Page 26 of The Cut
18
NOVEMBER 1993
‘One. And. Two. And. Three.’ The speed of the bully sticks thwacking against each other sends the striker into a panic as the ball is fumbled down the centre line by Annie Maddock, pursued by a rabid Lynette Davis virtually foaming at the mouth. The wooden shaft of Lynette’s weapon slams into Annie’s shin with a sickening crack, nearly tripping her. But Annie is no novice to Davis’s dirty tricks. Four years of ballet training kicks in as her legs fly backwards, her hockey stick held high in the air with two hands. She appears to float above the slicing blow, legs behind her in a double ‘pas de chat’. It’s like something out of a martial arts movie. The excitement sends a raucous explosion of cheers around the field of spectators. Dave Patel, filming everything as usual, punches the air as Ben Knot calls out from the sidelines.
‘GO, ANNIE!’
Lynette glances over her shoulder, eyes thinning. Chris Davis juts out his chin, egging on his sister. ‘COME ON, DAVIS!’
Annie’s feet pound deep into the field, wet clods of earth splattering into the path of a diving Lynette, Jackson-Pollocking her furious red face and pristine white jersey with a spray of wet mud. Maddock sprints away towards the goal as Lynette wipes her eyes and drives forward in a second attempt at an underhand foul.
Annie moves like a bolt of lightning down the centre. It’s almost impossible to catch her. The rest of the team form a defensive phalanx as she approaches the goal, four of them104feathering out down the wing. Ten metres from the shooting circle, dribbling forward, Annie hits the ball gently a few feet ahead, then raises her stick to strike the winning shot. At that moment, Lynette appears to catch her, the gap between them closing fast. Annie swings from her shoulder in a perfect arc and in the very same second, Lynette swipes low, the hook of her crook wrapping neatly around Annie’s ankle, yanking her face down into the mud.
‘Foul!’ the crowd jeers at Lynette.
‘HEY! Stick obstruction. GET UP, ANNIE!’ Catherine is jumping up and down on the sidelines.
The ball spins high in the air, heading directly for the goal. Lynette Davis attempts to chase it down but the velocity of that strike bypasses the goalkeeper and slams into the back of the cage. The crowd explodes and the final whistle blows.
A mud-soaked Annie watches as Lynette smacks her stick into the goalpost in anger, splintering it in two. She spits into the grass, turns to face the crowd and walks back down the field. As she passes Annie, still on her hands and knees, Lynette stamps into the mud, spraying filth into her face. Annie snaps, hooking her foot around Davis’s ankle, bringing her crashing down. The crowd erupts again as Mr Branchflower blows his whistle. The red card goes up.
‘Bad sport, Maddock. Intentional foul.’ Mr Branchflower turns to Davis. ‘All OK? Nothing broken there, I hope?’ His Welsh accent somehow softens his angry tone.
Davis is on her back clutching her ankle, squirming in pain.
‘I’ll be OK, but that was definitely a foul, sir.’ She glances over to Annie, who is standing over her now with her hands on her hips. Her middle finger spread out over her hip bone, secretly flipping the bird to the girl on the ground.105
Branchflower isn’t an idiot, not when it comes to sport anyway. He looks at Annie, who is pulling the double shin pads out of her blood-soaked sock.
‘It’s a draw, Davis, but I’ll need to see both of you in my office after you’ve cleaned up.’
‘Sir? The rules state extra time when—’ Davis attempts to negotiate.
‘Save it for my office.’ Branchflower turns to walk away and Ben charges in towards Annie.
‘You OK?’ He kisses her on the cheek, mud transferring from hers to his. ‘Wouldn’t like to meet you down a dark alley, you bruiser … you’re lethal.’
Annie nudges him away. ‘Sod off,’ she sighs. ‘Better go and face the music. See you in class.’
‘Double maths … boo!’ Ben wipes the mud from his face and gently kisses her cheek again. Laughing, he jogs back to the others.
Lynette scowls, watching Ben leave, then turns to Annie with hatred in her eyes.
Branchflower’s ‘office’ is really just a glorified equipment cupboard with no windows that he’s requisitioned to make himself feel like he actually has some status at Barton Mallet Secondary School. The stacks of orange plastic chairs form a barrier around him as he sits behind a makeshift desk, shaking a plastic beaker full of bright-blue energy drink. He cricks his neck and sighs with exhaustion, then takes a swig. The place stinks of body odour and vinegar; the warm, windowless room emanates the perfect marinade of sweaty cricket pads and trainers. The two freshly washed girls sit opposite him: Annie all crossed legs and folded arms, Lynette Davis chewing gum.
‘You’re team captain, Davis, I don’t want to see that kind of rubbish out on—’106
‘No idea what you’re talking about.’ The chewing becomes even more slovenly.
‘I’m talking now. I don’t want that shit out on my field.’ Branchflower’s overworked guns bulge through his T-shirt as he scribbles in a ledger.
‘Then you should have benched the shitty player.’ Lynette’s head flicks to Annie, refusing to make eye contact.
Branchflower leans in close. ‘I’m not quite sure who you think you are, Davis.’
‘Daddy’s girl!’ Annie pitches in under her breath, tightening her arms. Lynette kisses her teeth. Everyone knows exactly why she’s the captain of the team. Her dad is the local bobby and Branchflower’s collection of unpaid parking tickets has miraculously disappeared since Davis became team captain.
‘Thank you, Maddock, you are on a two-match suspension.’
