The Promise by Tony Birch Page A

the line. We would be shooting first up. Bunga handed us our earplugs and looked up at Sparrow’s closed window.
    â€˜Is he ready with the music?’
    â€˜Should be,’ I lied again. ‘His mum said he’d be ready.’
    â€˜His mum? She hates me. You were left in charge of this.’
    â€˜Don’t worry, he’ll be there.’
    I eyeballed three of the Ken team across the ring, all of them scabby-faced runts.
    â€˜Don’t worry, Bung. They look beaten before the start. One of them’s a pinhead.’
    We decided to run with our standard order. Fatman would lead off, followed by me, then Scratch, and finally Bunga, to bring home the win.
    Fatman got us off to a poor start. He missed shots he’d usually nail blindfolded; such is the pressure of a grand final. He trailed by three with only two alleys left in the ring on the second-last pair. He got lucky when his opponent over-hunched on the shot, lost his balance and fell into the ring – an automatic two marble penalty – leaving Fatman a marble down but controlling the play. He was about to shoot when Bunga noticed his hand shaking and a trickle of sweat running down the side of his face.
    He called time-out and ordered Scratch to go fetch Fatman some water.
    â€˜Fatty, you need to take the pair with one shot. But forget about this being the final. It’s just another game and you’re gonna win it.’
    Fatty hadn’t heard a word he’d said, and pulled his ear plugs out.
    Scratch handed him a milk bottle full of water. He took a long gulp. Bunga repeated his order.
    â€˜But you’ve been saying all along at training that if I lost my match you’d skin me alive and cook me in a pot.’
    â€˜Yeah, well, I might do that even if it was just another game. Do your job and take out the pair.’
    Fatman did as Bunga asked. His taw clipped the first alley, which cannoned into the second, knocking both marbles out of the ring. Game over.
    Bunga ordered me to warm up. He started barking orders at Scratch.
    â€˜Scratch, run upstairs and see if Sparrow’s ready. We need the Beatles on.’
    He grabbed hold of my shooting thumb and loosened it for me.
    â€˜You seen their number four yet? They can’t back up with a player who’s already shot, can they? I’m going to speak to Dr No.’
    I looked across the ring at the Ken team. The three runts were busy talking to a couple of girls. One of the girls lit a cigarette. They shared a puff. They were as good-looking as the boys were ugly. I couldn’t take my eyes off one of them. She was wearing a Harlem Globetrotters singlet and cut-down jeans. She had long, long legs and beautiful tanned skin that glowed like honey.
    â€˜Hey, Bung. What do you think of her?’
    â€˜Concentrate on the game, dickhead.’
    But I couldn’t concentrate. Each time I hunched for a shot the golden-skinned girl positioned herself across the ring from me. She didn’t seem to mind me staring at her. She might have smiled at me, although I couldn’t be sure. By the time I got my game on track it was all over. I’d been slaughtered, six marbles down and out. Luckily Scratch wasn’t distracted by her and played beautifully. He had the best long shot in the competition and didn’t disappoint, wiping the ring with the third of the runt brothers. We were two–one up, with our best player still to come and no sign of the Ken number four.
    When Dr No called for the ‘final player of each team to present themselves at the line’ Bunga raised his arms above his head like a champion boxer, thinking it was all over. Cheering broke out across the crowd. Dr No took a small brass bell and stopwatch from his side pocket, rang the bell and announced a ‘two-minute warning’. If the Ken number four didn’t step forward before the bell sounded a second time the match was all ours.
    With just seconds left on the