Bronco was there. He stood under the only shady tree and smoked a rolled cigarette, adding to the heat of the morning. No one knew whether Bronco was his real name. Nobody knew where he came from.
Pulling socks over shin pads, the young players nervously nudged one another and looked toward the tree. Coach told them to ignore the abuse that would soon tumble like rotted teeth out of Bronco’s whiskered mouth. “Focus on the game and keep your eyes on the ball.”
But no one could really relax. Not with Bronco there.
“Yer offside, ya leafy shit ball,” he called in the first three minutes. “Take the throw-in, ya slimy duck piss.”
One time a parent had attempted to move Bronco on. They tried to reason with him, told him it was a kid’s game, he shouldn’t be there. Bronco snorted and bucked and swore and spat and then keyed three BMWs in the parking lot. No one had confronted him since.
“Tackle, ya watered-down cake fart.”
Bronco rolled and smoked and watched the game closely.
“You! You’ve got a head shaped like a peanut.”
The last insult stopped everyone. It had become personal. The young striker with hollow cheeks had been about to take a corner kick when the words curved toward him. Time gathered everyone and kept them still. Magpies paused their fluted song. The boy dropped the ball. Bronco rolled another cigarette.
The boy kept his eyes on Bronco as he marched toward the tree. “I know of a farm that is about an hour’s drive away. It has a house that no one lives in and there is tinned food in the cupboards and a can opener in the drawer. There is a creek that flows and plants you can eat. If my parents and I give you a lift there, will you promise never to come back?”
Bronco relaxed his nostrils and nickered before trotting to the boy’s car.
LINDA MARTIN lives in Perth, Western Australia. She teaches creative writing at the School of Indigenous Studies, UWA, and is an editor and PhD student writing a creative nonfiction publishing history. In her spare time, she loves to read and write flash fiction.