Convincing

Shaun Jones wasn't used to this sort of thing. He was a middle class boy who'd played a middle class sport in tennis at the highest level. He'd grown up in the kind of suburb where you played kick to kick with your mates in the local park until the streetlights came on and nothing bad ever happened. He didn't often find himself stepping over broken glass and syringe packets at the base of the stairs of an inner western Melbourne Housing Commission block.

Luckily, his companion was built of slightly sturdier stuff. Knacker Ryan had been famed in the 70s for his toughness. A rugged half back flanker for the notorious 'Wild Wombats' sides of the time, the story went he'd once gone to an opponent's house the night before a game carrying a snake and left the unfortunate bloke in no doubt as to what he could expect the next morning merely by standing on the front porch, the harmess carpet python - not that his opponent was to know that - coiled menacingly about him.

Gotta keep going, Jones told himself. The plan was starting to come together. He'd convinced old Ryan to step up and coach the Wombats if he could keep them in Melbourne. That alone, he knew, would bring thousands of disaffected supporters back to the fold. But now they needed some talent onfield to back it up. Common sense said that drafting Jarkyn Lockheed would do that, but he had a nagging doubt about the kid. To be frank, he was an arsehole, and most certainly not a Wombats man.

"Come on then," growled Ryan, "Let's get this over and done with."

As the lift in the Commission block was fucked - naturally - they had to climb the stairs. And the bloke they were going to see, Jimmy Goodfellow, lived on the 19th floor of the 20 storey monstrosity. Naturally.

On the fourth landing lay a perfectly formed coil of human faeces.

"At least someone in here's keeping regular," observed Knacker as he studied the turd with what seemed like inappropriate enthusiasm to Jones. "Hope its our boy. A good diet is essential for a healthy sportsman."

By the time they'd gotten to the 19th floor, both men were striving for breath.

"Which one is it?" Ryan asked, his chest rising and falling heavily.

"Guess," replied Jones.

Knacker looked down the narrow concrete walkway. On the door of flat 3 lay the remains of a faded "Wombat Wizardry 89!" sticker that somebody had tried to scratch off.

They went forward and knocked on the door.

The metal mail slot opened quickly.

"Is Jimmy Goodfellow there?" Jones asked, using his best voice.

"Who's asking?" retorted a female voice.

"It's Shaun Jones here," he answered.

"Show us your warrant or you can piss off."

"What?"

"I said fucken show us your fucken warrant or fuck the fuck off!" the woman shouted.

From the flat, Jones heard another voice, male.

"Mum, who is it?"

"It's the bloody cops and if they don't piss off quick sticks, I'm calling the bloody civil liberties on them!" came the answer.

"Mrs Goodfellow, I'm not a policeman, I'm Knacker Ryan!"

"What?" she shouted back through the letterbox.

"I said I'm Knacker Ryan!"

"It's not the jacks, Jimmy, it's some bloody bounty hunters! What have you and bloody Ringo been up to now?"

"Muuuuuum, its Knacker Ryan, he's come to see me about footy. Let him in"

And thus slowly, the door opened to reveal a woman in a pink dressing gown with a Holiday 50 dangling from her mouth, and slightly behind her, the bloke who would become the best player the West Melbourne Wombats had ever seen.