One minute, maybe only seconds remained in the frenetic match. Two bodies pressed hard against Andy as he tried to manoeuvre to freedom on the right forward flank. The black and white were down by under a goal. It looked like curtains. A continuous din from the crowd lifted momentum into a collective thunder of anticipation, and now Andy could see the reason for their excitement. Nicky Kirsten had somehow broken loose from behind a cluster of players at half-back and was sailing forward. Andy doubled back hard towards full forward and then cut back between two teammates to that sweet spot on the forward flank. He raised his hand, signalling to Kirsten as he powered into space.

It was an accurate delivery, however, it held up high - he had to wait, and wait . . . he sensed two blue guernseys bearing down on him . . . the ball hit his hands . . . it stuck . . .then came the crunch of crunches, his body shuddered. He was losing consciousness. A blur of slow motion images followed him to the turf. He heard the siren, the crowd shriek . . . and a final thud as his head hit the turf. A veil of black unconsciousness fell.

* * * * * *

Andy was a boy at primary school when he met the old man. He was on an excursion to the museum by train. He and his friends, Stephen and Ivan had shifted to the back of the carriage, away from their teacher and the other kids. They were fiercely discussing their new found passion - footy - when the train slowed down into the next station. Andy could see the "Victoria Park" sign through the window. He could also clearly see an old man effortlessly slide the carriage door open and sit down behind his friends.

"We could still make the eight," said Ivan.
"We will," insisted Andy, "we will!"
"What team do you boys barrack for?" chirpily interrupted the old man.
The boys all turned around, briefly surprised. In unison they replied: "the Pies!"
"Good boys," he said, "ya know what? I used to play full-forward for the Pies."
"Cool," said Stephen, "what's your name?"
"Ron Todd!" he said with pride, "have you heard that name?"
"Nuh!" said a bewildered Andy.
"Well," came a disappointed reply, "it was a long, long time ago."

The old man and the boys talked all the way into the Museum Station. Andy best remembered his goal kicking advice: "Always kick straight and always follow through," he told the boys, "but most important of all . . . always believe in yourself."

A month later Andy had his birthday. As a special treat his Mum and Dad took him and his sister to the Pies' Souvenir Shop at Victoria Park. While they were served, the man at the counter acknowledged a procession of men entering the club rooms behind.

"Evening, Terry; evening Stan," he called out. "There's a past players meeting tonight," he explained to Andy's parents. It was then that Andy's Mum mentioned Andy's encounter with the great Ron Todd.

"Where was this?" puzzled the man.
"Here, in Melbourne, on a train."
"I don't see how that's possible. Ron Todd retired to Queensland, when was this?"
"About a month ago."
"I'm afraid someone's having the lad on," he said, lowering his voice, "Ron Todd passed away eighteen months ago."
An awkward hush resonated as they gathered their souvenirs.
"Let the boy have his memories," said the man soberly, and they left.

* * * * * *

Smell was the first sense that reactivated, followed by the constant buzz of the crowd. Andy now came to fairly promptly. His vision was sharp. It was my mark, he thought, and the siren had sounded, he remembered. Then he noticed he was surrounded by medics and teammates. The veteran, Paul Williams, had the ball.

"Hey, I'll take the kick, Willo," said Andy, springing to his feet.
"Right to take the kick, Macca?" said an ump, handing him the ball.
"Yeah, yeah," he said, a little annoyed.

The players parted allowing him room and offering encouragement If he kicked this they'd won. As he lined up and looked towards the sticks he noticed a troublemaker standing next to the goal umpire. An old fool in a Pies' guernsey and weird, daggy, long black shorts. He was waving towards Andy, beckoning him to kick over him between the uprights.

Andy gave a little skip, then rhythmically charged forward. Words from his subconscious suddenly spewed forth: "Always follow through . . . always believe in yourself." Good advice, he thought, and his confidence surged. The ball hit his boot and took off, like a spear from a woomera. It was good. The fans erupted and the funny-looking old bloke behind the goals gave a victory wave.

Euphoria. Andy was mobbed as they surged off the Park.

Despite the throng, a small figure managed to weave through to greet him, it was the club doctor, Stephanie Travers.

"We need to examine you thoroughly in the rooms," she said, concerned.
"Why?" he puzzled, "I'm fine, I may be a little concussed, that's all."
"You don't seem to understand, Andy . . . you stopped breathing out there."
"I did?" He looked astonished.
"Somebody must have been watching over you," she said.

Andy broke clear of the group and looked back at the goal square. The strange old man behind the goal line had disappeared.

"Andy, what are you looking for?" queried Travers, catching up.
He looked with wonder at the people encroaching the arena and uttered: "A memory . . . a memory."

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Copyright © 1997 Leigh McIlwain