Saturday morning footy smells of steamed dims sims and mud. The oval ridden with ibises; the ground cold and wet. To the left of the oval, the scoreboard’s white paint is peeling, the numbers smudged by age and exhaustion. There’s a palpable awkwardness yet also a sweetness to this little football club, which sits humble and drenched in the centre of town. Every building is red bricked, every carpark full, every arm goosebumped.  

I know it well. The oval. The fortress. The kingdom. The dancefloor. I know the right place to kick a banana from (although I’m yet to actually follow through on this), I know the best backdoor entry to the kiosk and I know this smell–of steamed dim sims and mud. It’s familiar and, amidst the stabbing whistle and click of the wind, its nostalgia holds me–warm and firm in its arms–embracing me tightly as the cicadas wail in the morning air.

I can hear as the team comes wheeling up the road, water flying as the bus takes a turn. To any local, they're as ‘happy as Larry’; they're ‘pigs in the mud’, ‘dogs with two tails’ and when the bus turns the corner, they're singing and shouting; trying to remember the correct words to Snakes in the Long Grass. Throwing off rugby jumpers and beanies, the girls of 86 Anderson Street are prepped for battle–their frosted fingertips grappling at leather footballs and rotting shoelaces. Their breath still and foggy.

Warm up is two laps of what feels a now enormous oval, and three kicking drills. An overzealous Colin, one of the local dads and loyal co-coaches, sprints ahead. “C’mon girls” he urges, wiggling a bag of Twisties just out of arms reach–”C’mon”.

***

C’MONNNN

SOF. SOF. SOF. SOF. SOF

The crowd, an impassioned group of Melbourne Girls’ students, chant; roaring from the sidelines. Scores are even. The Melbourne Girls Grammar Soccer squad might just take their first win. Grounds muddy, hearts throbbing, numbers tapped onto school shirts with red duct tape and grins wide. This could be IT!

***

“This is it”, Tilly utters–hushed tone, warm breath echoing against the water.  

My oar hovers above the river’s crust, deep breath–exhale–deep breath’–exhale.

SET

The water and I shiver as one; hugging the boat to ourselves as a blanket.

And then, the sound floods my ears. The drums and Tilly merging into one–screams shattering, blood pumping, the river’s murmur drowned out by flesh and heat.

For, in that boat, I am no longer one, not four, but eight. Eight sets of oars, eight girls, eight strokes and eight more seconds until the world goes silent.  

***

Only for a moment, when the ball is suspended amidst hot, dense air, the world goes completely quiet. A flash of green and yellow, speckling the blue, like a tiny freckle of the night. My upper lip sweats and in between sets I hold my shirt out from its armpits, so it doesn’t become drenched in the moisture which is collecting there. However, there’s something beautiful about the effort, the sweat. For, as the heat hovers still and visible above the net, there is a harsh intake of breath. The balls snap against the synthetic, and the shoes squeak. Yet, in the noise which bounces and caresses and shifts, there is also a beautiful warmth. Not only in the success, or the effort, or the coaches who scream our names, but in the passion.

***

For what passion we have, what winners we are, what victory the mighty Melbourne Girls have had. For, as we belt the words ‘Melbourne’s in the backline’, the river doesn’t murmur and the crowd doesn’t roar. The balls lie silent on the ground. The oval is quiet now, the whole world is. Despite grazed knees and soy-sauce stained jerseys, we love our sport. For in these moments, as we look over at our teammates who are brave, and who are kind, we have it all.