Page 94 of Just Say (Hell) No
Little Nyree,Marko heard, despite everything, as Angus lay on the ground, winded and gasping.Would you bang?
Fuck you, mate,he thought, and took off again in the other direction. Therightdirection, towards that winning try. Checking the position of the Highlanders forwards, lining up against his man. Running, shifting, and running some more. His lungs burning, his legs like lead, and running anyway.
He had nothing but grunt left, so that was what he used. Hitting, bouncing off, and hitting harder. Taking the ball, slamming into the defender, and handing it off.
The hooter signaled eighty minutes, and nobody cared. This was it. Now or never. Do or die. No giving the ball away, no penalties, and no kicks.
You did it by glory, or you did it by grunt. Twelve phases. Thirteen. Fourteen. The ball moving a meter, three, two, or none at all with each carry. Being patient. Waiting for your moment. For the mismatch. For the mistake.
There.Numbers to the outside. If Chris, the halfback, saw it…
Chris saw it. So did Angus on the opposite side, shouting to his forwards, but Chris was faster. A looping cutout pass that flew ten meters like a bullet into Kevin McNicholl’s sure hands. The redheaded winger putting his head down. Twenty meters from the tryline, his halfback running in support and everybody else taking up their positions, a flying wedge around him.
Kevvie was a horse who’d scented his stable. Blazing speed, towering strength. One defender dove for his legs, but he kept going. Another tried for his hips, but Kevin had a hand in his chest, shoving him straight off again, sending him sprawling.
Two meters, and there was only the fullback, the last defender, in the way. A sidestep nobody could have expected, not at that speed. A grab at Kevin’s heels, and he was falling. Stretching. Hitting the ground with a jarring impact, his arms in front of him. Not to catch himself. To put the ball over the chalk, into the corner.
The whistle. The referee’s arms flying into the air. The noise erupting around him.
A try.
A win.
That morning, Marko had shown Nyree his card of the day. She’d read what his mum had written and said, “I’d call that your card of every day.”
Strength,she’d read.
“Maybe not what I achieve every time,” he’d said, “but it’s what I aim for.”
She’d read on.What a match day card. Courage and determination, and following through to the end. Remember, though—it’s not just about what you do, it’s about helping everybody else do it, too. It’s about summoning your patience as well as your willpower. In other words—it’s nothing I have to tell you.
“Nice to have your mum believe in you,” Marko had said. “I thought yesterday’s card was about you burning it down. I’d say I’d take this one, but could be this one’s for you, too.”
Now, watching Marko on the field, embracing teammates past and present, looking like he could have gone on for ten more minutes, she thought,Nah, boy. That was all you.
“Eighty-fourminutes,”Ella said joyfully. “I’ve never seen a match go this long. Theydidit. I didn’t think they could. I thought it was over about four times, didn’t you?”
Nyree didn’t say anything. She couldn’t. Hugh was making the winning captain’s speech below them, hard to understand as always, the amplified sound bouncing off the stands and off the crowd. Casey Harding, the Highlanders’ skipper, making his own speech. Gracious, as Hugh’s had been. Acknowledging a battle fought against a worthy opponent, mistakes made and opportunities taken. Leaving a margin of humility there, because there had to be humility, or you couldn’t learn.
And then something else. The Man of the Match award, sponsored by a beer firm. Marko stepping forward to take the trophy, his face inscrutable and hard on the big screens overhead. No quarter given, and no humility evident. An arrogant bastard.
Nyree strained to hear the presenter’s words. She could watch the replay later, but she didn’t want to. She wanted to hear thisnow.
“…a special moment,” the woman said, “coming against your old team? Any bittersweet quality to this?”
“No,” Marko said, and surely nobody else could pronounce that syllable with so much finality. “It’s all sweet. They’re a good side, the Highlanders. I’ve got mates there. But I’m here now.”
“You say that,” the presenter said, “like you have scores to settle. Anything to say to Grant Armstrong?”
“No,” Marko said again. “Anything I had to say, I’ve already said. I’ll leave it at that.”
In the sheds, Marko went through the usual post-match activities. A bottle of beer that you tapped against your mate’s. Stripping off the tape, then the uniform. Washing off the dirt and the sweat and the blood and getting dressed again, not feeling the soreness yet, because there was no anesthetic like a win. Being glad that you weren’t the skipper, the one who had to face the press afterwards.
On the thought, Hugh came and sat beside him. “Well done tonight, mate,” he said.
“Cheers,” Marko said with another pull at his beer. “You as well.”
Hugh said, “Wrong time for this, maybe, but…” He hesitated, something he did as rarely as Marko himself.
