The game started well after the mandatory fights had settled. It was tense out there—the slightest shove and everyone was chesting each other like a bunch of oversexed bulls. Fortunately the umpire wasn’t taking any rubbish. ‘Oi, oi, you. Get back. Leave him alone. Back off so I can do the ball-up. Come on. Proper distance. You know the rules. If you don’t back off, I’ll have to give a fifty-metre penalty.’

It took a while for everyone to move beyond the scrambling at the beginning, when they were uptight and twitchy and wanting to sink a boot into the ball. There were pile-ups: men all over the ground, a few sly punches thrown in. Leon kept clear and hovered round the edge of the action, waiting for the ball to spit out. If he could get a hand on it and sprint clear, there would be no stopping him.

When things levelled out, the real game began. Leon’s team started stringing a few kicks together. Leon looked for space and ran into it, shouting for the ball when his teammates had possession. He took his first mark, not particularly elegant; it was just good to get his hands on the ball and develop a feel for its bounce, put in his first big kick.

The field was wet from early spring rain, pockmarked and uneven, soft underfoot, good for falling on. And fall they did. Toby sent a ball spinning Leon’s way and he leaped for it, but a ruckman from the other team charged in and wiped him out. It was a rough knock, but Leon was resilient. He sucked air into his lungs, spat phlegm and ran on, shaking his head and looking for the ball.

The other team scored first—a great doozey of a goal that set Leon’s mob moaning. ‘Fuck that.’ ‘Carn, guys. Heads up and get moving.’ The opposition celebrated like they’d won the Olympics, and it was only the first goal.

Back at the centre for the ball-up, Leon nodded at Mooney. The blond man scowled but shouldered in on the mob and flicked the ball Leon’s way. Leon was onto it. He scooped the ball mid-bounce and took off—he was away.

The field was clear so he took a few bounces as he ran. The defenders were charging after him, boots thudding on dirt. How long did he have before they launched a tackle and he lost the ball? He was going full pelt; just a few more strides would bring him within range of the goal. He heard heavy breathing behind and tried to balance himself and take those last two steps to get his boot to the ball. A hand clawed at him and caught his jersey, hooking under his arm. He faltered but swung his foot hard, connected with leather, and it felt good. The ball sailed between the posts for a goal.