The Whole of My World Read Free Page A

circles, with a football-shaped blob in the centre. There is no doubt what it represents.
    â€˜You barrack for Glenthorn?’ I whisper.
    â€˜Obviously.’
    â€˜Me too.’ Probably too loud for quiet reading, but I’m determined to be brave today. Dad once said I was ‘terminally optimistic’. At the time, it wasn’t meant to be a compliment.
    Tara rolls her eyes. She’s stopped doodling now, which I decide to take as encouragement.
    â€˜Who’s your favourite player?’
    â€˜Killer Compton,’ she offers, her voice matter-of-fact like she’s said this a thousand times before.
    Kevin ‘Killer’ Compton is probably the greatest player to have ever pulled on a boot. Dad says maybe the greatest player we’ll ever see. Three-quarters of Glenthorn supporters would pick Killer over anyone else. Probably a good number of non-Glenthorn footy fans too, if they were honest. They’d never admit it, of course. They say they hate him – the other fans. But no one bothers to hate an opponent unless they’re something really special.
    Tara is watching me now. ‘Who’s yours?’
    It feels like a test. ‘Peter Moss.’
    Tara snorts. ‘Too showy. Besides, he’s just about gone.’
    I almost roll my eyes but manage to hold back. Nothing is more exciting than seeing Mossy go up for a mark, despite all his injuries. If you love football even the tiniest bit, you have to be impressed with his mighty leaps, if nothing else. Maybe it is showy but, boy, what a show. Still, I’m seriously thinking about adding to my favourites. Now seems as good a time as any. ‘Chris Jury and Buddha Monk. Gavin Black, too.’
    I want to add Mick ‘Eddie’ Edwards, but he’s too new and a Western Australian. He’s only played a couple of practice matches so far and he’s a long way from proving himself here, but I have high hopes for him. I saw him in a Night Series match a couple of years ago – South Perth versus the Falcons. Eddie blitzed, kicking eight goals. We won the game but Eddie just about beat us all by himself. Even Dad was impressed. Eddie is probably closer to the end of his career than I’d like but he’s got more football left in him than Mossy.
    â€˜You’re not a bandwagon supporter, are you?’ she asks, narrowing her eyes with suspicion.
    â€˜What – the Falcons?’ I’ve forgotten about Sister Brigid now. This is way more important. This is where I live. ‘My granddad barracked for them.’ I want to add that my mum did as well, but I hate the past tense too much to say it out loud.
    Those swimming-pool-blue eyes almost close as she assesses me. ‘Even when they sucked?’
    I shrug, happily on safer ground. ‘I had to. They never gave me a choice.’ I don’t mention Mum’s hand-me-down Glenthorn jumper that her dad had given her when she was a kid. She gave it to me when I was five, Mossy’s number 24 stitched newly on the back. The jumper was easily four sizes too big but that didn’t stop me from wearing it. Every single day. Mum used to sneak it out of my room at night just to wash it. I wore that jumper until the sleeves barely covered my forearms, and even then I tucked it away in my drawer. I still have it though I’m not really sure what I’m keeping it for – I have a new jumper that fits properly. But I just can’t give the old one away. The new one doesn’t have a number on it yet. I’m pretty sure I know who I’ll choose but I haven’t said it out loud before . . .
    Suddenly I want to. The brand-new, line-drawing side of me wants to, just to hear the words. ‘But my favourite is Mick Edwards,’ I say, my terminal optimism refusing to shut up.
    â€˜He’s a bit old for a recruit. Must be almost thirty.’ Thirty-one, actually, which is pretty old, I admit, but he’s got plenty of great