Category: Essays

#1

In the heartland, the hot and dreary suburbs where the faithful worship, in fibro shacks on overgrown plots and brick veneer two-bedders fronting onto rumbling through-roads, this is where the pain is felt most keen.

The pain of two torturous years in which respite has been rare, with little to celebrate and even less to laud, the slow and steady demise of a behemoth writ large before our very eyes as the Brisbane of old has become the Brisbane as we see it now, this New Normal becoming so almost with warning which, when one stops to think, makes it even harder to bear.

And yet, as we numbly stumble towards the end of an interminably long summer, virus-ravaged and sodden underfoot as it was, it’s not without some semblance of Hope, that perhaps the ship can be righted and turned and, perhaps, sent shooting back in the other direction. At this time of year, as the humidity stubbornly sticks around like a housefly on raw meat, as trial matches are played and the Football becomes part of the Now conversation, as opposed to the Then or the Soon, there’s that Hope.

It also sticks around like the flies on meat, and in these early stages, one can only pray the meat doesn’t turn bad – because if so, then even the flies will depart and we’ll be left once again, with this New Normal; you want the Hope to remain, because the alternative isn’t pretty, and anyone who says otherwise is a fool.

And so we found ourselves last weekend then, wrapped in hope along with various lashings of maroon and gold, perched upon the couch as Brisbane ran out against an equally appalling side in the Cowboys, and for the first fifteen minutes, it seemed the Hope was paying off – an opening salvo in which heart and soul was poured into the game, quick thinking and deft movement abounding, a try inside five minutes or so, Brisbane as it was, rather than as it is.

However, this wasn’t to last. The New Normal was to where it then reverted, a litany of dropped ball and defensive blunders queering the deal for a team so loved and, more recently, so lamented.

The fact this was a trial match means little in the heat of battle – by its very nature, a game like this was never going to be stable, and yet all too familiar were the breaks in concentration, the drops, the misreads, the lack of communication. Marquee signings weren’t present, others were out under virus protocols, some were playing for their positions and so threw too much caution to the proverbial wind – all this aside, this was a team playing as it had done, not as it wanted and needed to. Not as the faithful wanted and needed it to.

For along with the hope, even more prevalent at the moment after two years of football most foul, is the expectation, and it’s been weighing heavily on all and sundry these long and hot months gone; new signings and promising youngsters promoted to the top ranks, a team which on paper, now, looks destined to compete, like there’s a spark there, a spark which will surely ignite, lifting Brisbane from the doldrums that have been its wallowing ground these years gone.

And so this expectation was there before a ball was kicked last Saturday evening – the lineup, announced as is custom the previous Tuesday, looking like some sort of solid unit capable of Taking Care of Business, and yet, as the minutes ticked by with an alarming rapidity, this same team which On Paper had seemed so formidable, folded like paper same and those of us still left (either at the ground or on the couch), slugged harder at whatever it was we had in our cups and told ourselves, with mounting volume (mounting, like the bitter taste in our collective mouths), that this was just a Trial, and so the result should not, under any circumstance, be read as gospel.

And yet it’s hard to read. To watch. To ingest and then ignore; something that’s happened and so move on with your life. For indeed, a trial game, but yet more of the same. The hope and the expectation, the whistle and the kick-off, the catch and the attacking defence, the first set and the kick on the fifth – how did the team go, either in attack or defence, how was the intensity of the tackling, how was the intent to move the ball?

Do they want it, or do they not want it?

It’s only a Game. But it’s real and alive and, in These Times, it Matters. There’s an expectation.

To those on the field, in the stands, on the couch. Slugging from their cups and whipping their own thighs (with rage or elation?). The slap of hand on the skin of your own leg reminding you of, perhaps, the inherent brutality of this Game, the thwack and slap of bone on bone and sweaty meat, the falling rain and rising humidity and when they stop moving, for but a few seconds as a scrum packs or a captain challenges, the steam rises from heads as grass-flecked warriors take a breath and turn their attention to the Next Play.

It’s just a Game.

And so it was just a trial, hardly the season proper, and indeed merely a game but out in the heartland, the hot and dreary suburbs where the faithful worship, the expectation is real. More real than it’s been in some time, rendering this result then as more of the same: not Good Enough. Hope is one thing, but expectation is another, and as it sits currently, it’s heavy and awkward and needs to be addressed, lovingly taken off our collective hands, caressed and fawned over and turned into a harsh and brilliant reality.

For this, we can only hope.

The mailbox is green, sun-faded and leaning slightly to the right. It sits off to the side of a rambling shrub in front of a nondescript chainlink fence by a crumbling bitumen road that leads to nowhere.

There aren’t any houses close by; there seems no reason why the box should even exist.

A little ways along is a large grassy lot with footpaths of flattened earth worn through the pale green, temporary home to a summer carnival, one which wound up last night, the gaudy lights turned off and the music silenced for another year. Behind the padlocked gate, and the archway which marked the entrance (cobbled together from old wooden pallets), are groups of misshapen men with inked arms taking apart the transient machinery, slowly in the mounting morning heat, small talk amongst themselves muted by the traffic along the coast road down towards the beach.

They murmur to one another before bending slowly to do something, straightening soon enough and exhaling, flicking spent cigarette ends into the heaping mound of rubbish that’s been collected from the previous night’s verve and piled into somewhat of a monument to what’s been happening behind this fence for the three months now gone – something temporary that serves a brief purpose and is then discarded and not thought of again.

The Ferris wheel, now still and dull, throws stippled shade as the sun slowly climbs.

The chainlink fence, topped with ragged barbed wire, runs straight and true alongside the dead-end road, fronting another lot (this one properly vacant), gate swung open, an old and faded sign that reads, Event Parking, lying at an odd angle under a tree. Glimmering white apartment buildings which line the heavily trafficked foreshore drive are visible rising above it all just across the bare dirt past the few cars still parked there, loose pieces of litter slowly bouncing like tumbleweeds across the dusty expanse.

There’s another apartment building off to the edge of this lot, old and crumbling, burnt light brown by the hovering sun, squatting broke and deprived in stark contrast to the statuesque highrises that reflect the sun back into your face. A faded name plate proclaims them to be the San Miguel Apartments; the four balconies are bare, save for the bottom right which sports an ice bucket on its ledge, emblazoned with the logo for Corona beer, a small and spiky cactus poking above its silvery rim the only piece of greenery visible in an otherwise brown and deadened façade.

Around the corner, along the baking avenue with the surf club and then the beach on the other side, sit fish and chip shops, a couple of cafes, an ice cream parlour and a small supermarket. At this time of year, the school holidays wound up the day before, there aren’t many people about, although it’s clear this strip, with its gleaming holiday towers and proximity to warm surf and golden sand, would have been heaving only days prior.

It’s an odd place – cookie-cutter neat out the front, hiding the drab and everyday mundane just a block back from it all, no real thought to anything other than convenience for those passing through, some place somewhere to Be, away from where they usually Are.

In the holiday gloam, the place seems forlorn and pale and so the drabness is more evident, like this place isn’t right, like it’s all fake and the white frontages are actually made of cardboard and are likely to come crashing down at any moment, caressed by even the most modest of breezes.

We walk through it and bring our own sunshine, for what is a place to Be, if not one with Them, even if it all might crumple around us?

The box’s number is 13. It sits at its angle, in front of the nondescript chainlink fence with its barbed wire crown by a crumbling bitumen road that leads to nowhere, its luck all but gone.

I’m sat at the wooden table in the loungeroom, sipping cold bottles of zero alcohol beer, listening to the waves crash on the beach down below, across the foreshore reserve, the sound that never stops.

The zero beer is a crutch, one designed to fill the gaps as I work through a period of abstinence. Eh, seems to be working.

Addy is almost asleep in the single room off the kitchen, while Claire is downstairs, visiting. Half the crew got in from Brisbane this evening, within the past hour or so, and so there’re catch ups happening but I prefer to be here for the time being, tapping away, trying to keep in time with the pounding surf although it changes constantly and so I’m always a beat behind.

There’s a dull ache in my right ear from being under water all afternoon.

It’s a small apartment, on the south-western edge of the fifth floor; a couple of bedrooms, bathroom, lounge/dining/kitchen. A deck bigger than the lounge but with only a single table to fill the space plus an air-con unit tucked into a corner like a squat little drone sent to think about what it’s just done wrong.

The place is tired, built back in the ‘70s or thereabouts, but primped up somewhat in order to look elegant perhaps, or maybe, given it’s nearing the end of a long, hot summer, serviceable. For our purposes it’s a palace, lit with mid-summer light, a literal stone’s throw from the beach, across the foreshore reserve, to the sound that never stops.

Down on the grass groups of people are still milling about, kicking footballs or playing cricket in the dull orange glow of the park lamps. Dinners by BBQs are finishing up, kids running in the dark playgrounds adjacent, adults since given up on reason and so onto the third glass, fourth stubbie, their laughter funnelled up high by the breeze off the channel, in from the deep water where the tankers glide from the east, parallel with the shore, before burning a hard left towards Brisbane and its bustling port at the mouth of the river.

Apartments by beaches are all the same, and if they differ it’s not by much. The same furniture, the same décor, the same embellishments designed to enhance that feeling of coastal chill (driftwood-framed mirrors above the faded wood table, prints of ubiquitous scenes from Any Beach, Anywhere – turquoise water and white sand, bathing suits on long bodies and yet more driftwood arranged in elegant repose).

There’s a company, somewhere in the world, that does a robust and constant trade in nothing but 30×30 white tiles.

People seem to have left the reserve now, and I wander out onto the balcony with my fake beer to look down over it all. It’s a Friday night, no doubt people are gearing up somewhere, but aside from the constantly crashing waves and the odd lowlife in a souped WRX slowly red-lining along the front avenue, there’s not a great deal happening now.

There’s suddenly laughter, raucous almost, and loud chatter coming from somewhere nearby but I can’t see it and so I suppose those engaged in the Friday Night Dance are hidden behind loping and leaning Pandanus, or around the bend in the road on the grass out the front of one of the ground floor flats just past the spot where the ice-cream guy parks his faded pink truck every morning before nine.

Someone next door is playing, quietly, some melancholy yet strangely sweet classical music, just a violin quite reedy and thin but the melody nicely formed, the sound undulating on the breeze almost, in equal measure, both hopeful and well aware that there’s nothing else, really, to do about it all…

This Foul Year of our Lord, 2020: the year something you can’t even see brought powerful men and governments to their knees and levelled the playing field in a manner only before seen in movies and books; fake and lit bright on a big screen and between the page, as far removed from reality as it’s possible to be.

This Pungent Year of our Lord, 2020: where the reality changed in such a way as to render the bare memory of it, even, akin to dust flying from a recently cleaned bookshelf; disrupted by something unseen and reduced to a brief cloud before settling elsewhere in a pattern unrecognizable from its original form.

This Turgid Year of our Lord, 2020: which saw the rise of a New One Percent, an assemblage not concerned about money (although, to be fair, it was required), but with time and space, place to ride out the tumultuous tempest that raged the globe over; not many had it, and those who did, revelled in what they’d forgotten they’d ever had, and how important it became.

Indeed, a silver lining, perhaps?

This Repulsive Year of our Lord, 2020: where silver linings were few and far between, as common as sense in the US presidential election, which is to say essentially non-existent; America, once a superpower, but now in particular just some place where dignity and democracy go to die, forced to face off against one another in what became a hideous game show, replete with flashing lights and clanging and slapping where everyone gets covered in metaphorical shit and the loser refuses to die.

This Obscene Year of our Lord, 2020: where death became all too common as demographics were designated High Risk and people died with, at first, an alarming regularity, and then with morbid repetition as ideologies and politics took the place of science and fact; and no one wins in that instance, not a single living thing.

And now we’re in Transit: last night the clock, which had all but stopped these twelve months now gone, ticked past midnight and a New Year began, and it’s nothing but symbolism (for, indeed, all is as it was yesterday), but perhaps the symbolic nature of the ending of That year, and the beginning of This one, is just what We need; a metaphorical Page Break which We can use to properly sever the past, if only for a moment, and begin again.

But Transit doesn’t last for long.

The kids next door started playing some old punk rock earlier, something kind of familiar but not quite. Probably it was the style that sparked some long dormant recognition, more so than the actual band, the song itself. Ian laughed and remarked on, essentially, how shit punk music was. How had it endured as a genre?

We didn’t know who was playing it (perhaps a solo dad, reliving his past), the house had been empty for days aside from the gang of builders who’d been installing railings on the three stories of back decking, up on the peak of the Tramican Street hill, overlooking Home Beach, down and facing east, the Pacific Ocean beyond it innumerable shades of blue stretching further than anyone could see.

I went out the front for a smoke at one point, the music had switched to Black Sabbath, and I looked over to see if I could see and it turned out it was a group of four or five kids, swigging beer and listening to music made far before their time, before my time, although they only played ‘Paranoid’ and the ‘Rat Salad’ instrumental before turning the music off and migrating inside.

I smelt BBQ, so I figured their dinner was done and so the punk rock party was over.

Down on Home Beach, visible through the dusky gums as the sun sinks on the other side of the island, and lit brighter than usual for the gloaming time due to the size of the moon, there’s some sort of event on, a professionally erected tee-pee sort of thing ringed with fairy lights, a couple of food trucks parked up against it on the soft sand.

They, whoever theyare, had begun putting it up yesterday, for a wedding was the prevailing thought up here on the Tramican hill, but Ian and Buff had walked past it with Piper earlier in the afternoon and it seemed more like a corporate Christmas party than a wedding.

Later on, as the Sabbath cranked up next door and intrigued by what could be happening down on the windy beach, Claire found a pair of binoculars on the side cabinet in the kitchen and trained them on the party far below. She couldn’t quite tell what was happening, but she reported one girl twirling on her own, then either “sitting down or vomiting” into the sand.

I asked for a look but by the time I’d put my drink down and brought the binoculars to my eyes, the girl in question had vanished, dragged back into the faux-tee-pee by a concerned friend, someone who didn’t care, or who wanted her to carry on.

The whole thing seem to have wrapped up by eight o’clock anyway.

We’d arrived on the island, swapping one beach for another, a couple of days prior to this, driving up from northern NSW, slowing to cross the border which was still restricted to parts of the state, veering off the freeway slightly south of Brisbane to head back east towards the coast where the barge pushes off from Cleveland and sluggishly makes its way through the green-blue waters of Moreton Bay.

Buff had mentioned that every beach has its own allure, every beach has its points of perfection and that’s’ the reason why you head to a beach, even if you live by one all year ‘round.

Home Beach, a long and slightly curving and deep set sandy run, the only dog beach on the island, has at present a natural lagoon cutting it in half longways, fed by the high tide which recedes and leaves this swathe of blue across white sand that gets quite deep in places and warms in the sun and so by late afternoon is like a bath, with shoals of bait fish swimming as one, leaping free as one, the late sun illuminating them bright and strong like some unseen giant hand is skipping handfuls of silver coins across rippled turquoise fabric.

We spend the afternoons there, Addy flapping about while Claire and I, knee-deep, toss my old football between us, laughing at the ridiculous things Addy says as she pretends to be a “rainbow fish”, a “sugar glider”, a “baby dolphin”, all within the same game which she tells us how to play as she plays it and the only thing we need to do is to be seen to be listening, even if we can’t hear her over the sound of the waves caressing the shore actual, across the way, and our own laughter.

One day not long before dinner we do the gorge walk, a short loop around the  North and South Headland Gorge at the southern end of Point Lookout, wooden walkways and stout steps and gravel paths, access out onto the rock above the action, the space lit dead-neon with Warning Signs but you can still get out there, above it all as the ocean storms about below, battering the base with gleaming white foam that sprays halfway up the face, the deep blue pulsating forever toward the gap and gushing faster as it’s restricted, eventually dying on the tiny patch of sand deep in shade far below at the narrow end that then changes into pandanus and scrub and the kangaroos sometimes venture down there to feed, if they’re done up top where the people are.

Addy is, at all times, a pirate and a fairy, a princess and a rainbow bird, sometimes a kitten or maybe a baby dinosaur. We feel that she may not actually know how to walk, her only states of being either asleep or in top gear. She rushes places other stroll, particularly me, and I wonder at times if we’re related at all. When I tell Claire this, she rolls her eyes and says simply, “Look at her, of course you’re related.”

Her wild red hair whips in the salty wind. My beard does the same.

Time slows down. Things centre around the beach, the couch, naps and food. As it gets a bit later, Ian opens a bottle of bubbles and I reef around in the fridge for a can of beer. Buff bustles around the kitchen, Claire in there too. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve stacked and unstacked the shitty dishwasher. Addy eats constantly, fruit and muesli bars and yoghurt and more fruit and toast. Since we’ve been here, I’ve read two books and maybe five newspapers.

This morning, our last full day on the island, we set out for the beach early, only to abort as Addy melted down about something (she’d not slept well the night before, she told us, even though we’d not heard her stir at all), so Claire heads beach-ward and I take Addy home where we eat more then come back down, but that’s aborted too when the tractors pulling full dive boats out from the dive centre onto the beach are too much for her to bear and so we head back to the house to read The Faraway Treeon the couch where it’s safe.

Claire, Buff, Ian and Piper arrive back from their own beach sojourn and so I head, solo, into Dunwich to buy the papers, some mushrooms for dinner, some panadol. I smoke a cigarette in solitude before driving the fifteen minutes north into town. I take my time. I buy what we need, more, three papers instead of two. I find a shady park and smoke another cigarette before slowly making my way back.

We lounge around, Addy entertaining herself. Buff and Ian go back to bed, Claire brings her book up from downstairs. I read one and a half newspapers in the chair with my feet on the small table, two cups of coffee, a piece of toast. This goes on and then we have lunch and quiet time is happening, Addy falls asleep almost straight away, Claire does too, and I read my book for almost two hours, on the couch upstairs with the hill breeze slowly wending its way through the permanently open swing doors off the deck, the lagoon brilliant blue down the way, the constant ocean sound part of why it’s all so perfect in its slow simplicity.

One beach for another. Tomorrow we’ll hop the barge back to the mainland and head back south, a quicker run on a Sunday night, back to our own beach. One beach for another.

The thunderheads appear as if from nowhere. Awesome in their size and seeming impenetrability, they’re just there, low across the range in the middle distance, lazily stretching across time itself encircling the town, preparing for cathartic embrace.

Working inside, yr suddenly aware it’s gotten darker and so you step outside and the clouds are there, the northerly which has been blowing all afternoon is gone and things are still and the air crackles.

Looking up, you fancy you see shapes in the encroaching cloud formation but they’re gone at a second glance.

Working inside, in air conditioning, yr hit with the heat when you step out, like the gravity has been turned up a notch. The air is hot and wet and clean. It sharpens the world, the pungent aroma of flowering wattle takes on a power that almost overwhelms, a cloying smell that sits like honey in the back of yr throat and threatens to throttle you with its pure sweetness.

The light is different and things old and dusty take on a sepia glow that makes them seem almost alive.

The first roll of thunder growls down the hills across the way, deep and low. You lean against the truck and light a cigarette, just leaning and being as the world changes around you. The smoke doesn’t blow away but hangs about and slowly roils about yr head and its like yr in the middle of yr own cloud.

You wave it away with a lethargic switch of yr hand.

The vast grey is slow moving. Ponderous and ever-changing. It seems to circle for a while, an atmospheric dance that threatens to never really happen but the thunder gets louder, echoing back of everything and then the first drops fall, fat and full, one on the back of yr neck, the next on the baking footpath in front of you, the next on the bonnet of the truck.

You stub out yr smoke and head back inside as, finally, the storm front comes over, lessening the humidity, the grey sky lowering as its moist loins gird and birth upon the dry and crackling north coast a torrent.

The earth, being showered, seems to steam at the same time.

***

I like the old gym in Brunswick. I’m there once a week, on Saturday mornings, for Addy’s swimming lesson in the small pool downstairs. You walk in the front door, up the stairs to the main floor, then down the stairs at the back.

In the two stairwells, there’s a large window, always wide open to let in any hint of a breeze, both with no screens, just large space looking out onto cracked concrete, the carpark in front, a narrow alley in back.

It reminds me of Queensland; open windows for air and to hell with what might fly in, still and hot, grass somehow growing through the cracks in the walkways, people moving slowly so’s not to raise too much of a sweat.

***

I run hot. At night, when the humidity refuses to die and the breeze is non-existent, I lie in bed and try not to move. Sweat beads my brow, my entire body. It’s not until I wake, sometime before dawn when the heat has finally dissipated, that I pull up the sheet, bundled down near my feet.

***

The palms wave in the breeze off the ocean across the swamp; black sand and scrubby weed, between us and golden beach. In spring, wild flowers bloom across the expanse, great swathes of colour that gather momentum and, before the heat and humidity of summer arrives, it all shimmers in ethereal fashion, as if some unseen artist, bigger than us all, has hurled their palette in an almighty rage upon a streak of blank canvas, inadvertently fashioning something so beautiful as to never again be recreated.

And the thunderheads return, silently, awesome in their size, ponderous and pregnant, grey and wet, rolling down the hills in the middle distance.

The humidity is back. I used to like it – moving from the south where cold pervades most of the year, up to the sub-tropics where grown men sweat 24 hours a day, was welcome respite.

Now though, it irks. Particularly when it first arrives, usually in early November, that first day when the air takes on a weight and things wilt under it. Walking out the door in the morning is to morph into another climate, pushing your way through it all, straining a little. Then dusk approaches, gloaming, turning to night but the weight remains.

You lie in bed not moving and the sweat beads on yr brow.

That first taste of the humidity is to taste change, and yet yr never ready for it. Yr not done with the cooler weather, not yet prepared to take the leap into the summer months. And so it irks, if only for the fact there was no warning, no kind word a few weeks back gently urging you to prepare.

There’s not really a spring up here, merely a move between cool and hot that lasts weeks, sometimes only days. It’s the same with autumn; less a season than a short transition. It does get cold, to an extent, but it’s the heat which takes centre stage, sticky and wet in the shade, same in the direct sun but with the added burn. Skin is slick and things slip from yr hands. People’s hair hangs limp and they move slower than they otherwise might.

Despite my misgivings though, the change in season – the onset of the hot and wet summer months that lie ahead – heralds a time that fair sings with a lightness. Here, summer lies over year’s end, over the festive season, people are winding down and preparing to take time off. It’s hot and people are finishing up and cold and sweating bottles of beer appear earlier than usual and it’s always warm enough to duck to the beach before work for a swim, gather in groups at twilight with a bottle in yr hand and yr feet are barefoot in the grass.

Indeed, you’ve not worn shoes for three and a half days.

In the mornings, out running the winding tracks into town, feet one after the other in a seemingly endless shuffle, out through the trees and across the oval; nowhere to hide, the sun beats and the sweat paints an odd pattern on the front of my t-shirt. Back under tree cover along the winding river bank, tide up, water glass-green and crystal-clear slipping by on the right.

On the way back, humidity too high to bear, and so shirt and shoes off, scramble down the bank into the still water, under and cool again. Stand and look out at it, the noise off Tweed Street up and behind of little consequence as you look at untouched glass and sunlight reflecting back. The birds sing in the building heat. A lightness to it all.

And so it ended much as it began; as a bad joke, a parody of itself, something at which to laugh, long and loud, if not for the four years of carnage – financial, social, economic, racial, environmental – that had preceded it.

And sandwiched between a funeral home and a sex shop, no less, a presidency of fools and fuckups essentially laid to rest outside a landscaping store in a sad and sagging strip mall on the outskirts of Philly, languishing between dead bodies and dildos.

Everyone knows this; it’s old news now.

No one knows what will happen next (court battles and potential coups, a tidal wave of misinformation laced all the way through to its rotting core with the inane rantings of a man who doesn’t know how to lose, how to concede, how to graciously fade off into the night, good or otherwise). No one, though, is confident it’ll be graceful and easy.

The Day itself, over here across the Pacific, unfolded in slow motion; Election Day, the cornerstone of American democracy, the one day every four years when The People exercise their right to choose, and exercise it they did, a record turnout across the US, both in person and via mail, wave upon wave of people intent on Voting, on casting their ballot and choosing who they thought was Best.

The original intent here had been bloody marys and the Count up on the big screen, starting as it did late morning, wending its way through lunch and the long and hot afternoon, into the evening where things got vicious and strange.

Bloody marys were scrapped though, events beyond our control, and so devices were flicked between over the course of the day before beer and whisky were brought out late in the dusky afternoon and we settled down to watch properly. I’d been monitoring across five or six outlets, an information net cast wide in order to catch as much as possible – Presidential, Senate, House races running across the country, slowly at first but building as the heat intensified and then popping with alarming regularity.

Numbers varied widely across the board, some News outlets not calling until certain points, others rolling the dice and making calls early – states turned red and blue, others remained white, numbers ascended in real time, the Popular Vote, while the Electoral College ticked steadily, slowly, interminably onward as the sun set here, rose over there, preposterous claims emanating from the flailing blowhard, Ol’ Mate 45, with the same velocity as the virus ravaging the very country he was intent on leading.

I’d not heard him speak much these four years past, preferring print as my principal news source, and so to hear his voice and watch him perform, so intent as he was to cast doubt and confusion, was to bear witness to something so obscenely gauche and dangerous as to almost defy reality. Had this person truly been the Leader of the Free World these past years? Of course, I knew it to be true and yet to hear him actually talk was to make it seem all the more real and desperate, and how did this happen and how has it been happening for so long?

For here is a special kind of person, one so lost within the miasma of his own mind – an alarming place, one devoid of compassion, respect, civility and tolerance – that he truly believes what comes from his own mouth; he’s not lying to the American public, to the people he professes to care so deeply for he wants to be their Leader, no – he’s speaking the utter truth. It’s just, unfortunately for sane people all over the globe, that it’s his truth – he believes what he’s saying, he just has no idea that what he’s saying is wrong. And this is truly dangerous.

And so he blew hard, Ol’ Mate 45, he cast aspersions upon all and sundry and we watched it from across an ocean, gaped at what was happening, not really able to believe that this man was saying these things, the pure hypocrisy dripping from his being like honey from the hive, almost visibly pooling on the lectern behind which he stood.

Elsewhere, Biden urged calm as he waved from behind black face mask to crowds across the country, gearing up for what they saw as a slowly dawning reality; that is, the demise of the unreality, and some sort of Hope for the future. We watched it too, leaning forward on the couch toward the flickering big screen, scanning for some sort of definitive answer.

None was forthcoming of course, and this indeed came as no surprise to anyone, other than the man spouting all manner of misinformation, refusing to believe that there was no concrete result on Election Day, as if this had never happened before. Indeed, in a country where over 150 million votes were cast, counting will take time. Days. Perhaps even weeks.

And so it continues now, more than a week later. But that night, that Day, as it all unfolded across an ocean, was intensely interesting to watch – parts in the vein of Hope and a better future for fellow human beings, parts for the pure theatre, the grotesquery, the ugly and viciousness that even at that early stage, was sagging under its own weight, slowly going under, a fetid candle now little more than spent wax and impending darkness.

Indeed. And then the presser outside the landscaping centre, where it all came to a sloppy halt, finally dying, left to decay among the ashes of human beings and rubber dicks, cock rings and black plastic corsets. Apt perhaps. Or, seen from another light, about fucking time.

I buy a bucket of sweating chips and a sausage wrapped in stale white bread. It costs nothing, a bi-weekly fundraiser for the old and leaning wooden church, defying progress, tucked onto the side of the hill that Caxton runs down, the ICB booming beneath it, the pub encircling it, lit garish yellow and orange by the football stadium across from it. 

It’s buckled from decades of wet heat and is obscured by thick mango trees, Moreton Bay figs, their fallen leaves a dense carpet covering the cracked concrete underfoot.

***

James lobs insults from three seats down. I’m not listening. My right thigh is sore from the thumping I’ve given it over the past half hour, clenched fist against the faded denim of my old jeans. In my left hand is a plastic cup of slopping beer, three or four empties scattered at my feet.

Directly behind us, high in the western stand are the commentary boxes. Andrew Moore, calling for the ABC as he has done for decades, has the glass pulled open and is leaning out into the sticky winter night, microphone attached to his head, eyes glued to a pair of binoculars calling the Game for an unknown number of unseen listeners, a good deal of them no doubt in the same stadium as he, ears packed tight with buds, pocket transistors tuned to his rapidly undulating tones, hearing their own booming cheers played back at them via the wonders of technology as it rains down about them in real time.

The score begins to blow out and the Faithful wilt under the strain and so start to make exit, which is fine for us as it makes for easier access to the bar and so I switch to bourbon, James to rum, and we run down the clock, him heckling while I roll my eyes and bemoan to myself the state of it all, the knowledge that it is, indeed, just a game and so it’s all right, and yet it still pains.

***

Claire’s breathing changes, and I know she’s asleep. Lying beside her, I stop what we’ve been watching on the laptop, and pull up an old Game, one I’ve seen a dozen times, one in which my Team wins and wins big. Quietly, almost guiltily, I relive past triumphs, I revel in glories long gone, I reassure myself that the Team, which this year has sunk to lows never before seen, was once Good and so surely will be Good once more.

***

It’s Father’s Day, afternoon, the sun is slowly sinking and the opposite side of the stadium is doused in warm light. The turf is verdant, the crowd undulates, itself a sea of colour, all lit as bright as if the contrast has been turned to Full and everything is alive, from the smallest blade of grass to the plastic seats to the arena itself.

Wives and kids are at the house and three of us, Dads, are watching the Team play another team, and they win and they win big. Feats of unearthly athleticism abound and I, with skin in the game, rise with the Faithful spilling beer on the worn concrete beneath my feet, on my pants. I don’t care, no one cares. Noise from the crowd, from the tannoys, from the players, the referee’s whistle, the chanting and the cheering, the two big screens at either end of the field shifting constantly with light and colour and the ball swings wide, through hands, into space and they’re away, down the eastern edge in the bright, late sunlight towards the Line, and we rise as one, spilling beer as we go.

***

We always end up at the Paddo. Everyone ends up at the Paddo, at least those heading north. The rest are at the Caxton. The sheer volume of beer that would get poured on these nights would bring tears to the eyes of many a teetotaller. But we get a few in, maybe switch to bourbon, smile at complete strangers on the way back from the bar for no other reason than they’re clad in the colours of the Team and so you’re kindred and your ethos aligns and tonight was a Good Night. There have been bad nights, but this was a Good one.

***

We used to play in the front yard, a handful of local kids, maybe three a side in homemade jerseys with an old ball one of us had brought from home. The battles were as intense as those we absorbed on the teev every weekend through winter. The arguments, which never came to blows, were heated though, it was all on the line, not just bragging rights but the Feeling, the Feeling when a kick lands just so and someone’s there to jump on it and plant it in the corner with seconds to go and we’re up by two, kick to come, but it doesn’t matter because there’s not enough time for them to come back and we Won.

***

It doesn’t even fit over my head anymore. Hoops and bands in State and City colours, logos on each breast, the colours of the Team, my first jersey and a real one at that, worn proudly over years and years. I was eight then, and am 40 now, and so it doesn’t even fit over my head.

I’ll give it to my daughter when she’s a bit older and she can wear it, while I content myself with a scarf draped around my neck, and the two of us can sit in front of the teev, or drive across the border to the stadium where we’ll sit with all the rest of the Faithful, and she’ll be one too, and we’ll cheer as one as it all unfolds below us on the hallowed turf and my left thigh will ache from her small fist pounding on it as she follows the fortunes of those playing a mere game, but a game that means more than just that.

***

Something erupts from nothing. Maybe over on the left edge, maybe in the middle, the result of Possession, ball in hand and a keen eye, a left-foot step preceding a canny pass. A little bit of luck, perhaps, that morphs imperceptibly, then thunderously, into a sweeping backline movement and the gaps begin to open up and players slide through, throwing desperate glances over both shoulders, keening for support, it looms large on the inside and it’s suddenly, from nothing, two on one, a pass at just the right time, gallop to the line, swan dive, try time.

***

An unlikely victory, late in the season, by another team, leaves the Team on the bottom. Wooden spooners. Literal wooden spoons litter their training ground the next day, wags having thrown them over the fence under the cover of darkness. Darkness indeed, for most an entire season. It’s just a game, though, just a game?

I get an email, late in October telling me my membership is due, for next season; if I do nothing, it’ll automatically roll over. I remark to my wife, that I wonder how many people, after the season now mercifully finished, will hit the Opt Out button, their Belief fleeting and so they’ll not pledge any support, whether vocal or financial. She says, surely not many will. Surely.

I do nothing and my membership rolls over. That’s why they call us the Faithful, right? Good Days and bad ones… dark days and Bright… Swan Dive, Try Time…

I’ve got these two mates.

In the grand scheme of things, they’re new mates; we’ve met within the past few years. They don’t know each other – if there’s a thread binding the two of them, it’s me – but I regard both of them as close friends, the kind of friend you make later in life and that you value more than those you made when you were younger, when people were more disposable, when life seemed to stretch out before you and so a friend lost, at that point, was no big deal – there’ll always be more.

As you get older though, even if you feel you have ‘enough’ friends, the good ones are the ones who just pop up, the ones who you connect with on a level that you didn’t realise was possible, or even a thing, when you were younger.

So I’ve got these two mates.

One is a man of fine standing, one who, quite literally, follows the letter of the Law. I admire him for his knowledge of all things, for his dedication and for his beliefs, for his generous nature and his ability to see things for more than they appear.

The other I admire for his tenacity and his keen eye, for his ability to adhere to what’s right, and execute it, and then find the fun behind it.

If there is a connection between the three of us then, aside from myself, it’s a love, a passionate love, of football.

Rugby League, that most blue collar of blue collar sports, brutal in its primal simplicity, to the untrained eye not that far removed from what would have occurred in arenas the width and breadth of the Roman Empire, back in the good ol’ turn of the BC/AD times. But with, perhaps, less lions.

Regardless, I’ve got these two mates, and it’s the two of them who, in these times of global pandemic and general disarray, I can reply on to be (at the very least), by their phones when Thursday afternoons turn to evening and so the Round begins – whether or not any of us have skin in the game, there’s football on, and so we’re all watching.

My love of rugby league began in the late 1980s, when I was seven, and Brisbane entered a team into what was, back then, the NSWRL. The Broncos were upstarts, despite being captained by the immortal Wally Lewis, the national captain, but upstarts none the less.

They began the season, and their existence, by beating the reigning premiers, Manly, 44-10. For my eighth birthday, towards the end of that maiden season (where they missed the finals by a single defeat), I received a team jersey. I still have it – it’s (far) too small for me, and too large right now for my daughter, but it’s a treasured possession, if only because if signifies such an important part of my life. The beginning, if you will, of a lifelong obsession.

Claire, my wife, has utterly no interest in the game and so abides this rabid obsession during the season quietly and with admirable fortitude (and, indeed, thinly veiled amusement), to an extent that I can only admire.

For a long time I lived in Melbourne, AFL heartland, a town that, until the advent of the Melbourne Storm, thought little, if anything, of rugby league. Moving up here, to northern NSW, the friends we initially made were from the same background and so were AFL expats and I had no one with which to share not only the ups and downs of the mighty Broncos, but rugby league in general, and so I kept it all to myself, which was fine, but one needs an outlet when one is concerned with such a pastime as rugby league, no?

Indeed.

And so I have these two mates.

One is a rabid fan of a team. The other swears no allegiance, but is a student of the game itself. Both are devotees, both are lovers of this pastime, both are men of principle and both live and die each weekend by what happens on a 100×68 metre piece of turf, eight times over four days, and we back and forth, usually via text, on same.

Occasionally, I think it’s ridiculous that people of intellect could possibly follow this with such passion – watching 26 grown men, dressed the same, chasing a ball in order to score more points than the other team.

But then I realise the bigger picture, which encompasses why the three of us share such a bond – the game itself is a reason to belong, a familiar presence in lives that twist and turn like so much leaf litter on windy, autumnal days. It’s about allegiances and bitter rivalries, it’s about a sense of belonging within a likeminded tribe.

It’s about winning and losing, surviving and hanging on by one’s teeth in the face of seemingly insurmountable adversity; it’s basic in its premise but iron-strong in its ability to appeal to the common man, not because of its seeming brutality but because of the relationships it manages to forge amongst the faithful. It’s sport, and we know it so well.

And so I have these two mates…