My Private Pectus (7 page)

There are only two days to go before our first real game. Dad's put me on the team, all based on one event: I tackled The P. Dad even phoned Roger just to tell him I made it. ‘He's gonna be full-back, I told you he could do it!' he yelled into the phone. ‘And you know what else? Jack's gonna join the army. He's enrolled for a physical in October!'

It all started at training last night.

About ten minutes into the game and playing for the opposition Cuppas broke the defensive line. He palmed off one guy, trampled over another. Hitting open space, he gulped for air as he ran, his flab shuddering with every step. Then, as the defence caught up from behind, he threw a pass to The P. It was a shocker.

It wobbled and dipped. The guys screamed, ‘Forward, it went forward!' But Dad did nothing.

Sprinting, The P stooped forward, scraped the ball up from his ankles and returned to full height in the one motion. Gez came after him, but The P palmed him off and charged straight on. He tucked the ball under an armpit. His knees drove up and down like pistons. He ran at me full pelt, daring me to take him on. But I was still peeved with him. Annoyed that I let him pressure me into beating up Cuppas; pissed off with myself for being such a soft touch.

So I lunged forward and buried my shoulder into the soft flesh below his ribs. Air exploded from his lungs, the ball shot from his grasp and tumbled out of play. There were groans of shared pain from The P's team mates and cheers from mine. The P collapsed to the ground, rasping for air.

Gez seized me in a friendly headlock. ‘Aawww, what a ripper!' he yelled.

The boys on my team were ecstatic. They slapped my back. They laughed. No one could believe The P got nailed by Jack ‘the axe' McDermott! I felt great, but terrible, too. The P was on all fours, gulping for air. ‘How do you feel?' I asked, but I said it with a smile.

He looked at me with a vicious snarl and watering, bloodshot eyes.

When Gez and I got to the car after training, Dad threw me the keys. He was grinning. His eyes were bright with pride. Gez couldn't stop laughing as he climbed into the back seat. Dad opened and closed his mouth several times, but nothing came out.

Gez leaned forward and blurted, ‘You're in the team, Sticks. Boy, are you in the team! Am I right, Brian? Is he in the team?'

Dad turned to me as I started the motor. ‘He could be,' he said, still smiling.

‘Could be? Jack nailed him. His P-ness went down like a sack of spuds!' Gez laughed and I grinned. ‘Wammo!' he yelled and clapped his hands. ‘Jack flogged His P-ness!'

When we got home, Dad marched inside and yelled, ‘What a tackle, Jack!' He walked purposefully into the lounge room and went to the sliding doors that open out to the yard. ‘I'm proud of you,' he said.

‘It was just a tackle.' I was trying to keep my joy under wraps.

‘Just a tackle? It was beautiful.' He puffed his chest. ‘Perfect!' He looked out at the wire mesh on the lawn waiting to be turned into a bird aviary. He opened the sliding doors and marched out. ‘It wasn't just any tackle,' he called over his shoulder. ‘It was a ripper!'

He started to build.

Later that night, between footy games on Foxtel, Dad stuck his head into my room. He was absolutely glowing. ‘I've got to show you something,' he said.

Back at the dining table, he sat me down at the laptop and talked me through
My H.Q.
, the online enrolment for the Australian Defence Force.

‘What if I want to do something else?' I asked him.

‘Such as?'

‘Be a mechanic.'

He screwed up his nose like it was the stupidest thing he'd ever heard. ‘If you want to be a mechanic then do it in the army. You'll even get a trade ticket. And you won't be working on a Japanese hunk-a-junk. Think about it: four-wheel-drives, tanks, armoured personnel carriers, trucks. That's the stuff, Jack; let me tell you, that's the stuff.'

The excitement of the day drained away. I felt numb. I don't want trucks, or tanks. I want things to be simple, easy, I thought. And Dad didn't understand. There was another question, too, a more important one: what if they won't take a kid with PE?

But he looked on as if this was my only hope. Or am I
his
only hope? I thought. Maybe I'm the last dregs of his dream that got stripped away? I'm his chance to live again. It was then I realised that this battle won't ever end until one of us gives up.

So I started going through the enrolment page by page, filling in my details: date of birth, address, job preferences. At one point it asked,
reason for applying?
Dad was still behind me, watching over my shoulder, so I turned to him and raised my eyebrows. He got the drift and went back to the footy on Foxtel.

Dad wants me to join,
I typed then sat back. I moved onto the next page before Dad could come and check. But after a few more minutes, he couldn't help himself. He got up from the couch to see how I was going.
My H.Q.
was now asking questions about my civil record:

Thinking about what it's like living here, I clicked on
institutionalised.

‘Hey! What are you doing?'

I unclicked it.

Finally I got to the last page which was about scheduling a Job Options Evaluation Session, or JOES, which is a meeting with a career guidance officer and a physical examination. A physical, I thought. It could be my ticket out. If it's not my PE, I'll just fail the fitness. It'll be one or the other.

Dad adjusted his glasses as he read. He rummaged around on the table for a pen and paper then scribbled some notes.

‘Fifteen push-ups, forty-five sit-ups and a shuttle run.' He stopped; re-read his notes then stuck them to the fridge. He adjusted his pants. ‘That's nothing,' he spat. ‘It was harder than that in my day.' He tried to tuck his shirt in. ‘I reckon I could still do that now.' He turned to me, and tapped his temple. ‘That's if my head would let me.'

I didn't reply.

He looked at his notes again. Then he clapped. ‘Jack, you can do that!' He took the notes back down and held them in front of my face. ‘Fifteen push-ups! You'll be a shoo-in!' He slapped the back of my head. ‘Ha!' he yelled. Then he leaned forward again, examining the computer screen. ‘What's a BMI?' he asked.

We've done this in phys. ed. ‘Body Mass Index,' I told him.

He gave me a blank look.

‘It's a weight to height ratio. How many kilos you weigh per metre squared.'

He screwed his face up at it. ‘What's the point of that?'

‘Everyone has an optimum BMI—a healthy BMI range.'

‘Outta my way,' he said and pushed me away from the laptop.

‘Hey!' I got up anyway and sat in front of the TV while he googled everything about BMI. I changed the channel.

‘What's the score?' he yelled.

I made something up. ‘24-10.'

‘You're kidding me!' He got up then pointed at the TV. ‘Put it back on Fox.'

Five minutes later he called out, ‘How tall are you?'