Whole Wild World by Tom Dusevic Page B

people’s backyards. As we pass through St Peters, Erskineville and Redfern, the home of Souths, I see slums filled with junk. Graffiti covers fences and walls, with slogans demanding ‘Free’ such and such, names that don’t register.
    George and Sam have not stopped talking about the players. Our cousin’s favourite player is Souths’ five-eighth Dennis Pittard; he becomes the number 6 when we play footy with him. I like Eric Simms, the fullback who kicks goals. Sam is keen on Ron Coote and Bobby McCarthy, lightning-fast back-rowers.
    At Central I usually feel queasy. The stench in this part of the city knocks my insides about. Out of habit, I cover my nose and mouth to keep the smell at bay. But today the brewery is not pumping out the awful gas that rests over this part of town, like foam on a beer. The day already feels like a gift, an unplanned adventure. George knows where to get the bus to the Sydney Cricket Ground.
    There aren’t as many people around at the bus stop. Maybe we’re late? Lucky I’ve got a watch: almost 2.45. We hop on a green double-decker. The conductor is not selling tickets, a fare holiday, so we run up the stairs to secure front seats on the top deck and the best view. The streets are steep, near deserted, but the bus moves slowly. Hurry up. Outside the SCG, there are few people, except for hot-dog and program sellers. The game has started. Men offer Dado and Rudi tickets but they shake their heads.
    â€˜Aren’t we going in?’ I ask the boys. ‘Where do we get the tickets?’
    There are no general admission tickets left. The plan is to wait until half-time, when the gates are opened to all-comers. I fret.
    â€˜How do we know they’ll let us in then? It’s the Grand Final?’
    George explains it’s just a basic rule of life, which only older boys can understand. I look at my watch to work out when it’s half-time, although I have no idea how long a half of footy is. George says forty minutes. I settle on 4 pm as the point to panic.
    A tight crowd of men and boys has formed in front of an ABC broadcasting van that is as big as a demountable classroom. The game is showing on a small monitor, but we are so far back it’s impossible to make out the action. Given neither side is the home team the cheering inside the SCG is about even.
    Finally, a roar: Simms has kicked a field goal. A field goal? Isn’t that a last-gasp play to break a deadlock? And then a siren, like an approaching ambulance. Souths are leading 1–0 at half-time. It’s like a soccer match. We turn, caught in a surge towards the gates.
    â€˜Just in case we lose you, we’ll meet right here,’ says Dado.
    In an instant we’re inside the SCG. The Grand Final. But there’s nowhere to sit. Dado and Rudi disappear while the three of us try to get a glimpse of the field. It’s a whirl of jerseys, scarves and banners, the Rabbitohs’ green and red and the Dragons’ red and white. Streamers have clogged walkways. The noise bashes your head in, like being under a passing train at Belmore Park. When field action incites the crowd, the sound is so loud even private thoughts are battered.
    George finds a place for us to watch in the Brewongle Stand, on stairs right in the thick of the Dragons’ den. I can only see goalposts, backs, shoulders and heads. It’s only when people move that I see the grass. Yet for me, the body language of a nearby fat, middle-aged Saints fan, encased in footy buttons and a rosette, reveals the drama of the game. There must be fights on the field because he’s punching the air and screaming at the referee.
    Because I can’t see the game, I give up, but not in a sulk. Progress. I begin watching faces in the crowd; people don’t noticeme watching them because their eyes are on the play. Souths score, our supporters cheer. The plump Saints man gets up from his seat, all the time now,