didn’t care, and in the next room, Sarah and Bruce were arguing.
Rube came in and slumped forward onto his bed. He put his pillow over his head and said, “I think I liked ‘em better when they were all over each other.”
“Yeah, me too.”
I too slumped onto my bed, only I decided to turn on my back and cover my eyes with my hands. Squashing my thumbs in, I made myself see patterns in my darkness.
“What’s for dinner?” I asked Rube, dreading the answer.
“Sausages, I think, and leftover mushrooms.”
“Ah, beautiful.” I turned on my side, in pain. “Just bloody beautiful.”
Rube took his pillow off his head then and gravely said, “We’re out of tomato sauce as well.”
“Even more beautiful.”
I stopped speaking then, but I continued moaning inside. After a while I got tired of it and thought,
Don’t worry, Cameron. Every dog willday.
Just, not on this day.
(We did eat the mushrooms, by the way. We looked down at them, then up. Then down again. Disgusting. No point backing away. We ate them because we were us and in the end, we ate everything. We always did. We always ate everything. Even if we spewed up our dinner and had it given to us again the next night, Rube and I probably would have eaten that too.)
There’s a big crowd, around a fight, and they are all yelling and howling and screaming, as though punches are landing and fists are molding faces. It’s a huge crowd, about eight deep, so it is very difficult to push my way through.
I get down on my knees.
I crawl.
I look for gaps and then slip through them, until eventually, I’m there. I’m at the front of the crowd, which is a giant circle, thick.
“Go!” the guy next to me yells. “Go hard!” Still, I look at the crowd. I don’t watch the fight. Not yet.
There are all kinds of people amongst this crowd. Skinny. Fat. Black. White. Yellow. They all look on and scream into the middle of the ring.
The guy next to me is always shrieking in my ear, drilling right through my skull to my brain. I feel his voice in my lungs. That’s how loud he is. Nothing stops him, even the ones behind who throw words at him to make him shut up. It is no use.
I try stopping him myself, by asking him something — a shout over the rest of the crowd. “Who y’ going for?” I ask.
He stops his noise. Immediately. He stares.
At the fight. Then at me.
A few more seconds pass and he says, “I’m goin’ for the underdog … I have to.” He laughs a little, sympathetically. “Gotta go for the underdog.”
It is then that I look at the fight, for the first time.
“Hey.”
Something is strange.
“Hey,” I ask the guy again, because there is only one fighter inside the huge, loud, throbbing circle. A boy. He is throwing punches wildly and moving around and blocking and swinging his arms at nothing. “Hey, how come there’s only the one fella fighting?” It is the guy next to me again that I have asked.
He doesn’t look at me this time, no. He keeps focused on the boy in the circle, who fights on so intensely that no one can take their eyes off him.
The guy speaks to me.
An answer.
“He’s fighting the world.” And now, I watch as the underdog in the middle of the circle fights on and stands and falls and returns to his haunches and feet and fights on again. He fights on, no matter how hard he hits the ground. He gets up. Some people cheer him. Others laugh now and rubbish him.
Feeling comes out of me.
I watch.
My eyes swell, and burn. “Can he win?”
I ask it, and now, I too cannot take my eyes off the boy in the circle.
CHAPTER 9
On the Sunday, Rube copped another hammering on the football paddock, Steve’s side lost without him, and I wandered the streets a little bit. I didn’t feel like going home that day. Sometimes you just don’t. You know. It was time to take stock of things.
At first, I allowed the sullen events of the previous day to cloud my path as I walked. I walked beyond Lumsden Oval, deeper
Rube came in and slumped forward onto his bed. He put his pillow over his head and said, “I think I liked ‘em better when they were all over each other.”
“Yeah, me too.”
I too slumped onto my bed, only I decided to turn on my back and cover my eyes with my hands. Squashing my thumbs in, I made myself see patterns in my darkness.
“What’s for dinner?” I asked Rube, dreading the answer.
“Sausages, I think, and leftover mushrooms.”
“Ah, beautiful.” I turned on my side, in pain. “Just bloody beautiful.”
Rube took his pillow off his head then and gravely said, “We’re out of tomato sauce as well.”
“Even more beautiful.”
I stopped speaking then, but I continued moaning inside. After a while I got tired of it and thought,
Don’t worry, Cameron. Every dog willday.
Just, not on this day.
(We did eat the mushrooms, by the way. We looked down at them, then up. Then down again. Disgusting. No point backing away. We ate them because we were us and in the end, we ate everything. We always did. We always ate everything. Even if we spewed up our dinner and had it given to us again the next night, Rube and I probably would have eaten that too.)
There’s a big crowd, around a fight, and they are all yelling and howling and screaming, as though punches are landing and fists are molding faces. It’s a huge crowd, about eight deep, so it is very difficult to push my way through.
I get down on my knees.
I crawl.
I look for gaps and then slip through them, until eventually, I’m there. I’m at the front of the crowd, which is a giant circle, thick.
“Go!” the guy next to me yells. “Go hard!” Still, I look at the crowd. I don’t watch the fight. Not yet.
There are all kinds of people amongst this crowd. Skinny. Fat. Black. White. Yellow. They all look on and scream into the middle of the ring.
The guy next to me is always shrieking in my ear, drilling right through my skull to my brain. I feel his voice in my lungs. That’s how loud he is. Nothing stops him, even the ones behind who throw words at him to make him shut up. It is no use.
I try stopping him myself, by asking him something — a shout over the rest of the crowd. “Who y’ going for?” I ask.
He stops his noise. Immediately. He stares.
At the fight. Then at me.
A few more seconds pass and he says, “I’m goin’ for the underdog … I have to.” He laughs a little, sympathetically. “Gotta go for the underdog.”
It is then that I look at the fight, for the first time.
“Hey.”
Something is strange.
“Hey,” I ask the guy again, because there is only one fighter inside the huge, loud, throbbing circle. A boy. He is throwing punches wildly and moving around and blocking and swinging his arms at nothing. “Hey, how come there’s only the one fella fighting?” It is the guy next to me again that I have asked.
He doesn’t look at me this time, no. He keeps focused on the boy in the circle, who fights on so intensely that no one can take their eyes off him.
The guy speaks to me.
An answer.
“He’s fighting the world.” And now, I watch as the underdog in the middle of the circle fights on and stands and falls and returns to his haunches and feet and fights on again. He fights on, no matter how hard he hits the ground. He gets up. Some people cheer him. Others laugh now and rubbish him.
Feeling comes out of me.
I watch.
My eyes swell, and burn. “Can he win?”
I ask it, and now, I too cannot take my eyes off the boy in the circle.
CHAPTER 9
On the Sunday, Rube copped another hammering on the football paddock, Steve’s side lost without him, and I wandered the streets a little bit. I didn’t feel like going home that day. Sometimes you just don’t. You know. It was time to take stock of things.
At first, I allowed the sullen events of the previous day to cloud my path as I walked. I walked beyond Lumsden Oval, deeper
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