Grab the bag and head for the sheds that are called changed rooms in the ‘smoke.
Ripple iron skin and the wood chip burner for a short run of hot water if yer lucky.
The boys from the other side walk in their half and we actively ignorem.
In our shed we yell and whoop like shaman ridding demons from our souls.
Fear is here but no-one owns it.
Dencorub permeates my nose and hands and muscles.
Everyone tapes up their anxiety with bandages that were not designed for that job.
Coach comes in and counts heads with a blunt pencil and a vacant look on a second hand face.
We all put on guernseys so we can tell each other apart.
Nylon shorts and stripey socks and war uniforms that make us like the first graders…
The religion of country football