Zac and Mia by A.J. Betts

puppy.
    ‘That’s it, Zac. Come on.’
    What the hell?
    I look to Bec.
An award? For what?
But she, Mum, Dad and Evan are clapping along with everyone else. I gulp what remains of my bread roll and sauce.
    Players and parents shift their knees as I weave to the front of the hall, scouring my memory for whatever I’ve done to deserve an end-of-season cricket award.Fielding outer from a camping chair?
    I’ve been out of hospital for fourteen weeks, and in that time I’ve only played four matches. Everyone’s seen how shit my bowling’s been. My fielding wasn’t too bad, on the one occasion the ball came within a metre of me. And my batting? I wasn’t even allowed. The reality is I don’t deserve a free Coke, let alone the trophy gripped in Macka’s hairy hand.
    Then it hits me: Best and freakin Fairest. It’s a sympathy vote at the best of times, rewarding good humour and ‘effort’, as opposed to any real skill. Everyone above the age of ten knows it’s a consolation prize. For once, I’m glad that my old mates aren’t around to witness this.
    Macka grabs me as I reach the top step. From here, I see the sweat beads on his forehead and the moist ellipses spreading out from his armpits. It’s embarrassing how much he relishes this.
    Macka turns me to face the crowd, holding me in case I run. Sympathetic faces shine up at me.
    ‘Many of you wouldn’t know it, but Zac was the kind of athlete who could have gone a number of ways: AFL, basketball, soccer, rugby. It didn’t matter the shape or size of the ball, Zac knew what to do with it. He always had good hands.’
    Eyes go searching for my hands so I push them deep into my jeans pockets.
    ‘Footy was a passion, but after he started feeling … not so flash … last year, I convinced him to spend more time with the “gentleman’s game”. Remember, Zac?’
    How can I forget? Footy wore me out so I had to do something else with my afternoons. It was either cricket or swimming. And who’d choose swimming?
    ‘Good hands, good speed, and a heart as big as Phar Lap’s. Even when Zac got … the bad news … he’d still turn up. When he could.’
    Macka’s too clumsy for this.
Get back to the novelty awards
, I want to tell him.
Start on desserts—the mini pavlovas are getting soggy over there
. If he drops the ‘C’ bomb, I’m legging it.
    ‘But he’s pulled through—again—and demonstrated real character, on and off the field. He even showed up to training on the day of his eighteenth birthday, cake and all. He’s a real team player, our Zac.’
    I’d love to stuff the trophy into Macka’s big mouth, but his next words come out choked up anyway.
    ‘We’re all proud of you, Zac. Even when you were in hospital, you’d be on the Facebook, checking our results and giving
us
encouragement. A real battler. No one deserves this award more than you.’
    And there it is—the final, backhanded compliment.
    I give two sarcastic thumbs-up, snatch the trophy, then jump off the stage. I take the side door, and keep on going. I jog across the floodlit field, past the pitch, the semi-circular soccer markings and the footy posts, aiming for beyond the field where floodlights can’t find me. Then I peg the trophy as far as I can into the unlit national park where, by day, mountain-bikers bump over rocks and grass-tree stumps. Tomorrow, there’ll be a new obstacle for them to avoid.
    I lean over to catch my breath. Each exhalation is a quick cold punch in the dark. I’m clear of leukaemia, I’ve got new marrow, so why does this have to follow me? Best and fucking fairest? I don’t want charity votes or pity prizes. I don’t want a big deal made out of just showing up.
    ‘If that’s how you throw, I’m surprised they gave you anything.’
    Bec. I should’ve known she’d follow.
    ‘Macka—’
    ‘Macka’s a knob. You know that.’
    ‘Yeah. But still …’ I spit and it tastes of tomato sauce. ‘He shouldn’t have said that. I just want to be