We had a fortnight or so to get back into reality, of course, which meant some serious time at the State Government offices on St George’s, catching up with the usual suspects, and not just Bobby and Colleen. Our first few Proper Working days were nominally spent in a conference room with a group of around fifteen delegates from various ‘hubs’, which summed up what could be called Western Australia’s human geography. Like the rest of the country, people flocked to the bigger cities or the coast, and in most cases that added up to the same thing. I had seen some places RFO that seemed to consist of nothing more than a post office and an IGA or, more likely, a Local shop that contained the post office and racks of hot pies, but proved to be simply the hub of a very widely dispersed collection of homesteads, the sort pf place where you had to drive to get to a bus stop. ‘Hubs’ made sense.

Maz was with me, but she wasn’t really working. There was a crèche in the building, which allowed her to rebuild her confidence in front of an audience, little by little, but her main activity was visiting schools with LC. We would therefore drive into the CBD as a threesome, or I would ride in, Maz spending the hours in the background as our girl got used to the idea of formal education. I gathered that Bobby or one of his team had been doing some serious string-pulling, and by the end of the first week we already had a sort-of-confirmed place for her within walking distance of our house, and near enough to the route the lad would take to get his bus to college.

For a few days I felt that we were cheating, queue jumping or something, but given what my family had been forced to endure, for once I could find only an utter absence of shits available for giving, and by the end of that first fortnight, LC seemed to have grasped the idea that she wasn’t being abandoned. It took another three weeks, however, before she started to mention classmates in her conversation.

Maz explained that one, which left me with another twist to my guts. It was simple: talk about another slave, and they would (not could) get into trouble, the sort of grief that involved the rattan she had once threatened Kawan with.

Let it go, Rhodes. They’re dead.

In the middle of that two weeks, of course, our son had to go and play a very different game.

We weren’t using the WACA’ vast stadium, of course, nor the Dockers’ ground, but South Fremantle was a more than adequate site. We had shaded seats rather than sitting on the terraces, and a week of school had already triggered the ‘Why?’ reflex in LC. Maz did her best.

“We’re here to watch Ish play, darling”

“But he left his cooly aily in the other place”

“He’s not playing music, but football. We’re here to support him”

The conversation became rather surreal after that, as LC seemed to imagine physical support, while being ambushed with memories of what I had seen when that hen party gad scratched his back. Our boy was far from little right now, but as I watched the other players emerge into the sunlight, he was also far from the biggest, and a vest, long socks, low boots and a pair of shorts was even less protection than he had worn to the Smugglers. At least he had a gumshield.

I’d done my best online, reading up sites that should have been called ‘Aussie Rules for Idiots’, but I knew I was still going to be lost. Fortunately, the Bitts and our colleagues were with us. I resolved to keep my comments to nodding at whatever Chad or Vern came out with, hopefully appearing sage and wise in the process.

It is a bizarre game, using a ball similar to that from rugby, but with rounded ends. It is played on a huge pitch, as the game started on cricket grounds, and there are typically eighteen players a side. There are four vertical goalposts at each end, and a clean kick through the central pair (a goal) gets six points, and one point if the ball goes between a centre pole and a side one (a behind). The ball can’t be thrown, so there is no rugby-style passing. Instead, ‘hand passing’ is used, where the ball is literally punched off an open hand.

Running with the ball requires it be bounced every few steps, as in basketball, but remember this ball is oval. I watched some video, and I simply have no idea how a man can run while bouncing that ball straight back to his strong hand. And the tackling can be, well, robust.

The big feature for many fans, however, is the mark. If a ball is kicked into the air, a player who makes a clean catch, usually while in mid-air, gets awarded a mark, which is time and space to dispose of the ball, preferably with a goal kick. There is no offside law.

The basic aim, therefore, is to use extreme violence to move the ball upfield, kick to a waiting player to mark, and then they kick for goal. As for the marks, I saw several videos where the winning catcher was effectively kneeling on his opponent’s shoulders.

Not my game.

“Where’s Ish, Dad?”

I pointed down to what I now knew was that ‘interchange’ area, two small groups of players seated in the shade, just as the ball went up into the air for the start, rather like the bully-off in ice hockey, and things got lively. Four quarters of twenty minutes make some allowance for heat and sun, but it was still a warm day. Three of Ish’s mates went from pitch to bench in that quarter, replaced by ‘interchange’, but not our lad. His turn came halfway through the second quarter, and he opened his account with one of those crunching tackles I had seen him give in high school rugby. For some reason, he then got a free kick, which turned into a mark, converted to a goal.

“Vern?”

“Mike?”

“What did he get that free kick for?”

“Timing, mate. Caught the other bloke in possession. Bloke should have kicked. Speaking of, bloody good kick from Ish, that”

The interchange thing started to become more like a game of musical chairs as the game progressed and the heat built, but Ish was now spending less time sitting out and more flattening opponents. I noticed a subtlety to his tackling, in that he didn’t just run into an opponent but instead seemed to use a running version of a lock-forward’s ‘set’ when scrumming, his thighs extending forcefully just as his shoulder hit yje other man’s waistband.

THAT was our little boy? It all seemed fine to LC, who had quickly picked up on the violent side of the game, screaming with delight at each tackle from her brother. There was no shortage of traffic going the other way, and he took more than a few thumps himself. As the final minutes played out, I realised I was utterly lost in the scoring.

“Vern?”

“Your lot are five points ahead. Short of a goal by the others, she’s a good’un”

I should have kept my mouth shut. One of the opposition was racing upfield, basketball-dribbling as he went, Ish and a couple of others racing for the posts, arriving just as the sod kicked the goal. Ish did his best to soar, but could only nudge the gall in flight. Through it continued, six points, and game literally over. The word that came to my lips was that Annie special: “Arsebollocks!”

Both Vern and Chad looked round in surprise, before Chad started to laugh.

“You tell him, mate!”

“Tell me what?”

“Our lot, sort of, just won. Ball gets touched in flight, only counts as a behind. Other lot needed five. Look at the teams, Mike”

Now he pointed my gaze, I realised it should have been obvious, as it was the other side trudging off, while ‘ours’ was still on the pitch in a number of clumps, a larger one holding our boy, who seemed to be getting backslapped into stupidity”

“Dad?”

“Yes, love?”

“Did Ish win?”

“Yes, love!”