Omar Musa - Here Come the Dogs

‘Miau,’ says Biggie the cat.

‘Mraow,’ says Jimmy.

Grace puts an LP on her cherished record player and soon they hear Stevie Wonder singing ‘Golden Lady’. She closes her eyes in pleasure. Jimmy stares out the window, also savouring it. All the dust and haze of dusk is boiling upwards and now the sound of people returning from work, turning on televisions and microwaves and irons and the clatter of skateboards and the whir of bike wheels and the forms of cats creeping and leaping and sphinxed on fencelines. Grace talks non-stop.

‘All the air-conditioners broke at work today. Blackout. In the middle of a bloody heatwave. Four days above forty degrees. You felt how hot it was — like hell. We tried our best, James, but it was just too much. Two patients died. One of a heart attack. I had just fed lunch to one of them — Suzy. You know what the last thing she said to me was? She said, “I learned a new word today.” Isn’t that magical?’

‘What word?’

‘I didn’t ask.’

As she keeps talking, Jimmy takes his shirt off, and begins working on her broken TV. He’s always been good with electronics; in fact, he’s the only one of the boys who could ever make a half-decent beat on an MPC or a computer. He even sold a couple of them to local MCs, beats with sped-up classical samples and crispy drums. Grace watches him from the kitchen while she sprinkles red capsicum, lemongrass and onions all over the snapper. His skinny frame — all elbows and ribs, inherited from her — is caged around the television like a spider. He turns his glittering, slanted eyes to his mother.

‘I think I saw my father the other day,’ he says.

She looks up from the oven. ‘Where?’

‘Outside work.’

‘Don’t be silly. No one’s seen him in years.’

‘Yeah. I’m not even sure it was him.’

‘Well, tell him to get fucked if he says anything.’ Grace swears rarely, but the emphasis is sharp. ‘Can’t be him.’

They’re silent then Jimmy says, ‘What did you see in him, Mum?’

Grace drips some soy sauce onto the fish and then puts it in the oven. She busies herself making a gin and tonic and Jimmy thinks she won’t answer, staring deep into the glass as if there’s a shipwreck in there. Then she tongues a tooth at the back of her mouth and says distractedly, ‘I lost a filling today. Bloody nuisance. If only —’ She breaks off. When she speaks again, she almost sounds wistful. ‘Was young and dumb, I guess. Just had this danger about him. Stupid. I knew that I’d never be bored when I was with him, you know?’

‘How could you be with someone when you knew nothing good could come of it?’ Jimmy’s voice is harsh.

She smiles. ‘You came of it James. You came of it.’

They hold each other’s gaze. Then he smiles and turns the television on, the picture perfect.

‘There you go, Mum.’

‘Good boy.’

‘No worries.’

He looks out the window and she continues to talk and set the table. She can’t see but he is biting into his thumb so hard he draws blood. The sun goes down like a swimmer lowering herself into a lake and one by one the stars come out.

REPORTER: Now a heartwarming story. A young, local man trying to make a difference in his community, through basketball and hip hop. Solomon Amosa was a star basketball player who led his high school to two championships, and even represented Australia at under-sixteen level. A promising career was cut short by injury, but now Amosa is using his skills in a different way: to coach a basketball program for local children. Solomon, what gave you the idea to start Amosa’s All-Stars?

SOLOMON AMOSA: Well. um. it just happened, really. Started teaching a couple kids how to shoot, how to dribble, then more and more started to turning up. Pretty organic, really — just word-of-mouth. Keeps them out of trouble, and me too.

REPORTER: So can you show us around a bit?

SOLOMON AMOSA: Well, this is the basic set up. Pretty simple, as you can see. They do all their drills on this court, running, shooting, dribbling. Three-on-three games, five-on-five sometimes. It’s public property; so anyone who wants to volunteer, come on down.

REPORTER: And this tent over here?

SOLOMON AMOSA: A local party-hire shop donated this marquee; not every kid’s into basketball, you know. Here, you can hang out, have a yarn, learn to draw or paint.

SCARLETT SNOW: You can rub the charcoal in with your thumb, see? Getting shadows right is the most important thing.

REPORTER: So what do the kids think?

TOBY McCARTHY: It’s real fun and gives us something to do and that. Otherwise, we might get heaps bored and that.

MUHAMMAD KHAN: It’s got everything we need — hip hop, basketball, mates.

SOLOMON AMOSA: I’m a uni dropout, you know, but I know about basketball and hip hop. I thought this could be the way I give back.

REPORTER: And you do it for free?

SOLOMON AMOSA: Yeah. I’m just here to help out, build a bit of a community. Community is important and I think it’s something we’ve lost a bit. My father always said you should think about we, not just I.

REPORTER: And I’ve noticed the music never stops playing.

SOLOMON AMOSA: Never. The beat goes on.

REPORTER: Well, there you are. The beat goes on. Back to you in the studio.

Jimmy watches Scarlett from the side. If she notices, she doesn’t say anything.

His eyes move down her hair to her shoulders, the shadow of stubble beneath her armpit, down to her ankles and painted toenails. He runs his thumbnail along his jaw. Mercury Fire bounds up to him and Jimmy scratches him behind the ears, speaking to him quietly, keeping his eyes trained on his brother’s girlfriend.

Practice is underway and the kids are playing five-on-five, half court. Solomon is barking orders, strutting up and down the sideline. ‘Box out, Muhammad! That’s it!’

Whenever criticised, some of the ethnic kids have started saying, almost subconsciously, ‘Oh, racist!’ Solomon calls a halt to practice.

‘Oi. Where did you learn to say that?’

‘Say what?’ says Muhammad.

‘Using racist like that.’

‘Dunno.’

‘You know you’ll get away with more shit if you call a teacher racist, ay?’

‘I guess.’ Muhammad is looking at his feet. Solomon raises his voice and faces them all.

‘I don’t wanna hear that shit, all right? I won’t fall for it. I don’t know what your teachers are like, but if I criticise you here, it’s about basketball, it’s to do with your attitude. Believe me, there’s plenty of racism out there, but you start crying wolf all the time, when the real shit goes down, who the fuck’s gonna listen? So don’t bring none of that shit here — no mind games, no feeling sorry for yaself. Just play ball. You hear me?’

They all nod and the game continues. Jimmy is stunned and observes Solomon closely. Solomon, in turn, is watching the children with a sad expression, as if they have been failed somehow.

A group of young men turn up in a black SUV with tinted windows, all in various jerseys. They clamber out of the vehicle like stick insects. The appearance of one in particular is causing a commotion — a tall, lean Aboriginal fella. Jimmy looks to Solomon and sees his jaw muscles pulsing and that he’s standing to full height. Jarryd Hooper must be back from America. There’s something different about him, something even more assured and slick than the boy Solomon faced all those years ago. He shouts to Solomon immediately. ‘We need another player. You up, bro?’

Solomon doesn’t hesitate. ‘Yeah, man. Let’s do it. Kids — keep running those drills.’