The spectators erupted as the footy sailed through the big sticks. Fake-Hips dropped to his haunches and watched the throng of green-clad prisoners mouthing off, high fives spearing his eardrums. They were now three goals down with 10 minutes to go. After all his team had been through to get here, physically and mentally, the farm boys were disrespecting them big time.

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“Only one way to shut their gobs,” he thought with venom.

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The footy was nearly back to the umpire, and Fake-Hips was searching for Brooksy. He found him and made the signal with his fingers. Brooksy nodded. Stork was looking at him too and acknowledged the signal with a smile. He shook his legs to loosen up, stamped his bruised ankle and then tensed. The umpire whistled, and the footy arced into the clear blue sky.

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The two ruckmen crashed in a dance of biceps, arms and knees, but Stork had those crucial inches, and the ball sailed to the left – a herd of arms and legs chasing, tapping, tackling and collapsing towards the beckoning boundary. Fake-Hips held back, his tag ball watching and being drawn like a magnet to where the ball was, not where it would be.

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Brooksy crashed the pack and soccered the ball to the empty wing, tumbling randomly, each bounce leaching momentum in the soft grass. Fake-Hips was suddenly a blue, his light frame and honed legs making him the fastest and fittest on the ground. He was also a natural at the game – he had been playing since he could walk to the vacant block down the street.

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Tracking his target like a leopard, he felt the panic of his tagger struggling to correct his mistake. On his left he spied the lumbering centre half back that had read the danger and was pushing his strapped thigh to breaking point. The ball was teasingly trickling to the boundary, and Fake-Hips knew the music was about to pump, his signature tune. Gliding to the left and just behind the ball he eluded the grasping ankle tap and massaged the ball with his left palm along the white line, past the desperate back’s outstretched fingers, Elastoplast clips pinging.

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The ball was now stuck to his fingers like a tree-frog, and he was over 70 metres out. All he could see was a chessboard of green and white jumpers flooding towards him, tightening the trap. A left stutter-step fake left the first jumper flat on his backside. Then the goose-step fake sent the next defender to the interchange box.

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Fake-Hips took a bounce and scanned his options. Where were his forwards? None of them were leading, and he wasn’t close enough for a shot. One more left, and he headed along the boundary line. The last defender was now getting the hint, and he was content to herd him, side-stepping him to forward pocket purgatory.

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Fake-Hips slowed and tempted the sheep dog with a dangling ball temptingly within reach. He bit. A pirouette and Fake-Hips was clear and smiling, heading across goals towards trouble, on his wrong foot. Time for a patented banana kick with extra hip action. The goal umpire displayed his tonsils watching the ball sail over his head, arms flailing and desperately trying to keep vertical.

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Silence. Fake-Hips was on his knees gulping down air, his ankle screaming. Scattered clapping rang out, the spectators acting as if they were at a fashion show and they could only gawk. His teammates were no better, heads down, hands on hips; they had been chasing him too.

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The farmer boys were all swarming to the centre square as if they had a wasp nest to protect, sting arms pointing everywhere, planning revenge. Five quick goals later, Fake-Hips realised he had “poked the bear”.

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As Fake-Hips sat uncomfortably wedged on the armrest in the Coaster, he looked out at all the greenery and open space. The bus turned the corner, and there was a queue snaking out of the canteen.

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With the Coaster crawling past, he saw all eyes turning and then spotted him. He froze. Then all the thumbs raised in unison. Fake-Hips smiled. His next and most important game would be outside.