Read When Dogs Cry for Free Online Page A

like I live in there at times. Maybe we all do. Maybe if there’s any beauty in my life, it’s the climbing out.
    Like always, Steve was pretty quick to come down once we arrived at his apartment. He was on the balcony, raised his head, and next thing, he was with us, keys in hand. Steve’s never been late for a single thing in his life.
    He chucked his gear in the boot and we left.
    We took Cleveland Street which is always a bit choked, even on Sundays, and the radio was quiet as Steve drove. People cut him off and buses pulled out in front of him, but nothing moved him. He never blew the horn or yelled. To Steve, such things were irrelevant.
    It was good for me to be at the ground at Maroubra that day. It was good to watch Steve and his ways. Just like the words I’d been writing made me feel and see things differently, it also gave me a greater curiosity. I wanted to see the way people moved and spoke and the reactions they were given. Steve was a good person to take notice of.
    There was a rope fenced around the field and from where Sarah and I stood, I could see Steve approach the other members of his team. Every one of them looked his way and said something very briefly. Only one or two spoke with him longer. He stood at the edge of them and I could tell he wasn’t close with them. With any of them. Yet, they liked him. They respected him. If he wanted it, he could have laughed with them and been the one that everyone listened to.
    But it meant nothing there.
    Not to Steve.
    In the game though, when he said he wanted the ball, he would get it. When something big was needed, Stevewould do it. In the easy games the others would shine, but when things were hard, Steve was there, even if it was on his own.
    They got ready and there was a lot of shouting and carrying on from both dressing sheds and both teams ran out. Steve was the captain of his team, and like I thought he would, he spoke a lot more on the field. Never yelling. I could just always see him mentioning something to another player or telling him what he had to do. Each one listened.
    It was three o’clock when the game started.
    The crowd was pretty big, with most of them drinking beer or eating pies or both. Many of them shouted things out, often losing food or spit from their mouths.
    As was often the case, there was a brawl in the first few minutes, which Steve stayed right out of. There was a guy who leapt up and hit him around the throat, and everyone ran in. Punches collided with skin and fists were cut up on teeth.
    Steve only got up and walked away.
    He crouched down.
    He spat.
    Then he got up, took the penalty and ran twice as hard.
    They called his name incessantly.
    â€˜Wolfe. Watch Wolfe.’
    They would send a few guys to take care of him every time, making sure to hurt him.
    Each time Steve returned to his feet and kept going.
    It made Sarah and me smile, as Steve sliced throughthem a few times and set up other people to score. By half-time, his team was well in front. It was late in the second half when the importance of the day occurred.
    The sky was heavy grey and it was about to rain.
    People were huddling now, in the cold.
    A slippery wind was sliding across the air.
    Kids kicked a ball and chased it behind us, with tomato sauce glued to the corner of their mouths, and scabs on their knees.
    Steve was lining up a shot at goal from as far out on the field as you could get, right where the opposition supporters stood.
    They mocked him.
    Swore at him.
    Told him he was useless.
    As he moved in to kick the goal, a can of beer was thrown at his head. Beer flew out of it and the can slapped my brother on the side of his face.
    He stopped.
    Mid-step.
    He froze.
    In no rush, he bent down, picked up the can and studied it. He turned to the group where it came from, who were quiet almost immediately, and without looking at them again, he gently placed the can on the ground, out of the way, and lined the kick up again.
    The