You Scratch My Back, I'll Scratch Yours

The relationship between Shaun Jones, the putative saviour of the West Melbourne Wombats and Liam O'Loughlin at The Era was developing nicely.

They'd formed the habit of meeting for a beer or two on a Thursday night at a pub in North Melbourne. What had started as a professional thing was now soldifying into a firm friendship.

Of course, they also still swapped tidbits that could assist the other in their working days.

"You guys have got a bit of breathing room on the relocation stuff," Liam said as Shaun returned to the table with a frothing jug and two pots.

He looked at the young journalist quizzically.

"Why do you say that?"

"Caro's heading off to Germany to Doctor Schikelbruber's Adavanced Clinic for Industrial Dentistry for a few weeks tomorrow. I saw the flight stuff on the printer today. Must be getting her braces retightened. The league won't do anything while she's away."

Jones absorbed it, the young bloke was right. He was an astute fella, that was for sure. Perhaps if the mission to save the Wombats was successful, there could be a job for him at the club doing media stuff. But that was getting way ahead of things.

Now the quid pro quo.

"So," the journalist began, "Any idea who you'll be taking in the draft?"

After their awful season, the Wombats had the coveted number 1 pick.

"Ah jeez mate, everything says Jarkyn Lockheed doesn't it? He's big, he's quick, he kicks goals, but I dunno, there's just something about him isn't there?"

"You mean he's arrogant prick that his team-mates despise who's more than likely gunna end up on a rape charge one of these days?" asked O'Loughlin.

"Yep, pretty much. We did an interview with him the other day and he insisted on showing us this video he had on his phone of himself shagging a cat. Why would you do that? Between you and me, that Bunyip kid from South Australia looks a goer. I've only met him once, but he seems more Wombats materials to me than Lockheed. Kid's a showpony. Essendon can have him. I've got a tip for you though. Remember a kid called Jimmy Goodfellow?"

O'Loughlin thought hard.

"Name rings a bell," he said.

"Midfielder, classy but goes hard, can kick a goal. Was being talked up about two years ago," Jones said.

"Oh yeah, I remember him. Something happened to him didn't it? He went off the rails in a big way?"

"Yeah, its a pretty sad story. He comes from the flats over there," indicating the huge Housing Commission blocks that loomed over the suburb, "His Dad died in a car accident a few years ago and his Mum has gone bad. Its drugs they reckon. He's sort of raising his little brother and looking after her as well. Had to give footy away and get a job."

"Geez, that is awful," O'Loughlin said.

"Thing is, kid can bloody play. Talent alone, he's best in the draft by a street. Now if we can get the club back on its feet, we could pay him a decent wage and he wouldn't have to work. Plus we could sort out help for his family."

"All sounds well and good mate," Liam replied.

"So, here you go, little scoop, we're going to take him with our last pick I reckon. I'm going to visit him after this, have a chat with him. We've been in contact and he's keen on the idea."

"Thus a resourceful and ambitious journo who predicted this out of left field before the draft would see his stock his rise dramatically then?"

"You got it mate," said Jones, "Look, I've got to shoot off and see the bloke in question. You got any plans for the night?"

"It's me birthday today," Liam said.

"Oh jeez mate, I didn't know, happy birthday!" Jones said with genuine sincerity. "You doin' anything special?"

O'Loughhlin replied:

"Missus is taking me out and said she'd let me put it up the shitbox afterwards"

"Sounds like a plan, sounds like a plan" replied Jones, before stepping away to go and visit the kid who turn out to be one of the greatest players ever.