Yeah, I was in an affectionate sort of mood.
Anyway, last night I managed to get a fair bit of novel writing done. I'm not gunna put it up here because I'm planning on reading it out loud in a few weeks' time - anyone who's interested can come along to this if they like:
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In the meantime, I
will put up another excerpt from my novel that I wrote a little while back.
It’s the last game of the year and Carlyle are into the finals for the first time since 1990. Jase gets into a brawl that results in the other bloke getting booked. It’s up to Jase now whether or not he tells the truth at the tribunal – risking suspension and consequently the chance to play his first A Grade final.In regards to what happened during the last match of the home-and-away round, I’ve already made half a dozen apologies – at least two of which are now on the official record – so now I’m over it. I’ll just tell it as it was, take it or leave it. But, without trying to justify myself (couldn’t anyway) I
will state that I’ve cleaned my act up a fair bit this year, and that to be perfectly honest, there’s something lacking in a season where you don’t get into at least one good biffo.
The Terung bloke standing me was someone I’d never had much to do with before, on or off the field. At the time, I don’t think I even knew his name. Big gangly redhead about five years younger than me, he was quicker and more agile than the really tall ones usually are, and he led me a great dance for three quarters. By midway through the fourth I was out of breath trying to keep up with him; my limit was finally reached when I dashed halfway up the ground to take the mark of the year – and the bastard lunged from behind and punched the ball out of my hands. Bloody hell! As we scrambled for the loose ball I knew my only chance was to try and put him off his game.
I tried everything. I told him he was s***. I told him he had red hair. I told him that his mother was the stripper at our Gentleman’s Night. I questioned his ancestry and suggested that the Terung coach’s blue heeler had played a large part in his existence. Nothing worked.
The umpire went to ball it up. I got to my feet and took a deep breath. When I straightened up, Fanta Pants was grinning at me. ‘Tired yet?’ he taunted.
Well – yeah. By then I was s*** out of breath
and decent sledges. Still, he’d challenged me, so I made one last half-hearted attempt to piss him off.
‘Yeah, bloodnut, I’m pretty tired. Want to hear why?’
He smirked. ‘Because you’re old and slow.’
Bastard.
‘No,’ I told him. ‘Actually, it’s because I was f***ing your missus all last night.’
I must’ve used that one a hundred times. I must’ve
heard it a hundred times. It’s the old staple, the one everyone uses as a last resort. But I never saw anyone react so badly to it before or since.
He whipped around and grabbed my shoulder, the ball forgotten. I was shocked to see the whiteness of his face, the mad intense gleam of his eyes. He looked like someone had tried to gut him with a fishing knife.
‘You bastard!’ he spat at me through his mouthguard. I felt a vague throb of pain where he must’ve been twisting my shoulder like an Allen key, but for the moment all I could concentrate on was his face, with its chalky pallor and green eyes nearly emitting sparks. For a few crazy seconds I thought that he must’ve had bipolar disorder and forgotten to take his medication. Then he blurted,‘My wife died last year, you arsehole!’ and it all made sense.
I shouldn’t have said it. I
know I shouldn’t have. But it was too good an opportunity to pass up.
‘Well,’ I said cheerfully, ‘I reckon that’s why she didn’t put up much of a fight then.’
The next few seconds were a blur. I don’t know exactly what happened – well, that’s not entirely true, I can say with certainty that I was getting my face punched in – but I’m not sure how many hits he got in or how long the whole scrap lasted before he was pulled off me. I think I tried to defend myself a bit but I might have been swatting flies for all the good it did.
McMahon’s was the first face I saw once the daze of pain cleared. I could feel blood sloshing around in my mouthguard. ‘De fugg jusd habben?’ I mumbled. The smell of blood was making me dizzy. I began looking around for something to take my mind off it. I noticed that there seemed to be a lot of grass. Nice green grass, lovely grass. S***, we must be at the playground. Fell off the slippery dip, banged my head. That’s orright. Lots of grass here. Grass is good. I pulled up a handful and rubbed it under my nose until the fresh, juicy smell overpowered the coppery reek of my own blood. Gradually the fog in my head cleared.
‘Don’t say anything, Jason,’ barked McMahon, fumbling for his book and biro. ‘They’re sending out a stretcher.’ He turned to the redheaded bloke, who was breathing heavily, his cheeks now flooded with colour. ‘I don’t think it’s necessary for me to say this, but you’re off the ground.’ He held up the red card in the direction of the coach’s box. ‘You’re also off to the tribunal next Tuesday. Absolutely disgraceful conduct.’
‘He was provoked!’ protested one of the Terung players clustered around us, but McMahon wasn’t having any of that.
‘I’ll make this clear to you boys,’ he said icily, staring all of us down in turn. ‘I don’t care
what was said. I don’t care
what your opinions are. This is not the time or the place to discuss the matter. This is the fourth quarter of the football match between Carlyle and Lower Terung, and you are not in charge of it. I am in charge of it. Anyone who wishes to dispute this, say so now and you can join your teammate in a suit and tie on Tuesday night.’
I’d been about to say that I didn’t need a stretcher, all I needed was a hand to the boundary line so I could spit the blood out of my mouth, but for once I shut up. So did everyone else.
