the game started. He remembered where Tom was sitting, and as the game ended, one of the cameras was on them. The editor back in the studios wanted a human interest story. Tom’s reaction to his old team’s win was a good one. This would be the first game in years that he hadn’t taken part in. And Tom was very newsworthy. So when Tom jumped up in jubilation, and then passionately kissed Adam, the editor at the news room had just selected that view of the stadium, and the kiss went out live to five million viewers. The Reverend Bile didn’t see it, because he didn’t care for footy, and Cardinal Schnell was having an afternoon zizz. Anyway, even these august divines were helpless against time’s wingèd arrow. By the time they did find out, it was far too late to do anything about it.

Focussed on Tom and Adam, the camera didn’t spy on the interactions between the others, so they remained private. Mark squeezed Fiona into a tight hug. He turned to Jasper and embraced him too, kissing him softly on the lips. He was with the people he loved, and all was well. Then Fiona hugged Jasper. She noticed again how beautiful his eyes were. She had grown very fond – more than fond – of him over the last few months. He had changed, as he’d promised he would. He was a good man. On an impulse, she kissed him, and she felt him respond, his lips warm and firm, and she said, “I love you, Jas.” Jasper’s eyes shone with emotion. “Me too,” he whispered, wiping his eyes with his free hand.

Mark’s hands slid round her waist, a moment later, and he kissed her neck.

“Hello, handsome!” he grinned over her shoulder to Jasper. Jasper could only smile, his eyes (understandably) a little damp . Perhaps it was the perfect spring day, perhaps the joy of being in love, perhaps the happiness in both her guys’ eyes, and the warmth of one man against her back and another in front of her, but all at once she was in a delirium of happiness.

Sean held Will’s hand. He’d never done that in public before, but it seemed right, and Sean had never been afraid of anybody. He was afraid of life now, a little, because he had much to lose if things went wrong. But he had survived the Home and the police; his father; even Lady Sutton. Cow! he added mentally, automatically, and then smiled. Lady Sutton could be forgiven. She couldn’t harm his happiness.

On Will’s other side, Emma too held a hand. She was perhaps a little less happy. Deep down in her heart she was still struggling with the idea of sharing Will. Yet she had only to remind herself how nearly she’d lost him to achieve some philosophical wisdom. Her mother had at first been a little shocked and concerned when Emma told her what was happening, but after she had met Sean and seen all three of them together, she had given Emma her blessing: “Love is hard, chérie, and maybe it will not last, mais, comme tu sais, ma chère, en effet, c’est la vie qu’est dure. If it is not love which ends, my darling Emma, it is life itself. Be ’appy.”

And so, gentle readers, we come at last to the end of our fairy tale. I think we may take it that, despite the ogrish gremlins, Bile and Schnell, and others of their misshapen and tedious ilk, our heroes lived happily ever after. Well, as happily as is possible given the numerous vicissitudes of life. And when they were unhappy, they remembered that things could be – had been – worse, and were again content. This is a kind of wisdom, and is one of the greatest of the gifts of the wise Goddess and Her Consort, more valuable than gold or silver or even blue-chip shares. But perhaps not greater nor more valuable than Their gift of love, which in compensation for past misfortunes, They showered in abundance on our heroes and heroines, and which multiplied and grew amongst them till they were truly a clan of three families, close, contented, supportive, strong – and happy.

THE END

For my father.

“That which we are, we are

One equal temper of heroic hearts

Made weak by time and fate

But strong in will,

To strive, to seek, to find

And not to yield.”

Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

Thanks, dad, wherever you are, for being you, for loving me despite everything.

© 2009 Nigel Puerasch. All rights reserved. Macedon/Melbourne 2004 - 2009

<<Chapter 34

© 2009 Nigel Puerasch. All rights reserved.
Romantic m2m novels and short stories