Do you want a ride home?’
‘No, thank you,’ replied Hone. ‘We’ll walk. That way Matt can fill me in about what’s been happening all day.’ He turned to Matt. ‘I bet it was a lot more exciting than you ever thought it was going to be.’
‘Yeah,’ said Matt. ‘And some of it you’re not going to like.’
Matt was right: Hone didn’t like some of the story. But it wasn’t the shoplifting that upset him most—it was the links with the gang.
‘So,’ he said when the story was finished, ‘Scott Murray’s got his claws into Jackson, has he?’
Matt gave him a puzzled look.
‘Scott Murray is Skulla’s real name.’ A pause. ‘I suppose I should’ve guessed it. Scott and Jackson are related. It was only a matter of time before Scott would recruit the boy.’
‘You know Skulla?’
‘Oh, yes! I know Skulla. I’ve known him from when he was a kid. I coached him at league for many years.’ They walked in silence for a while as Hone collected his thoughts. ‘He was a good footy player. One of the best I’ve ever coached. Fast, determined and fearless. He’d tackle anyone, no matter how big they were. But it was his intelligence that made him an exceptional player. He could read the game and change the style of play. Not just his. He could get the whole team to change. I made him captain in his last year. We won the championship. Only time one of my teams ever did that.’
More silent walking. Matt waited a while before asking, ‘What happened?’
Hone gave a grunt. ‘The usual thing,’ he said. ‘The family broke up. His father lost his job just before Christmas when a local sawmill closed. Soon afterwards he took off to Oz, leaving the family behind. It was tough on the mother and the other kids. But Scott was affected the most. He lived on the streets for a while. Stopped going to school. When the footy season came around again, he didn’t want to know me. Told me what I could do with myself.’ Hone shook his head in memory. ‘It was such a shame. He was good enough to trial for the NRL. Now look at him. It’s such a waste.’ He stopped and turned to Matt. ‘So, you see, that’s why I’m so worried aboutJackson. He’s going exactly the same way. Just like too many of our youngsters: lost before their lives have really begun.’
When they got home, Hone guided Matt down the hall and into a spare bedroom, where all the walls were covered with photos, jerseys, trophies and other league memorabilia.
‘This is my little museum,’ he said quietly. ‘Not many people have been in here.’
Matt looked at the nearest wall. It was dedicated to the New Zealand Warriors. In amongst the usual stuff were a couple of personal items: a photo of the team alongside a bus outside Whakarewarewa, with Hone smiling at one end, and another of Hone all decked out in Warriors colours outside a huge stadium.
‘That’s when I went to the Grand Final in Sydney. 2002! What a year!’
‘And that?’ asked Matt, pointing to the other photo.
‘That! That was the most marvellous week ever. The team came down here for pre-season training, and I was their driver. It was heaven.’
The next wall had much older photos. Matt soon realized that they were from Hone’s playing days. He looked at the names under a photo in the centre of the wall: Hone Thomas (captain) was in the middle of the front row. It was Hone all right, sitting with a ball on his lap and two trophies at his feet. Even though the face was unlined and the hair totally black, the smile gave him away: no one else in the photo was quite that proud of what they had achieved.
‘Looks like you were pretty good yourself,’ said Matt.
Hone nodded. ‘Yeah. But not quite good enough. I wanted to go professional, even had a couple of trials, but in the end it didn’t work out. So the closest I ever got to a top team was driving them around in a bus.’ With a sigh of regret, Hone quickly moved on to the last wall. ‘But this is what I
‘No, thank you,’ replied Hone. ‘We’ll walk. That way Matt can fill me in about what’s been happening all day.’ He turned to Matt. ‘I bet it was a lot more exciting than you ever thought it was going to be.’
‘Yeah,’ said Matt. ‘And some of it you’re not going to like.’
Matt was right: Hone didn’t like some of the story. But it wasn’t the shoplifting that upset him most—it was the links with the gang.
‘So,’ he said when the story was finished, ‘Scott Murray’s got his claws into Jackson, has he?’
Matt gave him a puzzled look.
‘Scott Murray is Skulla’s real name.’ A pause. ‘I suppose I should’ve guessed it. Scott and Jackson are related. It was only a matter of time before Scott would recruit the boy.’
‘You know Skulla?’
‘Oh, yes! I know Skulla. I’ve known him from when he was a kid. I coached him at league for many years.’ They walked in silence for a while as Hone collected his thoughts. ‘He was a good footy player. One of the best I’ve ever coached. Fast, determined and fearless. He’d tackle anyone, no matter how big they were. But it was his intelligence that made him an exceptional player. He could read the game and change the style of play. Not just his. He could get the whole team to change. I made him captain in his last year. We won the championship. Only time one of my teams ever did that.’
More silent walking. Matt waited a while before asking, ‘What happened?’
Hone gave a grunt. ‘The usual thing,’ he said. ‘The family broke up. His father lost his job just before Christmas when a local sawmill closed. Soon afterwards he took off to Oz, leaving the family behind. It was tough on the mother and the other kids. But Scott was affected the most. He lived on the streets for a while. Stopped going to school. When the footy season came around again, he didn’t want to know me. Told me what I could do with myself.’ Hone shook his head in memory. ‘It was such a shame. He was good enough to trial for the NRL. Now look at him. It’s such a waste.’ He stopped and turned to Matt. ‘So, you see, that’s why I’m so worried aboutJackson. He’s going exactly the same way. Just like too many of our youngsters: lost before their lives have really begun.’
When they got home, Hone guided Matt down the hall and into a spare bedroom, where all the walls were covered with photos, jerseys, trophies and other league memorabilia.
‘This is my little museum,’ he said quietly. ‘Not many people have been in here.’
Matt looked at the nearest wall. It was dedicated to the New Zealand Warriors. In amongst the usual stuff were a couple of personal items: a photo of the team alongside a bus outside Whakarewarewa, with Hone smiling at one end, and another of Hone all decked out in Warriors colours outside a huge stadium.
‘That’s when I went to the Grand Final in Sydney. 2002! What a year!’
‘And that?’ asked Matt, pointing to the other photo.
‘That! That was the most marvellous week ever. The team came down here for pre-season training, and I was their driver. It was heaven.’
The next wall had much older photos. Matt soon realized that they were from Hone’s playing days. He looked at the names under a photo in the centre of the wall: Hone Thomas (captain) was in the middle of the front row. It was Hone all right, sitting with a ball on his lap and two trophies at his feet. Even though the face was unlined and the hair totally black, the smile gave him away: no one else in the photo was quite that proud of what they had achieved.
‘Looks like you were pretty good yourself,’ said Matt.
Hone nodded. ‘Yeah. But not quite good enough. I wanted to go professional, even had a couple of trials, but in the end it didn’t work out. So the closest I ever got to a top team was driving them around in a bus.’ With a sigh of regret, Hone quickly moved on to the last wall. ‘But this is what I
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