My Private Pectus by Shane Thamm Page B

their mangy, mouthguard-eating winger. He leaps, wraps himself around my chest. His feet come off the ground. I stoop under his weight. Then he reaches for the back of my collar and somersaults me forward as his feet hit the grass. Somehow, I end up on my back, with his knee in my throat. He smiles and his mouthguard drops out onto my face with a string of saliva.
    I get up and play the ball then promise myself to get him back.
    Come half-time, everything is electric. No one can sit down. We all jump about, pat each other's backs like we've won the game. Gez is laughing, The P is preaching to Steve about the try he scored. We're eighteen points up and even Dad's looking cocky as all else. He sits us down, tells us to keep up the effort.
    â€˜There's still plenty in the game,’ he warns, but it washes over us. We're up and we know it.
    â€˜We've kept 'em tryless,’ someone says and we all give a proud grunt.
    â€˜See if you can keep it that way,’ Dad says and there's more shouting and back slapping.
    Dad tells Gez to keep up the effort, tells The P he's doing nothing wrong. He whispers something to Cuppas, which gets him grinning. Then he says to me, ‘Jack, I want you to stay deeper in defence, especially late in the tackle count, and run harder at the defence when you return the ball. Don't pussyfoot around, just go for it.’ Screw him, I think, I'm doing just fine.
    But come the second half, Cav Road plays nothing like they did during the first. Whatever spread they copped from their coach seems to have worked. They hit their targets when they pass, kick well, and run fiercely at our defence. We get tired. Get sloppy. They score a couple of tries out wide and soon the score's 18-12.
    â€˜Dig deep!’ The P keeps shouting. ‘Dig deep!’ and he tells us where to stand in defence. He points at me and screams, ‘Get back! Go deep!’ but I pretend I can't hear him and stay up in the defensive line. I'm after that mangy winger. When he gets the ball I'm going to bolt out of the line and nail him. Just like I nailed The P.
    Then they send it wide. The winger gets the ball. I charge out from the line, ready to kill him. He sees me and prepares to pass as I drive into him, but not before he gets the ball away. It goes in-field to their centre, who belts straight through the gap I left in our defensive line. He scores.
    Dad walks along the sideline as I head back to our goal posts to join the team huddle. ‘What are you up to, Jack? What did I say about staying deep?’ But I jog away and join the team, only to cop more.
    â€˜You think we're a charity, eh, Sticks?’ The P says when I arrive. ‘You think we're here to give the game away?’
    All the boys stare at me.
    â€˜We're still up,’ I say, feeling guilty as all hell.
    Even Gez has a shot: ‘Just stay in position, Sticks.’
    Cav Road converts and levels the score.
    From the sideline, Dad makes some changes. He puts Cuppas on the bench for a breather and shifts me out to the wing, as far out of the action as he can.
    But it's not long before I have a chance to redeem myself. Cav Road kicks the ball long and deep. I run back and gather. I step around one guy, then palm off the next and am left with seventy metres of open pasture to the try line. Tucking the ball under my armpit I go for it. My legs start slowly. I can hear a Cav Road player breathing behind me, but once I wind up, I'm off. The boys shout and scream from behind. ‘Go, Sticks! Go!’ Even Dad is jumping by the sideline and waving me on. The boys on the bench rise. They shout and cheer.
    â€˜Left!’ someone yells. ‘Man on, left!’
    I look over my shoulder and see that mangy winger coming for me. He's quick and gaining fast. I look up. The try line's still thirty metres away. I'm not gonna make it.
    â€˜Go, Jack, go!’ Dad shouts.
    Twenty metres.
    I look at the guy again. I am gonna make it! I am gonna make