The Games They Play in Heaven

Tom cut the engine but kept the headlights on. There was only the single floodlight for the whole field and he thought the boys would appreciate the extra illumination for their last few drills. The forwards were packing scrums while the backs worked through some set moves. He turned the radio up to catch the news but it was the national edition and all fairly depressing so he switched it off and listened to the shouted instructions from the coach and the mingled calls from the players that drifted across on the bitter night air. Eventually the coach blew a whistle and the team assembled for a warm down lap and then a final talk. Steam rose from their bodies and when they came together in a huddle it coalesced and went up like a communal prayer.

Tom started the engine as the players wandered from the field. He spotted Hamish walking with the coach and nodding from time to time while the coach talked and gestured emphatically. They stopped near the car and the coach gave Hamish a clap on the shoulder as they parted.

How was it? Tom asked as Hamish climbed in and slammed the door shut.

Good, he replied.

What did the coach want with you at the end there?

Oh, he was just giving me some tips on how I can draw a defender or two when I take the ball from a ruck.

Tom nodded as he swung the car around and the gravel crunched beneath the tyres.

That’s good, he said. You’ll create more gaps for your forwards to run into.

They pulled out onto the main street of town and the headlights lit up the row of houses that sat across from the football field and the car park of the abandoned supermarket next door. The half-acre of asphalt was empty but for a single shopping trolley lying on its side.

The town was spread out in a methodical grid pattern like one of the great metropolises of North America but the buildings themselves were in no sort of order. Residential and commercial merged so that the battered Mitre 10 sat between two houses and the primary school had a pub for a neighbour. It was as though the outlines had been sketched with great care by an architect who had then moved on to another more lucrative project and left the plans lying around for a child to scribble on. There were very few streetlights.

The main thing you have to remember, said Tom as they pulled up to a stop sign at a deserted intersection, is that more than anything else you’re the rudder of the forwards. When I was playing we used to give our scrum half a pretty rough time in training but as soon as we ran out on the field his word was law. Most of the time you’ll be the smallest bloke out there but you can’t let that intimidate you.

Yeah I know, said Hamish. Coach says I don’t talk enough. It’s not that I’m intimidated. I’m working on it but I guess I just always feel like I should save my breath.

Tom laughed. Fair enough, he said. Did he tell you anything about the team you’re up against?

No. He said we just have to focus on our own game but I don’t reckon he’s seen them.

Well there’s one thing you can count on. They won’t have the heart you boys have. They might be faster and slicker but you can’t coach toughness and you sure as hell don’t get it sipping latte’s in Sydney.

The edge of town went by and they travelled along the straight flat road that ran towards the northern properties in silence. Hamish lay back in his seat with his eyes closed and Tom cracked his window to let in a breath of chill air. As he turned down the dirt road to home the town’s few lights disappeared, buried by a patch of trees or a slight rise in the earth or some other shapeless thing in the darkness.

Tom sat sunk in his armchair and picked at a dry patch of skin over his left eyebrow. He watched the second hand on the clock flicking away little desiccated flakes of time as it went all the way around once and then twice. He glanced towards the window where the living room was reflected thinly in the black glass. A sliver of moon was lodged in the pale peach wallpaper just above his head. The ceiling lamp obliterated the stars. He winced at the sound of Chloe attacking the dishes. The noise that spilled from the kitchen wasn’t loud but in the stern hush that lay on the house it seemed careless and unnecessary and each crash of crockery on sink lent its violence to the silence that followed.

He glanced at the clock again and then eased himself up out of the armchair. He edged towards the kitchen and peered around the door. Chloe stood at the sink with her sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Her face was in profile and a tiny bead of sweat clung quivering to the end of her nose or maybe it was dishwater. She had the kitchen window open but the air was thick and not even the army of incessant cicadas could stir a breeze. He felt as though he should say something but they hadn’t spoken since Hamish had gone up to bed right after dinner and he didn’t trust his voice not to crack from lack of use. As he tried to discreetly clear his throat something got caught in his windpipe and he went into a violent coughing fit that tore at his chest and left him leaning with one hand against the doorframe trying to recover his breath. At the first spluttering sounds Chloe turned from the sink and stood watching his convulsions. Her forearms were covered in suds and dripped water on the lino. Tom raised his eyes to meet hers. This far west the sun was brutal and it had loosened her skin so that her face sagged as if it were too heavy for the delicate scaffolding of beauty beneath but her eyes were big and still darkly pretty, especially when she was angry, and as he met her gaze he felt the beginnings of a smile.

Don’t give me that, she said. The girls behind the bar might melt but I’m used to it and I know what it means.

What’s it mean then? he asked and his smile widened.

It means you think you’ve got the bull by the horns already but don’t believe it. You and I both know the only reason you want to take him is to get a free weekend away. The trailer’s been sitting there full for almost a month now and every week there’s a new excuse why you can’t deal with it. It’s starting to smell. The O’Connor’s would be happy to take him.

I’m sure they would but it’s not about that. The trailer can wait.

It’s been waiting and so have I. But go on. What’s it about then?

It’s about a chance for a proper father-son moment. There’s not going to be too many more like this.

Rubbish. He’s only fourteen.

No, it’s true. You’re his mum so you’ll always have his ear but me not so much. Even now he only listens when I talk about rugby because I played myself. We’ll road trip it down there, go to the game and then I can show him the sights of the city.

Chloe regarded him sceptically for a moment.

If you go, she said, you take the trailer to the tip next weekend. No excuses.

Tom was grinning now.

Not a problem, he said.

And I don’t want to hear you left him in the room and went out drinking with Chris and Artie after the game. If you’re there to bond you better do plenty of bonding.

Of course.

She pursed her lips and turned back to the dishes without another word but she was no longer attacking them as she was before and Tom thought he could even detect a tiny smile at the corner of her mouth.

Kick-off was scheduled for 3 p.m and since the drive was to take almost nine hours they left well before the sun was up. Some of the team had driven down the day before and stayed the night in Sydney but there were quite a few whose parents couldn’t get the Friday off work and as they rolled through town in the pre-dawn darkness they were greeted by several sets of headlights flashing a greeting that Tom returned in kind. One by one the cars turned out onto the highway and rumbled along in a loose convoy that soon broke up altogether.

They travelled in darkness on a perfectly straight road for nearly two hours and then as they came up towards the first proper town dawn broke over the horizon and lit up the thin frost with a brilliance that was almost blinding. They stopped at a service station so Tom could get a coffee and Hamish could use the bathroom. They were both shivering when they got back in the car.

As they returned to the highway the first changes appeared in the landscape. The bright red soil dulled and turned to brown and some time later clusters of trees began to go by with some regularity. An hour and a half later and a few low hills rose up out of the ground. Hamish sat with his earphones in and his head resting against the window and even though he’d never been this far east before he made no comment on the shifting scenery. The towns they came upon grew larger and busier as the morning grew older. They ate the sandwiches Tom had packed for lunch without stopping and then they passed through Bathurst and started the climb up into the mountains.

As they wound their way down towards the coastal plain what had been a thick fog at altitude became low clouds that drizzled then rained and finally let loose a deluge. Hamish took his earphones out and sat up straight as the windscreen wipers worked frantically and Tom slowed down so he could see the road ahead.

They wouldn’t call it off would they? Hamish asked.

No, said Tom. Not a final people have driven this far for. Looks like you boys will be in for some good old-fashioned mud rugby.

He glanced across and saw Hamish leaning forward in his seat and grinning.

Soon they reached the fringes of the city and started passing through the nameless industrial estates and as yet unpeopled housing developments of the outermost suburbs. Hamish read off a set of directions that Tom had printed back at home as they turned off the freeway and navigated their way into the veins and capillaries of urban sprawl.

They found the ground after having to backtrack only twice and pulled into the car park from a narrow street lined with small but neat houses at a quarter to two. They were early and it was still raining heavily so they stayed in the car. Tom scanned for radio stations while Hamish studied the surroundings. The ground was ringed by a low metal fence backed by thick trees and held two fields side by side along with a small brick building off to the right. There was no crowd seating except a steep bank that ran all along the left hand side and would offer a decent view of both fields. The fields themselves looked well maintained but beyond that they could easily have been in any number of small towns Hamish had played in earlier that year.

So this is Sydney, he said after a while.

Sort of, said Tom. The real city’s still about 60k’s that way. The blokes you’re up against would probably try to claim this as neutral ground. If you’re not too buggered after the game we’ll head into the city proper tonight to get some dinner. I think I should still remember my way around ok.

Hamish shrugged.

Sure, he said.

The ground itself was still deserted. There were a couple of other vehicles in the car park but through the rain it was difficult to see whether or not they had people inside. They sat and waited and Hamish put his earphones back in. Tom leant forward and laid his arms across the steering wheel and kept an eye out.

It was just on two o’clock when he saw three cars pulling in together. They parked but nobody got out. A couple more arrived and then Tom recognised the coach’s white ute pull up a couple of spaces down and he gave Hamish a nudge. The coach stepped out into the rain in a heavy oilskin coat and strode onto the ground with his familiar limp as the doors of other cars started to open and members of the team emerged. Tom realised he hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella.

Hamish had grabbed up his boot bag and was about to open to door and leap out when Tom stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

Listen, he said. I know you haven’t played these sorts of conditions before but don’t stress. It’s all about the simple stuff. Your coach will talk about tactics and whatnot but it’s going to be mostly tight and physical. In these sorts of games every collision counts and in defence you’re going to have to work like a third flanker. You can’t give away easy metres. Win the collision if you can but if you can’t just go low and make sure you put them down. Remember, it’s all about attitude. Commit fully to the hit. You only get hurt if you go in half-hearted. And remember to hit the inside shoulder on attack. It’s the stronger side but it’s the only way to commit your man.

Hamish grinned and nodded.

No worries, he said as he opened the door. As soon as he was out of the car he was running.

As the coach inspected the field and the boys switched their shoes for their football boots and started stretching Tom hurried with his head bent low against the rain towards the small brick building where a few of the other fathers stood huddled under the only bit of cover to be seen. He shook hands with Artie and Jim and Kev and was introduced to a couple of others he hadn’t met before.

Is Chris here yet? he asked Artie.

No, he’s not coming. Dan travelled down with us.

Ah.

Want a beer?

There was an esky back against the wall and Tom peered inside as Artie opened the lid. It held a full two cases worth of cans packed in amongst the ice packs.

Sure, said Tom.

Artie handed him a can and they stood side by side shivering slightly in their wet clothes as they sipped their beers and watched the boys begin their warm-ups.

You guys drive down yesterday? Tom asked.

Yeah, said Artie. We’re staying with Joy’s brother’s family. It’s crowded but they’ve got a couple of kids around the same age as the boys so it’s been good. You and Hamish staying down here tonight?

Yeah, we’ve got a hotel room in Parramatta somewhere.

Most of the team had arrived by now and the coach had retrieved a bag of balls from his ute so the boys could run some handling drills. There was still no sign of the opposition. Tom finished his beer and checked his watch.

They’re meant to kick off in half an hour, he said. Where’s the other team at?

Artie was bent over the esky. They’ll be here, he said. Probably orchestrating a fashionably late entrance. Another one?

Tom nodded.

He was halfway through his third when the opposition finally rolled into the car park. They came in a convoy lead by two battered Taragos that each opened to emit six or seven young men of Islander descent all kitted out in the team colours.

Christ Almighty, said Tom. This has gotta be some sort of mix-up. There’s no way they could be under 15’s. Half of them have full beards for God’s sake.

Artie whistled.

They’re some big lads for sure, he said. But good money says they’re all legit. When Harry’s side came down a couple of years ago I had the same reaction but apparently the clubs check each other’s paperwork to verify ages and whatnot so it’s all on the up and up. It’s just that these Islander boys grow up very fucking fast.

So how’d Harry’s team cope?

Artie grimaced.

It wasn’t pretty. The final score was something like 40-10. Our boys scored a couple of late tries when their big lads got tired but it was all over by then. Ready for another one?

Tom frowned and swirled the dregs around the can then tipped his head back and drained them.

No, he said. Thanks.

A few spectators started moving onto the bank on the far side. The referee and the touch judges had arrived and spoken briefly with both coaches. Kick off wouldn’t be far away.

Reckon we should move up onto the hill over there so we can get a decent view? Tom asked.

Artie squinted out at the rain.

It’s coming down pretty hard, he said. You got an umbrella?

No.

Well me and the beers might stay here then.

Tom shrugged. A whistle blew to summon the players onto the field.

Well I didn’t drive nine hours just to bask in the pleasure of your company, he said. One for the road?

Artie grinned and tossed him a beer.

Don’t worry too much about Hamish, he said as Tom stuffed the can into his jacket pocket and hunched his shoulders up. He’s a tough little bastard.

Tom stood a little way up the bank near the halfway line and slightly apart from the other spectators. By the time he’d walked all the way across he was soaked through and couldn’t stop shivering. The captains shook hands and Hamish’s side started walking back to get ready to receive the kick off. Tom struggled to open his can of beer. All of his fingers were numb.

As the whistle blew and the match began he felt the rain stop all a sudden. He looked up and saw the underside of an umbrella. He was confused for moment until he turned and saw standing to his left an older man in shorts and long socks who must have come down the bank behind him. He only came up to Tom’s shoulder and his knees appeared to be the widest parts of his legs.

Want some cover? he asked.

Cheers, said Tom. Not that I could get any wetter anyway.

The old man chuckled.

Your boy out there? he asked.

Yeah, he’s wearing 9 for the team without facial hair and tattoos.

The old man chuckled again.

He’ll have his work cut out for him today I reckon.

Tom nodded and sipped his beer.

Back when I was playing they graded by weight, he said after a while. There were still bigger lads and smaller lads and some of the backs played up a grade if they were really good. But this is boys against men. It doesn’t seem fair. Or safe.

The old man mulled this over as they watched the fly half for Hamish’s team guide a long clearing kick across the touchline almost at the opposition’s 22. A few of the spectators clapped.

They still go by weight in some of the lower grades I hear, said the old man as the teams formed up for the lineout. And that’s fine if they’re just out there for a bit of fun. But I reckon once they get to the level these boys are at it’s not a bad idea to throw them in the deep end. I’ve always thought it’s one of the reasons this part of the world produces so many great players. When they grow up playing against the Islander boys it’s a fairly simple equation. They get good or they get hurt.

That’s easy to say when your kid’s playing with them instead of against them.

The old man shook his head.

Mine are all grown up, he said. I just saw you all arriving and thought I’d come out for a look. There was nothing on the telly.

Still, said Tom.

The old man shrugged.

After fifteen minutes there was still no score. Hamish’s team had spent most of that time deep in their own half defending desperately against the huge bodies that hurtled into their line with no apparent concern for the physical wellbeing of themselves or their opposition. The Sydney side had knocked-on four times already and it seemed it was only their inability to hold onto the greasy ball that was delaying an inevitable try. Tom struggled to keep track of Hamish amidst the packed clusters of bodies. Patches of the ground had already been torn up badly and were forming deep pools of mud that soon coated the players from head to toe in dark brown muck. Often the disparity in size was the only way to tell which side a particular player was on.

Another long clearing kick moved the play close to halfway. Tom spotted Hamish tracking along behind his team’s defensive line as cover for any break. The opposition bashed away in the middle of the field for a few phases and then shifted the ball quickly towards the side where Tom was standing. They looked to be covered until one managed to stand and offload in the tackle to send their number 8 through a gap at pace. There were shouts from the spectators as the big Islander lad found open space and despite himself Tom swore under his breath in admiration. He’d never known someone so large to move so quickly. Even from the sideline Tom could see the separate muscles in his thighs bunching and stretching as they sent his huge frame careering down the pitch.

Hamish had started to move at the first sign of a break. He had a fair bit of ground to cover and was almost at full stretch to even keep pace with his much larger opponent, who was running at an angle away from him and towards the sideline. He’d managed to close down most of the gap when with a sudden left-foot step his target changed direction and bore down directly upon him. Hamish was caught wrong-footed and Tom shuddered and closed his eyes. They came together with a sickening smack of flesh impacting flesh that carried all around the ground then sank and settled like a malignant growth in the pit of Tom’s stomach. There was a groan from the spectators and then a smattering of applause and holding his breath he opened his eyes again. A ruck had formed at the site of the collision and players from Hamish’s side were shouting that they had the ball.

Now that’s a tackle! crowed the old man.

Tom glanced at him sideways. He was grinning widely and bouncing on the balls of his feet.

A joy to watch! he beamed. Dropped him like a bad habit.

He caught Tom’s eye and winked. Tom frowned and looked away.

The game had carried on and those involved in the ruck all got slowly to their feet and moved off to follow the play except for one who remained prone and unmoving in the mud. The growth in Tom’s stomach started to squirm about and he made as if to rush out onto the field but the old man took hold of his arm. Tom turned and glared at him but the old man merely gestured with the hand holding the umbrella.

Look, he said.

Tom followed his gaze and saw that Hamish had stirred and was slowly raising himself onto his hands and knees. He shook his head a few times and there was more applause and even some cheers from the spectators as he finally stood up. After a few unsteady steps he started jogging to rejoin his team, still shaking his head.

Tom finally released the breath he’d been holding. As the growth in his stomach settled down and became still he noticed a pain in his right hand. He glanced down and grimaced then tossed the badly crumpled beer can on the ground. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the old man studying him. He was suddenly very tired.

I don’t know if it was ever like this for you, he said. But sometimes I see things or hear things that make me want to take back everything I ever told him.

The old man opened his mouth to reply but Tom had already turned and started to walk back towards the car with his hands deep in his pockets and his shoulders hunched against the rain.