A Thin Crop

"Why should you have the honour of representing the West Melbourne Wombats son?" Knacker asked the lanky pale bloke in front of him.

"Fooked if Ah know, me agent joost said Ah should coom here because you lot were tekin' any old bassa with a bit of athletic abiliteh," the bloke replied.

Knacker shook his head. It was true. You had the Woods taking on some Yank on the basis of a YouTube highlight, Sydney with their rugby bloke, various Irish types. It was getting beyond a joke.

He couldn't blame this Pommy bastard, buggered if he could remember his name, for dipping his toe in the water on the grounds he was half good at lacrosse.

"Me main concern is the 'eat out 'ere," he continued, "Look here now like, it's only November and Ah'm fookin' sweatin' like a fat lass."

Knacker didn't know what to make of that. He thanked the Pommy for his time and said he'd be in touch.

He took a deep breath. Up next was Jarkyn Lockheed. He took an instant dislike to the cocky little shit the second he walked in the door.

"Why should you have the honour of playing for the West Melbourne Wombats?" asked Knacker.

"I shouldn't, youse are shit. Don't draft me, I'll just piss off after two years," the big smartarse smirked, obviously looking for a reaction.

Knacker wasn't biting though.

"Good to hear, we didn't want you anyway. Hope you didn't have too much on yourself to go number one pal," he said gruffly, standing by the door, indicating he should leave.

"Er, what, umm ..." spluttered Jarkyn, who had indeed stolen $3k from his dying Grandma to put on himself as the number one draft pick.

"As I said son, thanks for coming, we had our doubts about you and you've just confirmed them. You might be a lot of things son, including a very talented footballer, but you're not a Wombats man and never will be."

Knacker sat down. That had been easier than he'd expected. Stuck up little cunt. Knacker couldn't wait to tell one of the boys to knock him rotten.

One more to go. The one he had a good feeling about. Bunyip.

There was a booming knock at the door that almost startled even Knacker.

He got up and answered it. It was Bunyip. Christ, thought Knacker to himself, this is one big bastard.

"Sit down, sit down," he said. He watched with interest as Bunyip manouevered his large form into the small chair.

"Now tell me why you should have the honour of playing for the West Melbourne Wombats?" he asked, employing the same line he'd used on all the other prospects.

Bunyip leant forward and answered immediately.

"Because I owe my life to wombats and I have a great debt which I must repay unto the proud beasts."

This Knacker hadn't expected.

"Do tell," he said.

"In the before time," began Bunyip, "I was lost in the bush and I was about to starve when a wombat came to me and it offered itself to me. 'Take me' it said, 'And devour me and I shall give you life'. So I picked it up, smashed it against a rock and ate it whole.

"Ever since then, I've known that I would play for the Wombats. It is like it is written in the stars, like a higher force is guiding me."

He looked wistfully out the window and even though it was broad daylight, just for an instant, a twinkle in the sky appeared.

Knacker took this all in. The kid seemed sincere. He gave him the once over again. Yep. Centre half back written all over him.

He extended his hand.

"Welcome to the Wombats son."

Bunyip smiled. This was good.