Out of His League Read online

  Ozzie saw paintings of his heroes, of football legends with names like Wally and Alfie and Locky, on the outside wall of the stadium that used to be called Lang Park. His grandfather had told him a lot of stories, most more than once. But not this one.

  “When?”

  Jack’s fingers tapped the wheel. “Must have been late forties or early fifties, not too long after the war. Got picked for Queensland Country and we played against Country New South Wales, curtain-raiser for the main game.”

  “How’d you do?”

  “We lost, I remember that.”

  “Did ya play well?”

  “Didn’t get off the bench. Had a run-in with the coach.”

  Ozzie looked at his grandfather.

  “Bloody city bloke,” Jack continued. “Always talking down to us. The night before was the official dinner. Free booze. I must’ve had too many, ’cause I told him where to go, all right. Told him the only way I knew how.”

  “Did ya break anything?”

  “Just bruised m’ knuckles. Some of the other blokes said if I hadn’t, they would’ve.”

  “They probably wanted to play.”

  Jack chuckled and Ozzie shook his head. Maybe now he’d heard all his grandfather’s stories.

  “A funny thing happened, though,” said Jack.

  Maybe not.

  “In the main game, Queensland was copping a hidin.’ In those days the New South Wales clubs, who had poker-machine money behind ’em, bought all the best players. No State of Origin back then either, so year after year ex-Queenslanders would wear blue and beat us. It was bloody sickenin’.“

  The traffic had cleared but Jack drove as slowly as he talked. Ozzie wanted to tell him to hurry up but knew it wouldn’t achieve anything until the story was finished.

  “I think it was forty-eight zilch or somethin’, and so many Queenslanders were injured that the coach asked if any of us wanted a run. Quick as a flash I jumped up. Didn’t want to come to the city for nothin’. “

  Jack gave Ozzie a wink. Ozzie wished he’d look at the road.

  “But you wouldn’t have been on the roster,” said Ozzie. “They can’t just let anyone on the field.”

  Jack snorted. “Could in those days. Besides, the game was almost over so no one cared.”

  “Did ya touch the ball?”

  “My oath. Scored a try.”

  “You scored a try for Queensland? Pull the other one.”

  Jack’s foot transferred from accelerator to brake and he tugged at the wheel. No power steering in this automobile; it was an antique. Someone beeped their horn. “You calling your granddad a liar?”

  “Oh, come on, Pop …”

  He stopped on the side of the road. The shoulder wasn’t wide enough for cars to pass easily and a line began building.

  Ozzie laughed in shock. “Pop, let’s go.”

  “Are you calling your granddad a liar?”

  Ozzie hesitated. “No. Can we go now?”

  “Say you’re sorry.”

  Another hesitation. More beeping.

  “Sorry.” Ozzie looked away.

  Without checking his mirrors, Jack pulled back onto the road.

  A few more minutes passed in silence. They were hitting every yellow light and Jack stopped at them all.

  “Tell me about it,” said Ozzie, finally.

  “What?”

  “The try.”

  Jack glanced at the crack in the top left corner of the windscreen, then peered straight ahead. “Chooka Jones, our best player, made a bust in the last minute of the game. Everyone was dead on their feet so I was the only bugger who followed him. Fresh as a daisy, I was. Chooka was pulled down at the ten, got up fast and played the ball, and I stepped past the marker and ran it under the posts.”

  Ozzie looked at his watch and realized the plane left in forty-five minutes. His ticket said to get there two hours early, which meant he was an hour and fifteen minutes late already. “You think you could drive a bit faster, Pop?”

  Jack sped up for a minute, then slowed again. “Funny thing, the announcer didn’t know who I was. Kept calling me the mystery man. ‘The mystery man scores for the Maroons,’ he said. The name stuck and for years people called me ‘Mystery.’”

  Ozzie spotted a plane. At first he thought it was landing, but then saw that it was taking off. He hoped it wasn’t going to America.

  chapter 7

  By the time they parked (Ozzie knew Jack would have a small fit when he found out the cost of airport parking on the way out) and checked in Ozzie’s one bag (luckily the plane was delayed, otherwise he would have missed it), it was time to go. They stood under a sign above an escalator that said Passengers Only.

  “What’s the difference between an Australian and a septic tank?” Jack asked.

  “What?” said Ozzie.

  “The Australian’s only full of crap after a few beers.”

  “No. I mean, what’s a septic tank?”

  Jack shook his head. “Where do I go every Friday night?”

  “The pub.”

  “The rubbity dub. Where’s your wallet?”

  “In my pocket.”

  “In your skyrocket. So you tell me what a septic tank is?”

  Ozzie smiled. “A Yank.”

  “Too right, son.”

  “Any trouble, Pop, call Johnno,” said Ozzie. “He’ll help you round the farm.”

  “Johnno couldn’t help himself to free ice cream.”

  “I’ll write once a week. If you had the bloody phone on I’d ring.”

  “Watch your bloody language, son.”

  They shook hands.

  Ozzie stepped onto the escalator and began to sink down. He turned. “Hey, Pop?”

  Jack hadn’t moved.

  “That was a good story you told in the car.”

  For an instant Jack looked confused. Then he smiled.

  “Lang Park wasn’t even built till 1960,” Ozzie continued. “So how could you have scored a try there?”

  The last thing Ozzie saw before Jack disappeared was the smile leaving his face. Ozzie knew what he said was true, but he wished he could have taken it back.

  Don’t open till on plane

  Dear Ozzie,

  A card and a Caramello Koala to help you fly. When you’re real high in the sky (hey, I’m a poet!) look down and think of me and I’ll look up and smile. You make me smile, Oz. Even though there’s a hole in my heart now you’re gone, I want you to have a great time in America, I really do. I hope you find what you’re looking for.

  But I can’t wait till you come home. I promise you one thing: I’ll be waiting.

  Love always,

  Jess XXXOOO

  PS What’s the time?

  Ozzie was studying his watch when a screen dropped in front of his face. “Ladies and gentlemen,” said an actor dressed as a flight attendant, “for your safety and comfort, we require your full attention.”

  After learning about emergency exits, oxygen masks, and life vests equipped with whistles, the engines roared and the plane raced down the runway. Without knowing it, Ozzie gripped the seat. The wheels lifted and houses became matchboxes, trucks turned into toys, and like a sucker punch it hit him in the gut that there was no going back. He was leaving Pop, Johnno, Jess, and the only place he’d ever known.

  When there was nothing to see but blue, Ozzie tilted the seat back and shut his eyes—trying to make up for the sleep he’d missed last night. By the time Jess had helped him pack it was late, even later after their long kiss good-bye. Promises were made. Ozzie dreamed about it now—not the promises but the kissing. It made him feel better. They lay together while Pop lay in the next room, snoring.

  The droning of the plane helped the dream, made it more real than perhaps it was. He tasted her neck, felt her tongue as it worked its way down his chest. Suddenly, there was wetness in his lap. It was so warm it burned his thigh.

  “I’m sorry!” said a voice.

  Don’t be, sai
d Ozzie to his mind.

  “I’ll get a towel,” said the voice.

  Good idea, he thought.

  He opened his eyes now and saw a flight attendant. She was holding a jug of coffee, surveying the damage. A panicked look spread across her face—perhaps she was already anticipating a lawsuit. “Back in a sec,” she said.

  Ozzie woke up properly. The girl next to him gave a little smile. “That’s one way to wake you up.”

  She was looking at Ozzie’s crotch. A dark stain spread across his jeans.

  “Any damage?” she asked.

  “It’s hot,” Ozzie said. “But I should be all right.”

  The flight attendant returned with a towel. “I’m so sorry,” she repeated. “Turbulence. Of course we’ll be happy to pay for the dry cleaning.”

  Ozzie almost laughed. His old jeans had seen a lot worse than spilled coffee. “No worries.” He took a peek at the girl who had spoken to him. He was sure she hadn’t been there when they took off. “Where are we?”

  “On a plane.”

  “Thanks.”

  She smiled. “You’ve been asleep since I got on in Sydney. Reckon you would have slept all the way to Hawaii if the hostess hadn’t tried to decaffeinate your manhood.”

  Ozzie vaguely remembered the bump of wheels on tarmac but he’d turned it into a dream about driving a tractor. “We stopped at Sydney already? Damn, I wanted to see Aussie Stadium.”

  The girl laughed. “You going on holiday?”

  “Exchange,” said Ozzie. “High school in America.”

  She nodded. “I thought you looked young.”

  “How old are you?” he asked.

  “Seventeen.”

  “I’m eighteen.”

  “Yeah, but …”

  “But what?”

  She looked at Ozzie’s dirty Dunlop Volley tennis shoes. “Where’re you from?”

  “Yuranigh. West Queensland.”

  “So you’re a country boy?”

  “S’pose.”

  “Ever been overseas before?”

  “No …”

  “Melbourne?”

  “No.”

  “Anywhere?”

  “I’ve been to Sydney.”

  “When?”

  “A few hours ago.”

  They smiled.

  “Which part of America?” she asked.

  “Texas.”

  She put on her best southern American accent. “Everything’s bigger in Texas.”

  “So I’ve heard. Where are you going?”

  “Los Angeles.”

  “What for?”

  “I’m an actor.” She put on an American accent again, but this one was different. “I’m going to be a star.”

  They talked for a long time. Ozzie was impressed that here was someone younger than he who was leaving Australia on a wing and a prayer. He had a family to stay with and an organization behind him if anything went wrong. And this girl only had a friend of a friend she could perhaps stay with for a few weeks, and the phone number of an agent she’d never met. The fact that she seemed less nervous than he was worried him a little.

  “What do you do for fun in Yuranigh?” she asked.

  “I play footy.”

  “You any good?”

  “I do all right. You any good at acting?”

  She looked him in the eye. “I am.”

  They were descending now, and first the volcanoes and then the waves of Hawaii came into sight. Ozzie tensed as they rose up at him. The takeoff had been okay, but it didn’t feel natural hurtling back at the ground like this. He was glad he’d slept through the last one.

  The girl touched his arm. “You okay?”

  He nodded.

  “First time on a plane?”

  He nodded.

  It was a hard landing, but the pilot threw the engines into reverse and soon they were rolling down the runway like a bus. “Welcome to America!” a cheery voice announced through the speakers.

  “The promised land,” said the girl beside him.

  FIRST HALF

  chapter 8

  For an Australian country boy, LA was a trip. A mind trip. After being patted down by security and interrogated by immigration, Ozzie was finally let into mainland America. The first place he visited was the toilet.

  It was like walking into another world. First, the toilet somehow knew how to flush itself, and then he couldn’t wash his hands because the sink had no taps. He looked at it, puzzled.

  “Just put your hands under,” said a man in a suit.

  Ozzie did, and presto! “Thanks, mate.”

  “If you want hot water just say ‘hot,’” the suit explained.

  Amazing! thought Ozzie. “Hot.” It didn’t work, so he said it louder. “Hot!” It was still ice cold, so he practically yelled. “Hot!”

  The guy started laughing. “I’m just kidding, man.”

  You bugger! Ozzie couldn’t help but smile. The suit had got him good.

  The girl from the plane was waiting for him and she laughed when she heard about his bathroom adventure. As they waited at the baggage carousel, she touched his arm. “I have to meet my friend in Hollywood and I could really use a hand with my bag.”

  He had eight hours to kill, so Ozzie figured he might as well have a look around.

  Although used to lifting eighty-pound bags of fertilizer, Ozzie strained his right forearm carrying this one. “Why didn’t your boyfriend just sit in a seat like everyone else?” he asked.

  “Very funny,” she said.

  A blast of warm air hit them as they walked through the glass doors. Outside, the sky was gray, though it was hard to tell where the clouds ended and the smog began.

  The girl paid the driver and they hopped on a bus filled with black and brown bodies, though the Jaguars and Mercedes driving past were nearly all driven by white hands that spent as much time on the horn as the wheel. Despite the traffic and the weather, the girl was nearly jumping out of her window seat. “We’re on Sunset Boulevard!”

  “But there’s no sun,” said Ozzie.

  “You know how many songs and movies have been written about this street?”

  “How many?”

  “A lot.”

  Ozzie was more interested in the signs people held up beside traffic lights that said, Will Work for Food. It was hard for him to believe. If you wanted a feed in Yuranigh you went to Mrs. Allan’s place. She always had a few young runaways or old alcoholics over for dinner. Ozzie had eaten there a few times after his father had left and before his granddad had sobered up, but that was nothing unusual. Half the town had eaten there at some stage.

  Ozzie lugged the girl’s suitcase off the bus and they walked past glittering shops where you could spend $5,000 on a dress, past dim restaurants where you could eat as much as you wanted for $9.99, and Ozzie saw more fat and beautiful people than ever before in his life.

  The girl from the plane disappeared into a department store to look for her friend of a friend, while Ozzie kept an eye on her bag. He was looking up at a billboard showing football players the size of professional wrestlers when a girl with wild hair approached him.

  “Got a dollar?” Her voice was soft, her jeans and shoes better than his, but her T-shirt was stained brown and yellow. She was probably younger than Ozzie, but her black eyes seemed old. “I need milk for my baby.”

  Ozzie had difficulty understanding her. It was like a different language.

  “What?”

  She pulled out a picture. It was definitely a baby, though Ozzie couldn’t tell if it was a boy or girl.

  “Please, sir. She’s hungry. Her daddy left me all alone.”

  No one had ever called him “sir” before. He was unzipping his wallet when the girl from the plane appeared beside him. To Ozzie’s surprise she put one hand around his waist and the other over his wallet.

  “I’m terribly sorry. My boyfriend doesn’t have any money to spare at the present moment.” She spoke with an English accent.
r />   The girl with the wild hair stared at the girl from the plane. Ozzie felt uncomfortable, though the hand around his waist felt warm.

  “It’s for my baby,” said the wild-haired girl.

  “Yes, I’m sure it is. An addictive white baby either smoked or injected. I strongly suggest you acquire money from another source.”

  Ozzie coughed.

  The eyes of the wild-haired girl sprang to life. Her voice changed as well. “Why don’t you go back to where you come from? Leave America for us Americans.”

  “My origins don’t change the fact you’re not getting any money.”

  “Bitch,” spat the wild-haired girl as she left.

  Ozzie’s mouth was open. The girl had talked so gently, and then …

  The girl from the plane laughed. “You’re gonna be a sucker for American girls.”

  Ozzie blinked.

  “I’m all set, so I s’pose this is good-bye. Give me a hug, will ya?” She kissed him on the cheek.

  As he started walking back to the bus stop, she called out, “Oi.”

  He turned.

  “Don’t forget you’re an Aussie.”

  “I won’t,” he said.

  “And watch TV ’cause you’ll see me on it one day.”

  “I will.”

  She waved good-bye.

  Ozzie was calmer during his second plane trip, so he noticed more. Escaping the city took forever, but eventually he looked down on America’s own outback—the bumpy rocks of Arizona and the wide open spaces of New Mexico. They descended into Dallas, where a jungle of towers rose from the plain, thousands of silver panes reflecting sunlight like mirrored lenses.

  Herded outside to wait for a shuttle bus, the hot, dry air sucked moisture from Ozzie’s lips and reminded him of home. He traveled the same distance in the bus as he would have if he’d driven down the main street of his hometown and back again, and the bus ended up at another part of the same airport, where a smaller plane left for the West Texas town of El Paso.

  As he walked into the El Paso terminal, a voice boomed across the room, “Is that an Australian I see?”

  Ozzie approached the tall man, who was wearing pointed boots and a Stetson hat.

  “You must be Austin!”

  “Ozzie.” He shook the man’s hand.