This story was the Top Pick in the Australian Writers’ Centre July 2024 Furious Fiction competition.
It’s in your blood. That’s the thing about your team. It’s more than just the players. More than the roar of the crowd or the kicking of a ball.
It’s the smell of crushed grass. The sun setting in golden flares behind the goal posts. The tension when the opposition intercepts the ball, and the collective sigh of relief as it soars into the cloudless sky, beyond the posts. The moment your team scores and everyone’s up off their seats.
It’s the atmosphere in the clubroom after, where Teddy the barman pours pint after pint of frothy beer to help us celebrate or commiserate.
‘What do you want to do on your big day Dad?’ my son asked. ‘Maybe we should have a party?’
Strange thing, family. You think they know you, and then they come out with something like that.
‘There’s a new Thai restaurant in town,’ my daughter said. ‘Maybe we could grab a bite to eat there?’
Thai restaurant! Give me a steaming pie smothered in sauce any day.
‘There’s only one thing I’ll be doing next Saturday,’ I told them.
‘Ok,’ they said, rolling their eyes.
It’s a strange thing, family.
Mine is here, in the members’ stand.
Our club isn’t the swankiest. The wooden benches give you splinters, the grandstand’s roof leaks. The rickety old scoreboard needs a volunteer to stand in blazing sun or pelting rain and hang numbers on hooks.
But it’s ours.
And there’s nothing quite like game day.
I take my place in my designated seat, watching people heading for the stands or spreading picnic blankets on the grassy banks. The smell of frying onions wafts over. Kids line up to buy popcorn.
It’s getting emptier by the day here in the members’ stand. One by one, my friends are dropping off.
But I’m still here.
It’s a tense game, but our team wins by ten points. Pride swells my chest.
The players leave the field, their green guernseys spattered with mud.
I head inside to the clubroom. There’s nothing quite like this place. The sweeping vista over the oval. The trophies in glass cabinets. On the walls, photos of teams throughout the years, from sepia to blazing colour. Smells of polish and leather.
There’s a dusty old globe on a metal filing cabinet in the corner. Someone’s stuck a thumbtack into it, in the vicinity of this place. Our little town, on the map.
I’m at the bar about to order a pint when a tinny voice comes over the loudspeaker. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, before you leave, I’ve got a very special announcement.’
Teddy nudges me and points towards the scoreboard.
Letters spelling ‘Happy birthday Joe’ hang from the hooks.
It takes me a moment.
Joe. My name.
The announcer’s speaking again. ‘Today is Joe’s seventieth birthday. And he’s chosen to spend it here, with us.’
Everyone looks towards the clubroom.
I raise my hand, trying to stop it from shaking.
Everyone cheers.
Like I said, it’s in your blood.
I acknowledge and pay respects to the Kaurna people, the traditional custodians of these ancestral lands on which this story was written.
Lena Jensen author 