Tigers & Devils (3 page)

Jasper Brunswick leaned in to me and rested his fingers upon my arm. I could feel them searing my flesh, leaving the permanent mark of the devil behind. “You might want to remain on good terms with the local press. Especially when you want to get coverage of your little festival.”

“We already get plenty of coverage,” I said firmly, opening my beer so that his grip on my arm was shaken off. “In fact, we got a four-page spread in the
Reach Out
last year.”

“My column could be very important in helping spread the word further,” he insinuated, his breath hot and fetid upon my face. “A few pictures of the distinguished guest and the director of the festival. You can’t buy publicity like that.”

I winced. “I’m sure you could think of a price.”

He faltered slightly and crossed his arms defensively. “Still as cynical as ever, aren’t you? I’m surprised you’ve gotten where you are. No people skills, that’s your problem.”

“I have people skills,” I countered. “Just not the kind of people skills you used to get where
you
are.”

He grew even redder. I have no idea if he slept his way to the top, which is what I certainly sounded like I was implying, but to tell you the truth, I was talking more about his snaky schmooziness and brownnosing.

And to my relief, Jasper Brunswick turned on his heel and stalked back over to the lounge room, where he would no doubt find people who would fall at his feet to worship and restore his comfortable sense of superiority.

Roger and Fran appeared from where they had hidden in the pantry. “So he’s gone?” Roger asked, looking around like the man in question had the abilities of a chameleon and actually blended in with the ’70s-era tiling on the wall behind us.

“He’s gone. Thanks for the support,” I said dryly.

“I got you another beer, didn’t I?” Roger asked, affronted, as if that were equivalent to unsheathing his sword and standing beside me in battle. As if reading my mind, Fran said, “That was Lancelot’s main role on the battlefield for Arthur, wasn’t it?”

“No,” I replied, “it was screwing his wife while his back was turned. By the way, did you know Roger tried to convince me to sleep with that dickhead?”

“Lancelot?” Fran asked innocently.

“Funny.”

12 | SEAN KENNEDY

“I took it back straightaway,” Roger mumbled.

Fran rubbed his back affectionately. “Idiot. Please try to find better conquests for your mates.”

“I’m not looking for a
conquest
,” I pointed out, shepherding them out into the backyard, where a small fire burned in an old oil drum.

“Last I heard, you weren’t looking for
anything
,” Fran mocked.

“Is that a crime?”

“It’s certainly not
normal
.”

“And what’s normal? You guys?”

“Shut up,” Fran instructed.

“You love us.” Roger always got cheesy when he was drunk. I mumbled incoherently into my feet, an admission of returned love which they could understand without knowing exactly what I said.

Fran hugged me and then pushed me off her. “Now, go away. I want to make out with my husband.”

I laughed, not taking any offence, and went off to find a corner where I could hide. Luck scored me a garden swing in a dark corner that no couple had yet appropriated to mack upon. I settled in and slowly pushed myself, my beer nestled snugly in my hands. There was a small group standing off to my right, talking loudly. So it wasn’t like I was eavesdropping. I wish I knew who they were, because, really, I have them to thank for this whole story. Well, unless you want to give Fran and Roger the credit for dragging me to this party in the first place. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Again.

“The Devils are gonna have another shit year, I’m telling you.”

The voices were a garbled mess; beside the gender of each voice I couldn’t really separate them into distinct entities.

“Nah, it’s about time for them to start crawling up the ladder again.”

“You said that last year. There’s no way they’ll finish in the top eight.”

“Yeah, no finals hopes at all. They’re wasted.”

“They never should have allowed them to merge.”

That had been the biggest controversy in the recent history of AFL. To truly make the game Australia-wide (although conveniently neglecting the Northern Territory, but as my father liked to argue, it was a
territory
, not a
state
. My reaction: “It’s a bloody big block of land at the top of Australia with people living in it! They deserve some sort of team!”) the AFL created a Tasmanian team. But in order to keep the numbers of teams even so that there wouldn’t be any hassle in arranging games, they had to sacrifice one of the Victorian teams so that they could merge into one (Roger: “It’s like bloody Fitzroy all over again!”). So we said goodbye to the Melbourne Demons, who moved down south and across the Tasman Sea to become the Tasmanian Devils.

TIGERS AND DEVILS | 13

At the time I remember being horrified at the thought that they might make Richmond merge so that they could be the Tasmanian Tigers, after one of the most famous extinct (supposedly) animals in the world, but we were safe. So the Devils weren’t exactly popular in Victoria, like the Brisbane Lions before them, because they had committed the cardinal sin of taking one of our teams away from us. Problems besieged the Devils from the very start, with two of their key players being injured in their very first season, and although one had gone on to recover, Declan Tyler seemed plagued with injury ever since. It was a favourite source of discussion on both sides of the Tasman Sea; we thought it was an act of the gods showing us that the merge should never have happened, while the Tasmanians bemoaned the fact that one of the best players in the league was doing nothing for them but to sit on the bench and occasionally run out to get injured.

I knew that Tyler would come up sooner or later, and it was sooner.

“They’ve taken Tyler away from us, and look what they did to him.”

“I don’t think it was
their
fault.”

“What are you, a Devils supporter?”

Howls of derision floated over to where I was sitting.

“No, I’m not! Just I don’t think they’re going to take someone like Tyler and then intentionally injure him so they can’t use him at all!”

“They should do
something
with him. All he does is sit on that bench and gather dust. And lard.”

“He does not. He’s hot.”

He
was
, actually. But that’s not important.

“Typical bloody woman. Just watching the game to perve at the guys in their shorts.”

There was another frenzied protest at that. I sighed to myself at that remark as well. Women and gay guys always get stuck with that image, that they couldn’t
possibly
be interested in the game itself—it had to be the guys. I mean, sure, it’s a fringe benefit, but when the game is on the last thing you’re thinking about is the bodies of the men. You’re concentrating on that red leather oval ball and if it will make it between the triad of poles that will either signify glory or failure. And some of the women I’ve met over the years at games or supporter functions have been the most vocal and knowledgeable proponents of the game.

Those very points were raised between the arguers. I laughed to myself and swore I wasn’t going to get involved. But then someone made a comment that I just had to refute.

“It’s not even like he was that great a player to begin with, anyway.”

Well, that was just wrong.

“Not a great player?” I made some of them jump when I emerged from the shadows. There were two women and three men, I could see that now. “You are talking about Declan Tyler, right? Winner of the Best and Fairest for the Devils two years

14 | SEAN KENNEDY

consecutively, a Brownlow Medallist, and winner of the Norm Smith medal
and
the Leigh Matthews Trophy? Yeah, he really sucks as a football player.”

“How many Devils fans
are
there at this party?” one of the men asked.

“I’m not a Devils supporter,” I said, the disgust plain on my face. “I barrack for Richmond.”

All five of them burst out laughing.

“Hey!” I protested. “We’re about due for a final.”

“You’ve been due for over fifty years, mate,” the woman closest to me said. I could feel someone approaching us from behind me and just assumed it was someone else interested in the conversation or a friend of one of the group. “Look, I know Tyler comes across like a bit of an arrogant prick, but you can’t say he’s not a great player. When he’s not injured, of course.”

For some reason, everybody’s eyes went wide at this point. Puzzled, I raised my hands for any kind of response.

There was the sound of somebody clearing their throat behind me. “Well, thanks for defending my honour.”

No way!
No way this was possibly happening. I turned, hoping it was just Roger being a dickhead, but I could already tell by the expressions of the rest of the group that it wasn’t.

Behind me was the man himself, Declan Tyler.

At that moment I wished that I had accompanied Roger to his martial arts classes when he went through his obsession with
wuxia
movies. I was no good at violence or defending against violence, should the occasion arise.

“Declan Tyler!” I heard one of the other men breathe in wonder.

“Well, great conversation,” I said hurriedly. “Very nice to meet you all.”

I managed to escape while the footballer in question was surrounded by the group, that, of course, was now star-struck; most of all, the man who previously had been bagging him.

I searched through the garden and the house for Roger and Fran, who were nowhere to be found. Jasper Brunswick was still in his own self-created shrine, and I couldn’t help but think that at least Declan Tyler deserved the adoration he was currently receiving, because he actually
did
something, even if it was just kicking a ball around.
Just kick a ball around?
What was I thinking? I must have been more agitated than I thought. I was hopeless at confrontations.

I burst through the front door; the yard was empty. They surely wouldn’t have left without me. I checked my mobile to make sure they hadn’t tried calling or left me a text; they hadn’t. I beat the phone in frustration against my forehead, as if I could absorb the information I needed through osmosis.

“Hey!”

I turned around. It was Declan Tyler, coming to punch my lights out. Crap.

TIGERS AND DEVILS | 15

“I know karate!” I said stupidly.

“Good for you,” he said, a confused expression on his face. It wasn’t one I was used to seeing on him; on the field he was always in control and stoic. In fact, that was his normal expression. It was like he knew how good he was, and he wasn’t going to deny it, which is where I guess my presumption of him being an arrogant prick had come from.

He was a good head taller than me, and the span of his shoulders was practically a third wider than mine. He could easily fell me with one king hit. Looking confused gave him more character, it made his boy-next-door looks become even more appealing. He had to lose that gross bit of fluff above his chin, though.

“What do you want?” I asked defensively.

He jammed his hands in his pockets. Was he trying to show me that he came in peace? “I wasn’t sure whether to thank you for defending my record or yell at you for calling me… what was it again?”

“Arrogant prick,” I said helpfully, before I could even think to stop myself. He grinned. I had walked into his trap. “Most people think I’m either one or the other. It’s rare to find someone who thinks both.”

“Really?” I asked.

“You sound surprised.”

“Well, most footballers are….” I trailed off.

He kept his grin carefully plastered on his face. “Uh huh.”

“… really nice guys,” I finished.

“Stereotypes are a killer,” he said. “I mean, if I was to go on what you look like, I would say you’re a typical arty wanker, what with your cargo pants, your Doc Martens and your all-black wardrobe.”

“Ah, but I am an arty wanker,” I replied. Rule one, always be self-deprecating and get in with insults about yourself before the other party can.

“Where’s your beret?”

“That’s for Sundays.”

Just at that moment, Fran and Roger stumbled through the front gate.

“Where have you guys been?” I demanded.

“In the cemetery,” Roger replied.

“I don’t want to know.”

“Not what you’re thinking.” Fran giggled. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

It was hard to tell who was propping the other up. I think they were really just sagging against each other, and gravity was being their friend. Roger’s eyes widened. “Are you chatting up a guy?”

16 | SEAN KENNEDY

I flushed. Roger had just committed a major faux pas. You
never
outed somebody on their behalf. I mean, it’s not like I hid it, but you should always be the one to say it yourself. It’s just commonsense, as it also gives you the opportunity to protect yourself if the situation warrants it.