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us into our first drill. He's got us running back and forth between two lines on the ground. But I don't mind the sprints, as long as we don't do too many. Despite my loping style, I can keep pace with, or even beat some of the guys. But I'm useless at the ball drills. All legs. No hands. The ball slips from my grasp and I trip over myself when I go to pick it up. At least I look like I'm trying. I wear the most stains.
    Dad yells words of encouragement, ‘Watch the ball all the way to your hands. Don't watch the defence. You'll do better next time.’ That kind of rubbish.
    Until now, Maloney has been watching, as if to make sure Dad's up to scratch. But by the time the ball drills are done, he heads back to the sports shed. The moment he leaves, Dad gets us all together.
    We're doused in sweat. It's humid and threatening to rain.
    He gives us the low-down: ‘Three teams,’ he says as it starts to spit. ‘Two teams will play at a time, but when one team makes a mistake or gets a try scored against them, they come off and the other team goes on. The better you play the more game-time you'll get. I'm watching to see who's good enough for the team.’
    Most of the boys look at each other as if they're mortal enemies. I avoid all glances, except for Gez's. He has his hands on his hips, head poked forward and is squinting at me, mocking the others. I snigger.
    â€˜You got that?’ Dad says, looking at us.
    I turn away.
    â€˜Have you got it?’ But it's not Dad, it's The P repeating him.
    â€˜Get lost,’ I tell him, but The P laughs and Dad says, ‘Who wants to join Gerald and Jack as the team on the sideline?’
    We watch as the others tackle and run, trying to prove their talent. Gez leans back on his elbows as if he's at the beach. I try scuffing my shoes on the wet grass, but that doesn't work either. I think they're starting to glow.
    The P carves everyone up as the rain gets heavier. Balls are dropped, boys slip over, the teams get rotated. I go straight to the wing, thinking that will keep me out of the play and less likely to screw up. But then Dad sends me closer to the ruck and to the action. It could be worse. At least that's closer to Gez, who looks out for me. He stands next to me in defence, makes the tackles first, then I come in second to finish them off. The opposition protests when I come in too late, but Dad doesn't seem to care.
    Gez is dynamite whenever he gets the ball. He keeps the defence guessing, keeps me guessing, too. I've no idea where to position myself. At one point, he throws me a ball and the moment I catch it I get hammered by Cuppas. I land on my back, but as I twist to get up, he descends, drives an elbow into my kidneys, his full weight behind it. I drop the ball, arching my back in pain.
    The whistle blasts. ‘Knock on!’ Dad bellows.
    â€˜What about the elbow?’ Gez yells, arms raised. ‘That's a penalty!’
    â€˜Fair tackle. Knock on.’
    The game moves on from where I lie. In fact, I don't play any more. Hunched over, I leave the field and wait in the rain till we're allowed to head back to the dunnies to get changed.
    I take a spot on an aluminium bench seat along the wall. The boys rip their jerseys off and dump them on the floor with a squelch. Most guys shower in their undies, only one or two take everything off. Wanting to get changed without prying eyes, I head to the cubicles. But each one is occupied, so I wait, rubbing my arms because I'm cold from the rain.
    A commotion starts up, but I can't see around the corner to know what's happening. Then Cuppas, just in his footy shorts, comes running, holding a T-shirt in one hand. He spins, his arms out in front, trying to use the shirt to block a towel that lashes at his creamy thighs. He screams, ‘No! No! Don't!’ in his high-pitched voice. The P comes at him, swinging a rolled-up towel, whipping it at Cuppas’ pasty flesh with cracks that echo on the