l them. He sets up shop on the sideline, even catering for the kids with soft drinks and lollies.
The Falcons go in to score a few times and spring to a good lead.
"What the hell's going on?" someone asks as we stand next to the posts. It's big Merv. As captain, he feels he should at least say something. "Jesus, there's only one of us having a chop and that's...Hey, what's your name again?"
I'm startled because he's pointing at me.
Taken aback, I answer. "Ed," I say, "Kennedy."
"Well, Ed here's the only one running hard and tackling. Now come on!"
I keep running.
Mimi keeps monstering and abusing me, and I'm wondering if he'll ever run out of breath. Surely someone that big in this heat can't go much longer.
I'm on the ground when Reggie calls halftime and everyone goes off for a beer. Each player will then convince himself, with difficulty, to go back on.
During the interval, I lie down in the shade near the Doorman and the boy. That's when Audrey turns up. She asks nothing about the state of me because she knows it's just more messenger work. It's becoming normal now, so I don't go into it.
"You all right?" she asks.
I sigh happily and say, "Sure, I'm loving life."
In the second half there's a turnaround and we fight back. Ritchie scores in the corner and then another guy goes in under the posts. It's even.
Marv's playing well now, too, and it's tight for a long time.
Mimi's finally getting tired, and during an injury break Marv comes over and stirs me up. "Oi," he digs into me, "you still haven't hurt that big bloody sheila yet." He's all blond sticky hair and determined eyes.
I object. "Well, look at the size of him, Marv. He's bigger than Mama Grape, for Christ's sake!"
"Who's Mama Grape?"
"You know--from that book." I give in. "And they made a movie out of it. Don't you remember? Johnny Depp?"
"Either way, Ed--get up there and give him some!"
So I do.
There's a guy being assisted from the field, and I go over to Mimi.
We look at each other.
I say, "Run at me next time you get the ball."
And I walk away, positively shitting myself.
Play resumes then, and Mimi does it.
He winds up and runs at me, and for some reason I know that I'm going to do it. He charges onto the ball, I line him up, go forward, and all I hear is the sound. There's a big collision and everything shakes. As the crowd goes insane I realize I'm still standing--and Mimi's lying in a crumpled heap on the ground.
Soon everyone's around me, saying great work and such, but a sudden sickness falls to my stomach. I feel awful for what I've done and the big number 12 on Mimi's back stares forlornly back at me, motionless.
"Is he alive?" someone asks.
"Who gives a shit?" comes the answer.
I vomit.