So Gross! (8 page)

Secker knew better. He knew he’d started his fall a fraction of a second before Coach had even touched him.

One footballer stood up and one did not.

Secker lay there like a body in a morgue.

‘You’ve killed him,’ yelled Frank Castro as he and the team came running up.

Coach knelt on the grass, gently shaking Secker and calling, ‘Matt. Matt.’ Begging him to get up.

But Secker wasn’t going anywhere.

‘Get an ambulance,’ shouted Pete Richards. ‘I think he’s dead.’

‘Yeah,’ said Gumby. ‘He’s all blue. Looks like he’s stopped breathing.’ He crouched down beside his team-mate. Secker lay still, a goner. ‘Do something, Coach.’

‘Stand back,’ yelled Coach, leaning over the body. ‘Give him some air.’

The next thing Secker knew, his mouth was being prised open and a pair of very bristly lips were latching on. It felt like a date with a toilet brush.

The team stood watching, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

This was really something. Secker sharing spit with Coach!

‘Geddorf,’ screamed Secker, making a miraculous recovery and furiously wiping at his mouth. ‘You’re sick,’ he yelled, before flapping like a suckerfish that’d lost his suck.

‘That’s enough for today,’ gasped Coach. ‘Training’s over.’

Over the next two weeks the boys kept an eye on Coach, anxiously watching for any sign of a cold.

Even a sniffle would be welcome.

He sneezed once or twice, but that was all. Coach was in full form, screaming at them in training and pushing them harder and harder, getting them ready for their final game. ‘You’re all a bunch of wusses!’ he barked.

‘He’s gonna kill us at this rate,’ gasped Gumby, who was not as fit as the others. ‘We need to slow him down.’

‘Yeah, right,’ said Yonnie.

‘What do you have in mind?’ asked Dillon.

‘Dunno. I’ll think about it.’

That night Gumby was watching TV when he saw a show on the Icebergs. Not the chunks of ice in the Arctic and Antarctic, but the old men who make it a point to swim in the sea, summer and winter, all year round. Even when it’s zero degrees.

‘It toughens us up,’ explained one elderly gent with a tummy like a wrinkly baboon. ‘The young ‘uns can’t crack the pace. The cold makes ‘em drop like flies with the flu. Average age of the Icebergs is eighty,’ finished the old man proudly.

Eighty? thought Gumby. Coach is only forty. Does that make him a young ‘un? Maybe swimming in ice-cold water would make him sick.

The next night at training he told Coach all about the Icebergs. ‘They reckon it makes ‘em tough. You know the final next Saturday’ll be a cruncher. We’ve just got to win,’ he went on. ‘Maybe we should try it. Make us tougher, like.’

Coach scratched his crotch and thought about it. He badly wanted to win that final. ‘Why not?’ he answered.

The following afternoon they met at the local pool. Coach had persuaded someone from council to open it up just for them. It had not been drained for the winter and the water was a bit cloudy looking but it would have to do.

‘Right, boys,’ yelled Coach. ‘Strip off. Here’s your program. Ten laps swim then get out and ten laps run. Up and down beside the pool.’

Loud groans filled the air.

‘You’ve gotta be kidding,’ said Matt Secker.

Coach ignored him, but you could tell he was getting a bit dirty. ‘Then you’re gonna do it again, and again, till I tell you to stop.’

Frank and Pete turned to Gumby. ‘This was your idea, Mason. We’re gonna get you for this.’ They gripped one arm each, ready to hurl him into the pool.

Gumby took a step backwards. ‘Wait, guys. I’ve got a plan. You’re not even going to get wet.
Promise.’ The boys relaxed their grip. ‘You’d better,’ snarled Frank. ‘Or else,’ growled Pete.

‘For your sake I hope you’re right,’ whispered Dillon, who’d been watching the whole thing.

‘Er, Coach,’ called Gumby. ‘I’m not too sure what you mean. How ‘bout you give us a demo?’

Coach laughed.

‘You’ve gotta do better than that,’ hissed Dillon.

‘Nice one, Mason,’ said Coach. ‘Do ya think I’m stupid?
You
fellas gotta go the distance, not me. Now in you hop. Stop being a bunch of wusses.’

‘Maybe we should start with the run?’ suggested Gumby. ‘To warm up.’

‘Anyone’d think you’re trying to scam out of it, Mason,’ roared Coach. ‘I’ve got a bit of a suggestion. How ‘bout we rotate through. One boy swims a lap. The rest run all the way around the pool. The swimmer gets out and the next boy swims his lap. The rest keep running till you’ve all swum a lap.’ Coach turned back to Gumby. ‘Mason, you’re first.’ He pulled Gumby over to the starting blocks. ‘Ready?’ he said to the others. ‘Go.’

Eleven boys took off on their first lap around the pool.

‘In you get,’ said Coach, giving Gumby a none-too-friendly shove.

Gumby’s feet hit the water first, sending messages up his arms and legs that made his gonads dive for cover.

‘Aaagh,’
shrieked Gumby, trying to propel himself out of the water. He thrashed around for a second or two, then stopped. His body had seized up with the cold. Gumby knew he was sinking but his arms and legs refused to move. He felt like he was in a tomb of ice.

‘Cut out the crap,’ yelled Coach from the poolside, ‘and swim.’

But Gumby couldn’t.

Coach watched as Gumby slowly sank into the murky depths, a steady trickle of bubbles emerging from the corner of his mouth.

‘Any minute now he’s gonna kick,’ said Coach, watching from the side.

But Gumby didn’t.

Every part of his body had shut down. Even his eyes, although they were wide open. They were unblinking, like a fish’s. It was the eyes that freaked Coach the most.

‘Oohhh,’ he roared, jumping into the water and scrabbling to get hold of Gumby.

Boys came running from everywhere as Coach broke the surface, dragging an unresisting Gumby to the edge of the pool.

‘Pull ‘im up,’ screamed Coach. ‘Grab ‘im.’

As Gumby was hauled out of the water he started to splutter. ‘I’m all right,’ he gasped, struggling to pull himself over the side. ‘Leave me alone.’ Gumby sat on the edge, his whole body convulsing in shivers.

‘Get some towels,’ yelled Coach. Then, ‘What the hell do ya think you’re doing?’

‘S-s-s sorry, C-c-coach,’ said Gumby. ‘I-i-it was the sh-shock.’

‘Get ‘im into a hot shower,’ roared Coach, pointing to Simon and Dillon. ‘The rest of yous, finish your run.
No one
goes in the pool.’

‘Nice one,’ whispered Simon, placing towels round his friend’s shoulders.

‘Should’ve known you’d come up with something,’ said Dillon, clapping him on the back.

Gumby didn’t answer. He was still in shock.

Coach showed no sign of becoming an icicle, even joining the others for a run before heading for a shower. Later on, when everyone was showered and dressed he said, ‘Listening to
your
harebrained ideas, Mason. It ain’t worth it.’

Gumby thought of the fact that he’d nearly died. All for the sake of beating Max’s boogie collection. ‘No, Coach,’ he answered. ‘It ain’t worth it.’

All the next day Gumby’s bones ached — ached with every step, every little movement. His mother had kept him at home ‘to recover’. Gumby had spent the day making labels for his boogie collection. That afternoon the doorbell rang. Simon, Dillon and Yonnie had dropped in to check on their mate.

‘You coming to footy training this afternoon?’ asked Simon.

Gumby shook his head.

‘Coach’ll kill ya,’ said Dillon. ‘The game’s Saturday.’

Gumby shrugged half-heartedly. ‘Dr Ferguson said to have a day off. I’ll be there tomorrow.’

‘What if you’re sidelined?’ asked Dillon.

‘Tough.’ Gumby’s voice was barely a whisper. There were tears in his eyes and he pinched himself to make them go away. He could think of nothing worse than to be left out of the final. He slumped on his bed, looking a picture of misery.

The boys didn’t know what to say. They left quickly, calling ‘see ya’ as they went out the door.

‘Poor Gumbers,’ said Dillon. ‘He’s pretty cut up.’

‘Maybe we should’ve stayed and tried to cheer him up?’ said Yonnie.

‘Nothing’ll cheer him up,’ said Simon, ‘except to go to training.’

Together they walked towards the oval, each lost in his own thoughts. The wind had picked up and was blowing in gusts. Whirlwinds of leaves and dust skimmed along the footpath.

The boys shivered and pulled their coats tighter.

‘I’ve got it!’ Yonnie suddenly laughed, making Simon and Dillon jump. ‘We’ll get a boogie from Coach and give it to him. That’ll cheer him up.’

Simon and Dillon looked at Yonnie like he only had half a head. ‘That’s how he got into all this mess in the first place, der-brain,’ said Simon.

‘But I’ve got a plan,’ said Yonnie, watching a sapling sway wildly in the gusts of wind. ‘Listen.’ Three heads went into a huddle. ‘Guaranteed to catch pneumonia,’ finished Yonnie with a proud beam on his face. ‘And guaranteed to earn us five bucks.’

‘It might work,’ said Dillon. ‘Or then again, it might not.’

‘It’s worth a try,’ said Simon. ‘And this time no one can get hurt.’

‘Are you in?’ asked Yonnie. ‘Coach could do with the exercise and the worst thing that can happen is he’ll catch a cold.’

‘Which is exactly what we want to happen,’ Simon smiled.

‘Yes,’ said Dillon with a chuckle.

The plan went like clockwork. Yonnie told Coach that he’d heard his phone ring when he’d ducked into the change room for a leak. Said he’d taken a message from an old mate who was coming
to visit and needed picking up from the bus stop — the one that was ten kilometres out of town. ‘Who was it?’

‘Didn’t catch it, Coach,’ said Yonnie. ‘Poor reception.’ Coach was always grumbling about the reception on his mobile and he nodded in understanding.

‘Tonight, you say? The bus station, at seven?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Righto, then.’

The boys winked at each other.

Yonnie, Dillon and Simon met in the park at six o’clock and cycled out to the bus station. They got there at a quarter to seven, leaving plenty of time to hide in the nearby scrub.

‘Here he comes,’ said Dillon, spotting the unmistakable orange VW beetle that Coach liked to drive.

‘I’ll go then,’ said Simon, whose job it was to distract Coach. ‘Meet you at the back of our house in say…’ he looked at his watch, ‘an hour.’

As luck would have it, Coach parked his car on the roadside near a clump of bushes —
the
clump of bushes where Dillon and Yonnie were hiding — and got out to stretch his legs. The wind whirled around him, causing him to turn up his collar and pull down his beanie. He started to pace up and down, stopping every now and then to blow on his hands and peer up the road.

‘Put a stocking over his head and he’d look like an escaped crim,’ whispered Dillon.

Yonnie didn’t answer. He was waiting for the signal that would distract Coach away from the car. He didn’t have long to wait.

‘Help. Help.’ It sounded like a young girl’s voice. Followed by a scream.

Coach stopped pacing and looked in the direction of the noise.

Simon screamed again.

Coach hesitated a second.

Was it the wind?

The third scream sent him off in the direction of the sound.

Before Dillon could blink, Yonnie was returning with the
borrowed
car keys firmly clasped in his hand. The wind had picked up now, making an eerie whistle through the trees.

Dillon shivered. ‘Poor Coach,’ he said.

‘Poor Coach!’ said Yonnie. ‘Now
you
are sounding like a wuss. He’s the tough one, remember?’

Gumby came back to school the next day looking a bit peekish but none too worse for wear.

‘What did Coach say about me not being at training?’ he asked his mates.

‘N…’ Dillon was about to say ‘nothing’, when Yonnie elbowed him in the ribs.

‘He said,
It’s a shame we’re down one of our best players,’
said Yonnie.

The sparkle came back to Gumby’s eyes. ‘Really?’ he said with a grin. ‘Can’t wait for training this afternoon.’

‘Me neither,’ said Simon.

‘Or me,’ agreed Dillon.

‘Last one before the big game,’ said Gumby.

That afternoon four o’clock came and went but there was no sign of Coach.

‘Hope he’s not sick,’ said Pete Richards. ‘Not before the final.’

Yonnie, Dillon and Simon exchanged glances. They hadn’t thought of that. Hadn’t expected Coach to get sick so quickly.

‘It’s twenty past,’ said Secker. ‘Maybe he’s not coming.’

The boys scanned the road for a glimpse of the familiar orange beetle. Nothing.

‘S’pose we should start without him,’ said Yonnie. ‘Do a few laps of the oval.’

There was nothing for it. They would have to train on their own.

They started their run, but without Coach it didn’t feel right.

‘Here he comes,’ yelled Frank Castro. The boys ran up just as Coach was climbing out of his car.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ said Coach. ‘Everything’s going wrong. My mate didn’t turn up last night and I lost my keys up the bus station. Had to get some
new ones cut. You know how slow old Joe is up at the hardware.’

The boys smiled with relief.

Coach noticed that a few of them were staring at him rather closely. He put it down to nerves about the game. ‘Let’s get going then,’ he said, rubbing his hands in anticipation. ‘Crunches. I want fifty of ‘em.’

‘He doesn’t look too sick to me,’ hissed Simon.

‘Me either,’ said Dillon.

‘Nah,’ said Yonnie with a sigh. ‘Not a pneumonia in sight.’

The next morning Gumby leapt out of bed as soon as he woke up. It was the big day. The final of the footy comp. He cleaned his boots, threading in new laces for luck. After a warm but refreshing shower he put on his lucky purple undies, shorts, guernsey and socks. He was ready.

Gumby glanced at the clock then groaned. There were still two hours to kill till the game. He decided to rearrange his boogie collection — change it from alphabetical order to the order in which he’d gotten each specimen.