An Iron Rose by Peter Temple Read Free Book Online Page A

looked around the field. There were about twenty spectators left, some of them dogs sitting in old utes.
     
    ‘Slab says you can’t do it,’ said the player closest to me. He was just another anonymous mudman but I knew the voice.
     
    ‘Very supportive, Flannery,’ I said. ‘You’re on, you little prick.’
     
    Squinting against the rain, I took my run-up into the gale, scared that I was going to slip before I could even make the kick.
     
    But I didn’t. I managed to give the ball a reasonable punt before my left leg went out under me. I hit the ground with my left shoulder and slid towards goal.
     
    And as I lay in the cold black mud, the wind paused for a second or two and the ball went straight between the uprights.
     
    The final whistle went. Victory. Victory in round eight of the second division of the Brockley and District League. I got up. My shoulder felt dislocated. ‘That’ll be a slab of Boag, Flannery,’ I said. ‘You fucking traitor.’
     
    ‘Brought out yer best,’ Flannery said. ‘Psychology. Read about it.’
     
    I said, ‘Read about it? Psychology in Pictures. I didn’t know they’d done that.’
     
    We staggered off in the direction of the corrugated-iron changing room. On the way, Billy Garrett joined us. ‘Pisseasy kick,’ he said.
     
    ‘That’s why you didn’t want it, Billy,’ I said. ‘Not enough challenge.’
     
    After we’d wiped off the worst of the mud and changed, we drove the hundred metres to the Heart of Oak. Mick Doolan had about twenty beers lined up.
     
    ‘Magnificent, me boyos,’ he said. ‘Out of the textbook. And good to see you followin instructions, Flannery. Hasn’t always bin the case.’
     
    ‘Instructions?’ Flannery said. ‘I didn’t hear any instructions.’
     
    The outside door opened and the big bloke who’d broken Scotty Ewan’s nose came in. Behind him were four or five of the other larger members of the Millthorpe side, just in case. He came over to Mick.
     
    ‘Bloke of yours all right?’ he said. ‘Didn’t intend him no harm. Sort of run into me arm.’ He looked down at his right forearm as if inquiring something of it.
     
    ‘Perfectly all right,’ Mick said. ‘Hazard of the game. Nothin modern medical science can’t handle. Won’t be out for more than three or four. Shout you fellas a beer?’
     
    ‘Thanks, no,’ the man said. ‘Be gettin back. Just didn’t want to go short of sayin me regrets.’
     
    ‘You’re a gentleman, Chilla,’ Mick said. ‘There’s not many would take the trouble.’
     
    After they’d left, Flannery said, ‘There’s not many would have the fuckin front to come around here afterwards. Might as well’ve hit Scotty with an axe handle.’
     
    ‘Think positively,’ Mick said. ‘Some good in the worst tragedy. Got the penalty. And we won.’
     
    ‘Bloody won a lot easier if you’d play Lew,’ Billy Garrett said. ‘Be the only bloke under thirty in the side.’
     
    I said, ‘Also the only bloke who can run more than five metres without stopping for a cough and a puke.’
     
    Mick took a deep drink, wiped the foam from his lips, shook his head. ‘Don’t understand, do ya lads? Young fella’s pure gold. Do ya put your young classical piano player in a woodchoppin competition? Do ya risk your young golf talent on a frozen paddick with grown men, violent spudgrubbers and the like? Bloody no, that’s the answer. Boy’s goin to be a champion.’
     
    ‘Speakin of champions,’ said Flannery. ‘Reckon I’m givin away this runnin around in the mud on Satdee arvos, big fellas tryin to bump into me. All me joints achin.’ He scratched his impossibly dense curly dog hair. ‘Could be me last season.’
     
    Mick’s eyes narrowed. He rubbed his small nose. ‘Last season? That so? Well, Flanners me boyo, get to the Grand Final, I’ll point out a coupla fellas ya can take into retirement with ya.’
     
    I took the next shout. Then Vinnie came in from fighting with the