My Private Pectus by Shane Thamm Page A

said.
    â€˜Yeah?’ he said.
    â€˜Can I have an interview?’ I asked.
    â€˜Send us ya résumé,’ he said, followed by more breathing. ‘Listen, mate, I've gotta go. Why don't you call back?’ He hung up.
    I stared at my mobile then put it down. Maybe Oscar's wasn't such a bright idea after all, I thought. It was the army or bust.

i peaked too soon
    The excitement of tackling The P hasn't exactly filled me with an aura of invincibility. In fact, right now I'm crapping my pants. We're at our first game and it's against Cavendish Road State High School. Those guys are red-hot. Cav Road has a Rugby League Centre of Excellence. At St Phil's we've got Maloney and Dad. Speaks for itself, really. We're gonna get murdered.
    I'm on the run-on team, not even the bench. Dad can't shut up about it. He's so excited about it he assembled the frame of the bird aviary in just over a day. He dragged me down to Charlie the Hoarder's for hinges, a sheet of corrugated iron and more wire mesh. I thought about inviting Sam, but chickened out.
    Getting off the bus, I look across the oval. The Cav Road guys are there, stretching, doing passing drills and grubber kicks. They're not that big. After all, they're Cav Road's lowest grade team. It's not like St Phil's plays first division.
    Dad pulls up nearby in the Pissan. He gets out and without shutting the door he makes a beeline for me. He wraps an arm over my slouched shoulders. ‘I know it's only your first game for St Philip's,’ he says, ‘but as long as you get stuck in and have a go, you'll do me proud.’
    â€˜Sure, Dad,’ I say, knowing full well he'll only be proud if I play well. It'll have nothing to do with how hard I try.
    As a team, we saunter across the car park, trying to look tough, but we can't be doing a good job because the Cav Road guys point and snigger. And it turns out that they aren't small at all—they're big. Real big. I hate it when it works like that: harmless at a distance, killers up close. Like paddling out into the surf and facing the breakers.
    I spot one mangy guy who's staring at us. He's got facial hair, is even receding a bit, or maybe he just pulls his hair when he's angry. He must be angry a lot. His nose is flat as and I wonder if all the breaks have come from footy or fights. He shoves a black mouthguard into his mouth and chews.
    Dad gees us up before the game as Maloney stands nearby, keeping watch. ‘Do the basics,’ he says. ‘Complete your sets, wrap the ball up. Don't miss any tackles.’ The boys nod, lapping it up.
    Gez whispers, ‘How you feeling?’
    â€˜Bit nervous,’ I say. ‘Did you see that guy over there?’ I nod in the direction of the mouthguard eater.
    Gez nods. ‘Played against him last year. Lowlife. You gotta watch him.’
    After Dad finishes, he comes over to me. He puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘Good luck,’ he says.
    â€˜Thanks, Dad.’
    â€˜Just try your hardest,’ he says.
    â€˜No worries.’
    Gez plays in the centre and The P's at five-eighth. From that position he can control the game. Steve's at lock, which is in the forward line. Cuppas is prop, which is normally the position for the biggest forward, so it suits Cuppas well. I'm at full-back. Like Hauffy, whoever he was.
    My first half is a blinder. I catch bombs, put on a try-saving tackle, and run hard whenever I get the ball. But these Cav Road guys aren't like their A-team counterparts. They're sloppy with their passes, lazy with their tackles. A few of us get nailed, but we make a few breaks, score a few tries.
    It's near half-time when I get under a bomb on our try line. The ball goes high, it swirls in the breeze. Then it descends. I hear the opposition running in.
    â€˜Keep your eyes on the ball!’ Dad yells.
    I steady my feet, and ready my hands. The ball plummets into my grasp and then I'm off. I dodge one guy then run straight into the path of