He’d equalised. They were on the scoreboard.

Mooney offered a bearhug of elation, knocking him over, and the boys stacked on. It was supposed to be a celebration, but Leon was at the bottom of the pile—they were crushing the air out of him. Didn’t they realise what they were doing? Or maybe that was part of Mooney’s plan: to kill him on the field. Murder by stealth.

Things remained pretty even till half-time. One team inched ahead, then the other. Leon had been running hard, so he was grateful for the half-time break. In the change room, he drank then splashed water on his face and towelled off. Another fifty minutes of play to go and he already felt like an old man.

Robbo was going on about this and that, but his instructions didn’t mean much, really. Out there, plans and structure helped, but the ball had a mind of its own. You could put yourself in position and then it would take off on an unanticipated trajectory.

The third quarter was their best. Toby excelled in back pocket, and Mooney motored in the centre and on the wing. The others did their bit too, playing out of their skins. They scored a ton of goals and pulled well ahead—the supporters for the other team were hanging their heads.

Then Mooney was mashed in a terrible tackle. Leon saw a giant of a man deliberately thump into him, and Mooney’s mane of blond hair flicked back as he went down. He landed headfirst, and by the sound of the crunch Leon knew it was bad. Mooney was sprawled out, unmoving.

The umpire shrilled his whistle to stop the game and they all began to run. Toby and Leon were there first, kneeling beside Mooney.

‘Fuck, he’s out to it,’ Toby said.

Mooney was like a sack of spuds, eyes rolled back, unconscious.

Leon took control, thankful for his remote first-aid training. ‘Get him in recovery position.’ With Toby’s help he shifted Mooney onto his side. Blood dribbled from the man’s nose and his breathing was rattly. Leon flicked out Mooney’s mouthguard and looked round as the team crowded in. ‘Someone call an ambulance,’ he said.

Robbo reached them. ‘What’s up?’

‘He’s unconscious. Can I have your watch? I need to check his pulse.’

Robbo whipped off his watch and put it in Leon’s hand, and a chill fell over the field.

‘Ambulance will be here soon,’ someone said. ‘They’re just finishing a call. Only five minutes away.’

The other team stood quietly, shaking their legs out. They had started jeering when Mooney went down, but now they realised that tackle had been over the top.

Mooney’s wife, Liz, ran onto the field, trying to get through to him. ‘What’s wrong?’ she cried, panicky. ‘What have they done to him?’ Leon was appalled a big brute like Mooney could be bashing her.