PYROTECHNICS BREATHED FIRE INTO THE night as Jack Cadley ran onto the field. The roar of the crowd lifted with the hope each new season brought: that this might be their year of glory. 

The only thing that mattered here was the hunt. In laced-up boots, in the centre square, with his ankles, fingers, and shoulders taped, his arms slathered in baby oil, his calves in eucalyptus, his hands sticky and stinking of Grippo, he toyed with his opponent, already pressing and pushing, body on body, because when his muscles were warm and his blood was ice, Cads vacated his own mind. Here, there was no yesterday and no tomorrow. 

He thought of the stadium as the open mouth of a god. An old god, the kind that didn’t concern itself with the petty morality of human behaviour, but one that existed on a greatness of scale, that inspired sacrifice and imbued glory on those unafraid to be swallowed wholly.

The field was its tongue, wet, slick, and alive, moving dynamically like no other muscle can. The players were the tastes that roamed the tongue, that fed the hungry mouth. Footy had its own taste—metallic adrenaline, grass and dirt, sweat and blood thickly coating the mouthguard that pressed into his gums and pouted his thirsting lips. 

The bays of chattering, cheering, clapping, and jeering fans were the rows upon rows of blunt teeth. Sometimes he pictured them instead as gravestones, and the bright floodlights above as the white glare behind the closed eyes of an orgasm. He’d wondered before what it would be like to fuck someone right there, naked and unbridled. But to break through a pack or surf on some bloke’s shoulders for a speccy or slot a goal on the run was as good as any fuck he’d ever had.

If the movements of this godly tongue against the blunt teeth could be heard by human ears, what would it have to say? Why did he deserve to be here? 

His question to the old god was not one of validation; he knew he deserved to be there, that he belonged there, but rather it was one of desire, to unravel a why so ancient and earthly and unearthly. He looked at each blade of grass, each grain of dirt, each mindless bug, and saw himself in another incarnation. Nothing was more a force of nature than his coexistence with the hallowed turf, and he knew, somehow, that he would die there. 

The countdown began on the big screen. Ten, nine, eight.

A quick change was made; his opponent ran out of the square and Jordan Stanton—‘Raffles’ to those who knew him—ran in to match up Cads. Big-bodied, neck as thick as his head. Off the field, Cads couldn’t stand the cunt.

Cads laughed. ‘Is this the master plan?’

The siren sounded. The umpire blew his whistle and bounced the Sherrin to begin the match. Instantly, Cads exploded away from Raffles, positioning himself perfectly to receive the tap-down. Ball in hand, in full flight, he felt euphoric.

The opposition cycled through matchups against him, but Cads had been waiting and preparing six months for this. There would be no stopping him. This was his savannah.

By half-time, Cads had racked up twenty disposals, spun a banana kick off the stoppage for a goal, and had eight clearances. By the beginning of the fourth quarter, the scores were level, and Cads readied himself to carry the team on his own fucking back if that’s what it would take.

Then, entered the boy.