Stevo’s saying it’s a great night for footy. Zavier doesn’t know what that means for sure but the sky’s clear except for those two puffy clouds hovering over the ground. They’re pretty, glowed gold just before the sun dipped behind the skyscrapers.

Zavier’s leaning against the window behind his dad, a finger blocking his left ear to blur the radio’s footy talk. The back left speaker’s the only one that hasn’t blown. Stevo reckons it’s real hard to get parts for a vintage Ford. Zavier’s dad and Stevo are glaring at the windscreen, like that’ll make the car ahead go faster, arguing about who mucked up the guttering of the new build in Keilor. Stevo blames the apprentice and Zavier’s dad nods and then they’re in the carpark. Stevo speeds up to cut off a Range Rover and gets a perfect spot. The car fishtails on the pressed down lawn and Zavier’s dad says, Jesus Christ mate, the kid’s in the back.

Zavier’s seat belt jams. He’s last out the car. He locks his door and jogs after his dad’s official AFL bomber jacket. A lot of people are wearing the same jacket but Zavier’s dad’s the only one with thick red hair. It’s how people know they’re related.

They get to Stevo’s dad, ground level, towards the back. Stevo’s dad nods and shifts his blanket off the three seats next to him. Zavier thinks about coming here with his dad when he’s as old as Stevo.

There’s a yell he can’t make out from a tall kid, about three years older than he is, with pimples and a big Adam’s apple. He’s got a tray of pies kept safe by a strap around his neck. It looks uncomfortable.

Stevo goes, Want a pie mate?

Zavier’s not hungry, but he can eat a pie. He looks at his dad, who nods. Zavier says, Yeah. Thanks.

An old man, even older than Stevo’s dad, with a grey moustache, is sitting on the right of Zavier. He’s wearing the same jacket as Zavier’s dad. He’s telling a younger man next to him how he knew a lot of the players in the sixties, personally. The other man’s on his own too. He’s looking away, eating hot chips, not interested. The old man turns to Zavier, says, Sam Smith’s hammy’s come good. Won’t be on the bench much tonight. Sensational form at training on Thursday. Won’t be surprised if he gets best on ground.

Zavier nods. His favourite player is Sam Smith. His mum bought the footy guernsey with Smithy’s number on it as a surprise early birthday present, after Zavier said his dad had tickets for the semi-final. She didn’t even know who number twelve was.

A quiet mean voice behind Zavier says, All we need, a bloody know-it-all.

Zavier hears a tap on a can, a fizz and he gets a cold spray of beer on his neck, between his beanie and scarf. He pulls at his scarf so his neck’s covered, keeps looking ahead.

Now the old man’s talking about how Alzando deserves to be put out to pasture after such a lousy season.

That’d be bad luck for the five-year-old kid two rows in front of them with Alzando’s number on his back.

Seven kids and four grownups lift Zavier’s team’s banner and the wind gets under it, makes it lurch back and forward. It’s got a poem for Jackson Jursak, who died last week in a car crash. He gave his all/Wanted nothing in return/Loved by big and small/Helped us to learn/RIP Jacko. Everyone around Zavier is quiet but people are clapping and cheering on the other side of the ground. The banner gets turned around. It’s finals time/We know no fear/Let’s show everyone/This is our year. Feels bad, clapping while the people on the other side are thinking about their leading goalkicker being dead.

When the other team puts up their banner, it stands strong in one go. They don’t turn it around. We will play for a win/through thick and thin/brave is our name/this is our game. Everyone going for the other team claps and yells so loud Zavier’s left ear twinges.

Zavier’s team comes out wearing black armbands. It takes them a few punches to get through the banner. The kid running with them gets put on the shoulders of one player then another and another and then all the players stop in a group with their heads down. Praying. Zavier burps up some pie and feels disrespectful. The electronic screen does a close up of the kid and the old man next to Zavier says, That’s Jacko’s boy.

The other team tear through the banner like it’s tissue paper, bouncing off each other.

Everyone’s quiet for the Welcome to Country, then the siren blasts and it’s on.

Smithy takes the first mark. The old man says, He’s gunna have a big one tonight.

Smithy hand-passes to the opposition.

Call that a fucking pass? The voice behind Zavier.

Zavier leans his number into his seat. The ball gets kicked backwards and forward and then it’s stacks on the mill. Everyone is shouting ball, Zavier too. Stevo yells, Good skills. For rugby.

Zavier gets it, after a bit.

The play comes near the boundary and the cameras go off like fireworks. Zavier tells his dad it’d be unreal to be up that close and his dad says in a low hard voice that Stevo’s dad reckons you don’t get a good feel for the game on the fence. It was Stevo’s dad who got the tickets. Zavier doesn’t say anything for the rest of the quarter.

Stevo buys a round of beer at quarter time and for the second quarter, the score’s even the whole time. It’s a real battle in the middle, says Stevo.

Zavier’s dad says, I was just thinking that.

Zavier was going to tell his dad he was thinking it too, but then Alzando kicks his mark straight to the opposition.

The old man next to Zavier says, Too casual, just too casual. Send that Rolls Royce to the wreckers.

The opposition turns Alzando’s dud kick into a goal and the man behind Zavier kicks into the back of his seat and says, Fucking idiot.

It was Alzando he meant but Zavier’s dad turns around with a dirty look on his face. Zavier doesn’t turn around even a little bit.

Smithy gets a kick out of the pack that goes right through the middle posts and when the cheers die down the old man says, It’s a real boost when they get one like that.

Stevo and Zavier’s dad nod, like they were listening to him and Stevo’s dad takes his tranny off his ear and says, Rain in the western suburbs.

Zavier is the only one who looks up. Black clouds edging over the ground, but the two white clouds are still there.

Then the rain hits, it’s pouring down and hoods go on like a Mexican wave. Zavier pulls out the umbrella that his mum packed and Zavier’s dad says, Put that away. Rain won’t melt you.

Zavier puts the umbrella in his backpack, squashing his mum’s sandwiches and looks up, sees the white clouds haven’t moved. He’d of thought everyone’d be looking at them.

The ump makes a bad call. Zavier saw it too, no way was it out on the full. Zavier helps everyone else hiss and boo and it’s fun until the voice behind him says, Why don’t you kick it in for them ya white maggot.

At half time Zavier’s dad does up his jacket and rubs his hands together and Stevo puts his beanie on. Stevo’s dad says he’s off for a whizz and he comes back with three beers.

Zavier’s cold too, from getting wet. He’s got a coat in his bag but it’d cover his jumper. The kid in Alzando’s jumper is going over and under the seats. He’d be warm.

When the third quarter starts, Stevo takes off his beanie and says, You warm right up when it starts again don’t you?

Zavier’s dad unzips his jacket.

Zavier isn’t cold anymore either, but he’s thirsty.

The other team kicks another goal and the old man next to Zavier says, Getting cocky now. Doesn’t hurt their game. This is exactly what happened last year.

The voice behind Zavier says, Put the kiss of death on them why don’t you, stupid old bastard.

The old man’s face goes red. His beanie’s so old Zavier doesn’t know what year it was issued. Stevo’s is from when they won the grand final. It’s older than Zavier.

It was a kiss of death. Zavier’s team lose the ball, lose the quarter, lose heart.

At three quarter time Zavier’s dad gets three beers and Stevo and him start talking about the guttering again.

Zavier pretends to read the Footy Record so he doesn’t have to look at the man behind him.

When the siren starts the final quarter Zavier can’t keep his shoulders straight. He feels cold even with the game back on. Zavier thinks about Saint Sebastian, the Patron Saint of Sport that Kevin McGuiness prays to before he plays footy. Kevin got Most Valuable Player every year when he played with Zavier, in the juniors. Now he’s playing for the under sixteens. Zavier opens the Footy Record again so his dad can’t see what he’s doing and starts praying. Kevin reckons when you ask Saint Sebastian sports stuff he takes it to the Big One.

Please Saint Sebastian it’s my first semi-finals, don’t make me a loser. Zavier tries to say the Hail Mary or the Our Father but he can only remember the start of both of them.

In the first five minutes of the last quarter the other team gets three goals. Zavier shouldn’t have said that prayer thing when he never goes to church. It must make it like a curse. Spare chairs now, supporters leaving. Smithy misses a mark with a bit of help from Alzando the Rolls Royce.

The voice behind Zavier says, Get those two fucking idiots off. He kicks Zavier’s seat again. Zavier’s dad’s getting that dark look on his face and drinking his beer too fast. The sky is pitch black except for those two clouds.

Then the sound of the crowd flows closer, closer, everyone’s roaring, people are standing on their seats going for the mark. Zavier scrambles up, he can see the ball, the bright white clouds are right behind the footy, he’s reaching up, it’s a sitter!

Then a shove on his back knocks him down, there’s no god, no saints, no nothing.

A thud behind him.

The old man next to him scrambles under his seat, hands Zavier the footy, says, Ball hit that dropkick right on the temple. Serves him right. Go on young feller, punt it to the ump.

Zavier looks behind and sees a bald man with freckles on his lips with a dirty mark on the side of his face from the football. It’s like he’s got the plague.

Zavier stands on his seat, gets the feel of that cold muddy ball, boots it as hard as he can. Best kick ever, a sweet torpedo that flies hard and fast just above the crowd. Zavier keeps his face quiet but inside he’s one big light. His dad gives him a nudge, nods at the electronic scoreboard. There they all are.

Zavier gets off his seat and his dad says, Good kick Zav, and gives him a massive thump on his back. Zavier doesn’t even wince, he feels that strong. What a night, what a game, what a kick.

Then it’s the siren and Stevo’s talking to his dad, both of them shaking their heads over the loss, and Zavier’s dad is talking to the old man about Zavier’s kick. The seat behind Zavier is empty.

They head out, and it’s like the two puffy clouds are following Zavier, he’s still the only one seeing them. The bigger one glimmers, says, Should have prayed to me Zavier, not Sebastian. Your team was a lost cause from the start.

The smaller one says, Shut up Jude, you’re the lost cause.

All the way to Taylors Lake there’s a mist on either side of Stevo’s car. Saint Sebastian and Saint Jude make the ride so soft it’s like the car’s being carried. Stevo and Zavier’s dad don’t notice, they’re going on about the guttering again because they don’t want to talk about the game.

Zavier doesn’t say one thing but he’s thinking if he ever got to be a saint, he wouldn’t miss a finals match either.