years, apparently.
But in Evolution, we cracked wise. And, to be fair, he was alright. He threw some solid chat. Apart from our shared appreciation for the science-explained wonders of the universe, Stevie also liked footy. Loved footy. We talked footy a lot.
Paying frankly imperfect attention to the blackboard, we talked about the code (Australian rules of course), the teams, the stars (Carey, Hird, Lockett); we chatted about who we supported and why (him: Footscray and family, me: Fremantle and whim); we talked about our personal experiences in the game. As our quality banter went the journey, I formed the distinct but anomalous impression, after a quiet line or two here and a shadowy hint there, that Stevie had tickets on himself. He was a gun, or had been, back in the day.
Bullshit, I thought. Must have been. I wasn’t then the expert armchair judge of a footballer I’ve become but, even so, I knew a gun needed more bullets than Stevie could stick in his bandolier. With a dismissiveness befitting a Soviet show trial, I receipted and filed him as a skinny try-hard.
Nonetheless, I deigned to encourage him down to train with my footy team. He declined initially, but in the last week of pre-season — just as it got really clear-night, star-bright, Canberra cold, when all you can think about is a chilli-hot shower and massive spag bol — he showed up shivering in tracky-dacks, a woollen Doggies jumper, gloves, and a beanie.
I was surprised that he rocked up, and not super happy about it. It was the self-styled reputation thing again. The point being, if I was going to bring someone to the club, I wanted to bring a weapon. A semi-automatic assault rifle with an unlimited magazine masquerading as a six-foot-five Victorian prodigy who’d emerged from the womb mouthguard on and boots laced. Not a stunted 20-year-old with an age exemption, delusions of faded grandeur and the destructive threat of a water pistol.
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