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‘Ever eaten your own boogie?’ asked Gumby. Yonnie managed to nod, even though he was in shock. ‘It’s kinda the same.’

  Yonnie opened his mouth and tossed the bread down, followed quickly with the chewy chaser. ‘You were right about the boogies,’ he mumbled to Gumby. ‘Thanks for the tip.’

  ‘You’re looking at the owner of the best boogie collection in all the world.’

  ‘Except for your brother’s,’ interrupted Simon.

  Gumby chose to ignore him. It was a sore point. Max, his big brother, always did everything bigger and better than he did and Max’s collection was impressive.

  Gumby turned to Yonnie. ‘I’ll show it to you sometime.’

  ‘The best boogie collection?’ asked Yonnie, who had only recently moved into the area and was still making friends.

  ‘Sure,’ said Gumby. ‘It’s a beauty. But not complete.’ He pulled a hangdog face. ‘I’ve got one boogie to go. Then I’ve got the entire set. Even Max doesn’t have a complete set,’ added Gumby.

  ‘Set? What do you mean?’

  Dillon laughed as he turned to Yonnie. ‘Gumby’s collecting boogies from the footy team. He’s got one from all of us. Except Coach. When he gets one of his, he’ll have a complete set.’

  ‘So? What’s the problem?’ asked Yonnie.

  ‘Coach won’t deliver. He never gets sick. Never gets a cold. No cold, no boogies. It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘Does he know about the collection?’ asked Yonnie. Three heads nodded.

  ‘I asked him to donate but he laughed at me. Said only wusses get sick and he’s too tough to be a wuss.’ Gumby pulled another face.

  ‘Too tough, eh? Bet we can make the tough guy sick.’ Yonnie, who loved a challenge, and knew all too well the irritations of having an older brother, grinned. He looked at the others. ‘What do ya reckon? How ‘bout we help Gumby score one over his brother?’

  There was a moment’s hesitation.

  ‘I’ll pay you,’ bribed Gumby, who was taken by the idea of scoring one over Max. ‘Five bucks each.’

  Chapter Two

  How do you make a healthy man sick?

  It’s a difficult question. One which Gumby put a lot of thought into. So did Yonnie and Dillon and Simon. You could almost say it became an obsession. That and the five bucks.

  A few days later they were sitting in the change rooms getting ready for footy training — even Yonnie who was the reserve — when in ran Simon.

  ‘Matt Secker’s got a cold,’ he told them triumphantly.

  ‘So?’ said Gumby.

  ‘A cold means boogies.’ Simon spoke slowly, like he was talking to someone who was a meat patty short of a hamburger.

  ‘I’ve already got a Secker,’ said Gumby. ‘It’s a rare one. Sort of shaped like a monkey’s head.’

  ‘I’m not talking about another Secker,’ said Simon, getting excited. ‘I’m talking about Secker giving his cold to Coach.’

  ‘And how is he going to do that?’ asked Yonnie.

  ‘I dunno. Breathe on him. Sneeze on him. Something like that.’

  ‘Germs do fly through the air,’ said Dillon. ‘That’s not a bad idea. All we need to do is make Secker and Coach get so close to each other that the germs jump over.’

  ‘How do we do that?’ asked Yonnie. ‘Get them both in a headlock?’ ‘Maybe,’ said Gumby.

  ‘Ask Coach to work on scrums and get Secker an’ him to engage,’ suggested Dillon.

  ‘Secker’s not in the front row,’ said Simon. ‘That won’t work.’ The boys shook their heads in despair.

  ‘I’ve got it,’ said Gumby, just as Coach called them out for practice. ‘Leave it with me. Oi. Secker,’ he yelled. ‘Got a minute?’

  For the next half-hour the boys ran and passed, passed and ran till they were knackered.

  ‘Five minutes break and then we’ll work on tackling,’ yelled Coach.

  Gumby winked at Secker then threw himself on the ground, pretending to rest. He showed no reaction when Secker came and sat on him. Nor did he react when the five-buck note was lifted out of his pocket.

  ‘Be back in a minute, Coach,’ said Secker. ‘Shouldn’t’ve had baked beans for breakfast,’ he added with a smirk, letting one rip that could curl your nose hair.

  ‘Righto, boys. Back to work,’ said Coach. ‘Find yourself a partner.’

  The boys got into pairs. Gumby with Yonnie. Simon with Dillon.

  ‘You’ll have to pair up with me,’ said Coach, when Secker finally came back. Secker nodded and went over to him.

  Coach used to be an A-grade footballer in the Olden Days. You know how muscles turn to flab if you don’t use them? Well, Coach must’ve had a mighty lot of muscle, once. He stood beside Secker, blotting out the sun.

  ‘Get down low and go, go, go,’ said Coach. ‘That’s the secret of a good tackle. None of this sheila stuff about grabbing by the arms or hanging off the guernsey.’ He threw the ball to Secker. ‘Start running up that way and I’ll show you.’

  Secker caught the ball and tucked it close to his chest. He took off, with Coach in hot pursuit.

  Coach tackled.

  There was a loud ooohf and a thud, and a tangle of legs and arms on the ground.

  Later, it was described as ‘Secker versus the Tank’.

  Everyone thought that the Tank won.

  Secker knew better. He knew he’d started his fall a fraction of a second before Coach had even touched him.

  One footballer stood up and one did not.

  Secker lay there like a body in a morgue.

  ‘You’ve killed him,’ yelled Frank Castro as he and the team came running up.

  Coach knelt on the grass, gently shaking Secker and calling, ‘Matt. Matt.’ Begging him to get up.

  But Secker wasn’t going anywhere.

  ‘Get an ambulance,’ shouted Pete Richards. ‘I think he’s dead.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Gumby. ‘He’s all blue. Looks like he’s stopped breathing.’ He crouched down beside his team-mate. Secker lay still, a goner. ‘Do something, Coach.’

  ‘Stand back,’ yelled Coach, leaning over the body. ‘Give him some air.’

  The next thing Secker knew, his mouth was being prised open and a pair of very bristly lips were latching on. It felt like a date with a toilet brush.

  The team stood watching, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

  This was really something. Secker sharing spit with Coach!

  ‘Geddorf,’ screamed Secker, making a miraculous recovery and furiously wiping at his mouth. ‘You’re sick,’ he yelled, before flapping like a suckerfish that’d lost his suck.

  ‘That’s enough for today,’ gasped Coach. ‘Training’s over.’

  Chapter Three

  Over the next two weeks the boys kept an eye on Coach, anxiously watching for any sign of a cold.

  Even a sniffle would be welcome.

  He sneezed once or twice, but that was all. Coach was in full form, screaming at them in training and pushing them harder and harder, getting them ready for their final game. ‘You’re all a bunch of wusses!’ he barked.

  ‘He’s gonna kill us at this rate,’ gasped Gumby, who was not as fit as the others. ‘We need to slow him down.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ said Yonnie.

  ‘What do you have in mind?’ asked Dillon.

  ‘Dunno. I’ll think about it.’

  That night Gumby was watching TV when he saw a show on the Icebergs. Not the chunks of ice in the Arctic and Antarctic, but the old men who make it a point to swim in the sea, summer and winter, all year round. Even when it’s zero degrees.

  ‘It toughens us up,’ explained one elderly gent with a tummy like a wrinkly baboon. ‘The young ‘uns can’t crack the pace. The cold makes ‘em drop like flies with the flu. Average age of the Icebergs is eighty,’ finished the old man proudly.

  Eighty? thought Gumby. Coach is only forty. Does that make him a young ‘un? Maybe swimming in ice-cold water would make him sick.

  The ne
xt night at training he told Coach all about the Icebergs. ‘They reckon it makes ‘em tough. You know the final next Saturday’ll be a cruncher. We’ve just got to win,’ he went on. ‘Maybe we should try it. Make us tougher, like.’

  Coach scratched his crotch and thought about it. He badly wanted to win that final. ‘Why not?’ he answered.

  The following afternoon they met at the local pool. Coach had persuaded someone from council to open it up just for them. It had not been drained for the winter and the water was a bit cloudy looking but it would have to do.

  ‘Right, boys,’ yelled Coach. ‘Strip off. Here’s your program. Ten laps swim then get out and ten laps run. Up and down beside the pool.’

  Loud groans filled the air.

  ‘You’ve gotta be kidding,’ said Matt Secker.

  Coach ignored him, but you could tell he was getting a bit dirty. ‘Then you’re gonna do it again, and again, till I tell you to stop.’

  Frank and Pete turned to Gumby. ‘This was your idea, Mason. We’re gonna get you for this.’ They gripped one arm each, ready to hurl him into the pool.

  Gumby took a step backwards. ‘Wait, guys. I’ve got a plan. You’re not even going to get wet. Promise.’ The boys relaxed their grip. ‘You’d better,’ snarled Frank. ‘Or else,’ growled Pete.

  ‘For your sake I hope you’re right,’ whispered Dillon, who’d been watching the whole thing.

  ‘Er, Coach,’ called Gumby. ‘I’m not too sure what you mean. How ‘bout you give us a demo?’

  Coach laughed.

  ‘You’ve gotta do better than that,’ hissed Dillon.

  ‘Nice one, Mason,’ said Coach. ‘Do ya think I’m stupid? You fellas gotta go the distance, not me. Now in you hop. Stop being a bunch of wusses.’

  ‘Maybe we should start with the run?’ suggested Gumby. ‘To warm up.’

  ‘Anyone’d think you’re trying to scam out of it, Mason,’ roared Coach. ‘I’ve got a bit of a suggestion. How ‘bout we rotate through. One boy swims a lap. The rest run all the way around the pool. The swimmer gets out and the next boy swims his lap. The rest keep running till you’ve all swum a lap.’ Coach turned back to Gumby. ‘Mason, you’re first.’ He pulled Gumby over to the starting blocks. ‘Ready?’ he said to the others. ‘Go.’

  Eleven boys took off on their first lap around the pool.

  ‘In you get,’ said Coach, giving Gumby a none-too-friendly shove.

  Gumby’s feet hit the water first, sending messages up his arms and legs that made his gonads dive for cover.

  ‘Aaagh,’ shrieked Gumby, trying to propel himself out of the water. He thrashed around for a second or two, then stopped. His body had seized up with the cold. Gumby knew he was sinking but his arms and legs refused to move. He felt like he was in a tomb of ice.

  ‘Cut out the crap,’ yelled Coach from the poolside, ‘and swim.’

  But Gumby couldn’t.

  Coach watched as Gumby slowly sank into the murky depths, a steady trickle of bubbles emerging from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Any minute now he’s gonna kick,’ said Coach, watching from the side.

  But Gumby didn’t.

  Every part of his body had shut down. Even his eyes, although they were wide open. They were unblinking, like a fish’s. It was the eyes that freaked Coach the most.

  ‘Oohhh,’ he roared, jumping into the water and scrabbling to get hold of Gumby.

  Boys came running from everywhere as Coach broke the surface, dragging an unresisting Gumby to the edge of the pool.

  ‘Pull ‘im up,’ screamed Coach. ‘Grab ‘im.’

  As Gumby was hauled out of the water he started to splutter. ‘I’m all right,’ he gasped, struggling to pull himself over the side. ‘Leave me alone.’ Gumby sat on the edge, his whole body convulsing in shivers.

  ‘Get some towels,’ yelled Coach. Then, ‘What the hell do ya think you’re doing?’

  ‘S-s-s sorry, C-c-coach,’ said Gumby. ‘I-i-it was the sh-shock.’

  ‘Get ‘im into a hot shower,’ roared Coach, pointing to Simon and Dillon. ‘The rest of yous, finish your run. No one goes in the pool.’

  ‘Nice one,’ whispered Simon, placing towels round his friend’s shoulders.

  ‘Should’ve known you’d come up with something,’ said Dillon, clapping him on the back.

  Gumby didn’t answer. He was still in shock.

  Coach showed no sign of becoming an icicle, even joining the others for a run before heading for a shower. Later on, when everyone was showered and dressed he said, ‘Listening to your harebrained ideas, Mason. It ain’t worth it.’

  Gumby thought of the fact that he’d nearly died. All for the sake of beating Max’s boogie collection. ‘No, Coach,’ he answered. ‘It ain’t worth it.’

  Chapter Four

  All the next day Gumby’s bones ached — ached with every step, every little movement. His mother had kept him at home ‘to recover’. Gumby had spent the day making labels for his boogie collection. That afternoon the doorbell rang. Simon, Dillon and Yonnie had dropped in to check on their mate.

  ‘You coming to footy training this afternoon?’ asked Simon.

  Gumby shook his head.

  ‘Coach’ll kill ya,’ said Dillon. ‘The game’s Saturday.’

  Gumby shrugged half-heartedly. ‘Dr Ferguson said to have a day off. I’ll be there tomorrow.’

  ‘What if you’re sidelined?’ asked Dillon.

  ‘Tough.’ Gumby’s voice was barely a whisper. There were tears in his eyes and he pinched himself to make them go away. He could think of nothing worse than to be left out of the final. He slumped on his bed, looking a picture of misery.

  The boys didn’t know what to say. They left quickly, calling ‘see ya’ as they went out the door.

  ‘Poor Gumbers,’ said Dillon. ‘He’s pretty cut up.’

  ‘Maybe we should’ve stayed and tried to cheer him up?’ said Yonnie.

  ‘Nothing’ll cheer him up,’ said Simon, ‘except to go to training.’

  Together they walked towards the oval, each lost in his own thoughts. The wind had picked up and was blowing in gusts. Whirlwinds of leaves and dust skimmed along the footpath.

  The boys shivered and pulled their coats tighter.

  ‘I’ve got it!’ Yonnie suddenly laughed, making Simon and Dillon jump. ‘We’ll get a boogie from Coach and give it to him. That’ll cheer him up.’

  Simon and Dillon looked at Yonnie like he only had half a head. ‘That’s how he got into all this mess in the first place, der-brain,’ said Simon.

  ‘But I’ve got a plan,’ said Yonnie, watching a sapling sway wildly in the gusts of wind. ‘Listen.’ Three heads went into a huddle. ‘Guaranteed to catch pneumonia,’ finished Yonnie with a proud beam on his face. ‘And guaranteed to earn us five bucks.’

  ‘It might work,’ said Dillon. ‘Or then again, it might not.’

  ‘It’s worth a try,’ said Simon. ‘And this time no one can get hurt.’

  ‘Are you in?’ asked Yonnie. ‘Coach could do with the exercise and the worst thing that can happen is he’ll catch a cold.’

  ‘Which is exactly what we want to happen,’ Simon smiled.

  ‘Yes,’ said Dillon with a chuckle.

  The plan went like clockwork. Yonnie told Coach that he’d heard his phone ring when he’d ducked into the change room for a leak. Said he’d taken a message from an old mate who was coming to visit and needed picking up from the bus stop — the one that was ten kilometres out of town. ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Didn’t catch it, Coach,’ said Yonnie. ‘Poor reception.’ Coach was always grumbling about the reception on his mobile and he nodded in understanding.

  ‘Tonight, you say? The bus station, at seven?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Righto, then.’

  The boys winked at each other.

  Yonnie, Dillon and Simon met in the park at six o’clock and cycled out to the bus station. They got there at a quarter to sev
en, leaving plenty of time to hide in the nearby scrub.

  ‘Here he comes,’ said Dillon, spotting the unmistakable orange VW beetle that Coach liked to drive.

  ‘I’ll go then,’ said Simon, whose job it was to distract Coach. ‘Meet you at the back of our house in say…’ he looked at his watch, ‘an hour.’

  As luck would have it, Coach parked his car on the roadside near a clump of bushes — the clump of bushes where Dillon and Yonnie were hiding — and got out to stretch his legs. The wind whirled around him, causing him to turn up his collar and pull down his beanie. He started to pace up and down, stopping every now and then to blow on his hands and peer up the road.

  ‘Put a stocking over his head and he’d look like an escaped crim,’ whispered Dillon.

  Yonnie didn’t answer. He was waiting for the signal that would distract Coach away from the car. He didn’t have long to wait.

  ‘Help. Help.’ It sounded like a young girl’s voice. Followed by a scream.

  Coach stopped pacing and looked in the direction of the noise.

  Simon screamed again.

  Coach hesitated a second.

  Was it the wind?

  The third scream sent him off in the direction of the sound.

  Before Dillon could blink, Yonnie was returning with the borrowed car keys firmly clasped in his hand. The wind had picked up now, making an eerie whistle through the trees.

  Dillon shivered. ‘Poor Coach,’ he said.

  ‘Poor Coach!’ said Yonnie. ‘Now you are sounding like a wuss. He’s the tough one, remember?’

  Gumby came back to school the next day looking a bit peekish but none too worse for wear.

  ‘What did Coach say about me not being at training?’ he asked his mates.

  ‘N…’ Dillon was about to say ‘nothing’, when Yonnie elbowed him in the ribs.

  ‘He said, It’s a shame we’re down one of our best players,’ said Yonnie.

  The sparkle came back to Gumby’s eyes. ‘Really?’ he said with a grin. ‘Can’t wait for training this afternoon.’

  ‘Me neither,’ said Simon.

  ‘Or me,’ agreed Dillon.

  ‘Last one before the big game,’ said Gumby.

  That afternoon four o’clock came and went but there was no sign of Coach.