Mark for the Babe

Damn, that was a good mark.

Nic sprints like a berserker, leaps and stabs his shiny knee into Bruce's sweaty back and claims the gleaming footy in his bear-like hands.

I sit down on a splintered bench and watch them all play.

Nic, the football dag.

Bruce, the sweetheart brumby.

Anthony, the single battler.

And Mark, the bonzer brickie.

Every Saturday I come to the footy oval with my babe and watch a friendly game, I even join in with the game most of the time. I watch Nic handball over to Mark. He runs with his powerful legs, dribbling the old, crimson ball every few strides.

He kicks it.

It flies through the air.

Time seems to slow down.

Damn that Mark, I love him so much.

And it's a goal.

The ball soars through the golden posts and contacts with the prickly grass, bounces a few times, and lays to rest just tipping my thongs. I strain to pick it up. Its leathery surface felt smooth on my fingers. Green stains obscured the faded logo. How many times have I, a woman, kicked this ball through the posts?

Too many times to count.

I think I've watched enough; footy's more fun to play than watch anyway.

I stand up and stretch my cramping back; I feel so, so heavy. But I don't care. I feel like there's a tiny Roo in my stomach jumping joyously for me to play, to be engulfed into the spirit of the sport.

I hobble over onto the oval, and dribble the ball as I take each laborious step. The grass crumples under my thongs, not the best football attire, but it keeps the prickles out of my feet. With each step I see the men look at me, their faces grow sour, their smiles turn into frowns, except Nic.

It's always Nic.

"YES, LOREN!" Nic booms.

"Shut up, Nic!" Anthony hisses, "Ya know she can't play! Just look at her."

"If she wants to play, she can damn right play! She's twice the player you'll ever be."

"Nic, you bloody know better... and what's that supposed to mean? She is twice the player!"

"Bloody numbat."

"Show Pony."

"Look, Loren," Mark gently places his hands on my shoulders, his gleaming eyes piercing into my soul, "if anyone knows better, it's you. Go buy us some beers, please?"

I'm fuming. Who does he think I am? I ain't goin' ta buy some bloody beers that I can't even drink! I stare into his eyes; he knows he's pissed me off. I handball the footy to Bruce, a little too hard. If he wasn't ready it would have smashed him in the nose, but he managed to catch it.

Just.

Fine I'll get you buggers your beers; though I can't say they'll be in the best shape.

I stalk off, my thongs clicking the heels of my feet while I stomp to my 1998 Mitsubishi Montero. I thrust the key into the lock and twist my wrist, open the door and slam it shut after I struggle into the front seat. I start the engine and drive off.

***

I return to the oval with a carton of Carlton beers and return to my parking spot. The men sat on the curb while I tried to escape the car.

"Here's your beers." I huff. I open up the boot of the car, revealing the crimson carton.

"You've finally cooled off?" Bruce asks moving to open up the cardboard.

"Yea, but still a little pissed off."

"Com'on, Loren!" Nic sighed, wrapping an arm around my side, "you need to know your limits, especially if you want to keep that little Rug Rat of yours safe."

"Well, your opinion has changed," I laugh.

"Let's just say I got a good talking to by your mister."

I look over to Mark and give him an apologetic smile. I walk over to him and give him a kiss on the cheek. He places his hand on my bulging stomach. I suddenly feel a sharp pain.

"Hooley Dooley!" I wheeze, grabbing Mark for support, "This little vegemite's kickin'."

Mark looked into my eyes, "Hopefully it'll be kickin' a footy one day."

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Author's Note

Hey guys!

Thank you so much for reading my little short story! Honestly it means so such to me that you took the time to read it. I really do hope you enjoyed it!

Thanks you guys so much!

R. E. Ferguson

P.S. If you didn't understand the Aussie slang, I'm pretty sure google can help you out with that. XP