They had nearly reached Lois's unit. Suddenly she gave a little squeal.
"Eeek, I forgot," she said. "I'm out of milk." She handed Clark the warm white package, reached into her bag, and offered him her keys. "Take the chips and go home. Turn on the heater and get out a couple of cans from the fridge. I'll zip to the milk bar. I'll only be a few moments behind you."
"Do you want me to go for the milk?" Clark offered.
"No," Lois said. "It will take just as long to tell you where the milk bar is as it will to go there myself. See you in a few minutes."
Clark went to Lois's unit. As he put the key in the lock, he heard a sound behind him. It was Lois's neighbour, Esmeralda.
"Hi, Clark," she said in a sultry voice.
"Hi, Esmeralda." He opened Lois's door.
"You spending the night with Lois?" Esmeralda asked.
"We're watching the football together," he said.
Esmeralda giggled - a high-pitched cackle that soured his insides.
Clark stepped inside Lois's apartment. "Bye," he said and firmly shut the door.
Part 9
Clark put the package of food on the table and flicked the switch on Lois's heater. He shot a few spurts of warmth into her couch and curtains to help dispel the chill from the air.
Before slipping his glasses back into place, Clark looked through the door. To his relief, Esmeralda had gone.
He removed his jacket and surveyed Lois's apartment. At the bookshelf, he skimmed the spines of her books and smiled. Only three weren't football books, and they were about cricket. She had a large collection of videos - most were football games, meticulously labelled with the number of the round and the year.
He turned to the couch and was reminded of how Lois had fallen asleep on his shoulder two nights ago. Such a simple thing ... her head on his shoulder ... but it had felt better than anything he could remember with any other woman.
What had Banjo meant today? Why should Clark stay away from Lois? If she did have a commitment to Scardino, wouldn't she have said something by now?
Yet, he admitted dejectedly, there had been nothing in her behaviour to suggest she was offering Clark anything more than her friendship.
There was a sound outside, and Clark looked through the door again. It was Lois. She opened the door and came in as he quickly replaced his glasses. She put the bottle of milk in the fridge and said, "Is it OK if we sit on the floor? The table's kind of crowded with my computer and everything."
"Sure," Clark said.
Lois gathered two cans of coke from the fridge and the tomato ketchup from the pantry. She threw him one cushion and sat cross-legged on another in the space between the couch and the television. "Do you like flake?" she asked as she unrolled the white paper package.
Clark settled onto the cushion, facing her. "What's flake?" he asked.
"Gummy shark."
"Shark?" Clark peered into the pile of over-sized french fries. There was nothing noticeably foreign.
"It's great." Lois picked out one of the two large portions from amongst the chips and handed it to him. "I didn't know what you'd want, so I just told George to give us double the usual."
Clark examined the battered lump in his hand.
"Try it," Lois said and took a bite of hers.
He did. It was surprisingly good - thick and juicy - although it didn't taste particularly fishy. And despite its name, it seemed less flaky than any battered fish he'd eaten before. "Is this what Australians eat?" he asked.
Lois shook her head. "Victorians," she said. "If you go to a fish-and-chip shop in any of the other states and ask for flake, they'll know you're a Victorian. We eat it by the ton." She picked up the ketchup bottle and squirted a puddle of red onto the paper and then offered it to him.
Clark shook his head.
"Do you want anything else?" Lois asked. "Vinegar? More salt? Anything else Americans have on their chips?"
"We don't have chips, we have french fries," he told her with a grin.
"Oh, of course." Lois dunked her piece of flake into the glob of ketchup. "And you have ketchup, don't you?"
"Yes."
"We don't," she told him. "This is sauce. Or, using rhyming slang, dead horse."
Clark grinned - it was caused by a combination of her words and just how good it felt to be sitting on the floor on a Friday night eating flake and chips with Lois Lane. "So if someone asked me to pass the dead horse, they'd want ketchup?"
Lois chuckled. "You're catching on real quick, Mr USA," she said. "You'll be a true blue Aussie by the time you go home."
The thought of going home sobered him. Well - not so much going back, as leaving Lois.
And that would mean Dan would be returning to Melbourne. To Lois. Clark wanted to ask about Dan. Wanted to ask if Dan was the reason why Banjo thought he, Clark, shouldn't pursue anything with Lois beyond a working relationship.
Of course, even without Dan, there were a multitude of reasons why Clark shouldn't act on the emphatic promptings of his heart. Lois thought they were different nationalities ... had different homelands. How would she react if she knew they had different home-planets?
Lois licked her fingers, and used her foot to drag the remote control closer. "The footy starts in a few minutes," she said. The salt had paled her lower lip. Clark swallowed, aware of just how much he wanted to taste her saltiness.
After they had finished eating, Lois rolled up the paper and they both got up to wash their hands. When Clark returned from the kitchen, Lois was already sitting on the couch. He sat next to her, deliberately positioning himself a few inches closer than he had the other night. She turned to him and smiled.
"Ask any questions you like," she said. "Do you want the commentary up or down?"
"Whichever you prefer."
"I usually have it up; otherwise the whole place is just too quiet. Maybe we'll keep it up - that way you'll learn quickly. We can mute it any time you want to ask me something."
"OK." Lois had offered to answer his questions, but Clark didn't dare ask any one of the questions that burned in his mind:
How would you feel about going out with me?
Would you mind if I kissed you?
Do you love Dan Scardino?
Have you noticed that I am captivated by you?
Do you have strong views about aliens?
Clark smothered each of those questions and instead asked the much more insipid, "Do you usually watch the footy alone every Friday night?"
She nodded. "In winter, I do. In summer, there's usually cricket to watch."
"But don't you usually watch with ... friends ... or colleagues ... or Dan?"
"Not Dan recently, not when the game's in Melbourne," Lois said. "He's done so well since he arrived, he usually gets the Friday night game. It's always a big one, so we send at least four or five people. Dan is usually one of them. Gazza, too."
"Do you ever do the Friday night games?" Clark asked, remembering what Browny had said about televised games.
"Nah." She shrugged. "Maybe one day."
Clark wished he could tell her why she was sent to the lesser games. "But Gazza gets them?" he said, trying not to sound too incredulous.
Lois laughed. "Gazza used to play for Collingwood. Therefore, he's an 'expert'. Though Banjo ghosts for him sometimes."
Clark didn't need to ask why.
On the television, the West Coast players ran out - a large group wearing blue and gold jumpers similar to those worn by the youths at the airport. The players bunched together and then ran through a huge crepe paper screen being held up by dwarfed groups of people around the two poles, and stabilised by multiple ropes extending outwards from the top of the poles. The players burst through it, leaving the screen in tatters, and kept running.
"The Cheer Squads," Lois said, gesturing to the television. "Groups of avid fans who make a banner every week - with a message of support and encouragement and sometimes a picture. They see to its safe transport to the ground and put it up - just so the players can run through it and demolish it."
Clark had seen run-through banners before, but this was seriously big. "How long does it take to make a banner that size?" he asked.
Lois shrugged. "Depends on how elaborate it is. Forty man hours would be average - a lot longer for finals. Each banner probably costs close to a hundred dollars. The Cheer Squads raise the money to pay for the materials. Then, during the game, they sit behind the goals and cheer on their team."
"So the Cheer Squad is a group paid by the club to make the banner?"
Lois looked at him blankly. "Paid?"
"The NFL teams have paid cheerleaders."
"Oh." It seemed to take a moment for Lois to grasp that. "No," she said. "They all volunteer. They give up their time to make the banner. Some of them arrive four hours before the game starts to set it up. They use their holiday leave from work to travel interstate for games, and they pay for their own flights and accommodation."
"That's some dedication," Clark said.
"It's their club," Lois said simply. "Somehow ... getting paid would ... I don't know ... detract from that."
An idea stormed into Clark's mind. "You sound like you could possibly have a little inside knowledge of a Cheer Squad," he said.
Lois grinned, causing his heart to miss a beat, but she admitted to nothing. On the television, the other team had run out - and through a smaller, less impressive banner.
"Fitzroy," Clark said. "They're one of the poorer clubs?"
Something of the cheerfulness died from Lois's face. "Yeah," she said. "But also, they're a Victorian club, so they had to make their banner here and transport it to Perth. Sometimes the airlines make you pay for extra luggage, so the banner has to be kept on the smaller side."
Clark watched as the players began their warm up. There were still a few moments to ask questions - if he did it now. "I've noticed that sometimes the teams wear coloured shorts and sometimes white shorts," he said. "Does that indicate the home team?"
"Yes," Lois said. "The home team wear the dark-coloured shorts - brown for Hawthorn, black for Collingwood, blue for Geelong - and the away team wear the white shorts."
"So no away jumpers?"
"Not generally."
"And the players' jumpers? The number appears only on their backs ... and they don't have their names on there at all?"
"That's correct - they are identified by their number."
"Do the numbers signify which position they play?"
"Not at all," Lois answered. "Any player can wear any number. When someone comes into a club, particularly if he's a young kid, he'll usually be given a high number. Wearing the lower numbers is a privilege that has to be earned."
"So the lower the number, the better the player?"
"Often, but not always. Carlton's Koutoufides was given number 43 when he arrived at the club, and he says he wants to keep it for his whole career because that was the year his mother was born."
"He could have a lower number by now?"
"Yes - he is one of Carlton's most promising kids." She picked up a cushion from the floor and settled against it. "Different numbers mean different things at different clubs. At Melbourne, number 31 is special because it was worn by their legend, Ron Barassi. The clubs are keen to ensure that their revered numbers are only worn by players worthy of that honour."
"I saw at Geelong that some of the fans wore jumpers with numbers."
"Yeah, that's a way of supporting a particular player - by wearing his number."
"Do you have a Hawthorn jumper?" Clark asked.
"I have three," she said.
"Which numbers?"
"The jumper I wore as a kid has 24 on the back for Peter Knights. The jumper that fits now has 19 for Jason Dunstall."
"And the third one?" Clark asked.
"The third one is my most treasured possession," Lois said gravely. "It's a jumper from 1974, with number 5 on the back."
Clark could tell from her expression that there was a whole lot more that could be said, but on the television the siren sounded, and they both turned to the game.
||_||
By quarter time, the West Coast Eagles had six goals to Fitzroy's one, and Clark's respect for the men who played football had continued to escalate. They wore no protection except for a mouth guard, and there were thirty-six of them running for the ball as if their lives depended on it. Perhaps their careers *did* depend on it, but it looked a perilous business.
The lack of a helmet made the players' faces clearly visible. Clark was fascinated by the added insight gained simply by being privy to facial expression.
As the siren sounded to finish the first quarter, Lois looked at him. "It's not going to be much of a contest for your first live game," she said apologetically.
"It doesn't matter," Clark assured her quickly. "I have so much to learn that any game is a help."
She smiled, but he sensed a tinge of sadness. Was she thinking about Scardino? About how many Friday evenings she had spent with Dan? Watching the footy? Eating fish and chips? The difference was that Scardino would be able to make intelligent comments on the game.
Well, at least Clark could ask questions - questions he hoped would be intelligent. "I don't really understand the holding the ball rule," he said. "Could you explain it to me?"
Her peal of laughter ricocheted around the small room. "*Nobody* understands the holding the ball rule," she gurgled. "That's the beauty of it."
Now he was more confused than ever.
Lois leant over and - for less than a second - her hand cupped his. "Sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have laughed at you." She grinned. "I wasn't laughing at you, I was laughing at our game."
Clark's hand felt like it was on fire. He hauled his attention away from it and looked into her beautiful eyes. "Can you try to explain it, please?" he asked.
"A player gets possession and it's 'play on'. That means any opponent can tackle him. When a tackle is laid, the player with the ball has to legally dispose of it. The umpire has to decide if the tackle was legal; then he has to decide if the player with the ball had an opportunity to get rid of it. If he calls 'holding the ball', the tackler gets the free kick. If he calls 'push in the back' or 'high', the player with the ball gets a free. If he calls 'mine', he couldn't call it either way, so he bounces it."
"It seems a little grey," Clark ventured.
"You bet it's grey," Lois agreed. "And it makes the umpires' job close to impossible. And it means that win, lose, or draw, about ninety percent of the fans leave the ground believing they got a raw deal from the umpires." She grinned again. "But that's football - and we love it."
The second quarter began, and their attention returned to the television. At least, Lois's did; Clark's eyes flitted between the television and Lois. Her face rode the game - animated, smiling at good play, wincing at the regular bumps. If she was aware he watched her, there was no indication. It was as if he ceased to exist while the play was happening. And Clark had never known a game that had so few pauses. After a goal, there would be an advertisement break, and Lois would seem to remember his presence.
"You OK?" she'd ask. "Anything I can help you with?"
Actually, Clark was wondering if she would mind inching a little along the couch and maybe shuffling under his arm - because all of this would be so much more enjoyable if he was actually touching her. But she seemed to have no idea of his thoughts.
If it were Scardino sitting here, would there be empty space in the middle of the couch?
Somehow, Clark doubted it.
At half time, the score was ten goals to three. "Your friends from the west will be happy," Clark commented.
She didn't seem to understand for a moment; then she smiled. "Oh, you mean from the airport?"
Clark nodded. "Does that happen much? You get hassled like that?"
"Sometimes. Deep, deep down, the average male footy supporter doesn't want to admit that a woman could possibly know more about football than he does - he likes to try to assert his superiority. The truth is that some of the most fanatical supporters are female."
“Maybe that has something to do with the tight shorts and muscular bodies,” Clark said with a smile.
Lois lifted her eyebrows and grinned, but said nothing.
"It can't have been easy making your way in a man's world," Clark said.
"It's all I've ever wanted to do."
"All?"
"Well," she said. "I wanted to *play* footy, but once it became obvious I didn't have certain necessary attributes, getting paid to write about footy seemed a pretty good idea."
She had all the attributes he'd ever wanted in a woman - and then some.
Lois stood. "It's half time," she said. "Milo?"
Again, she seemed to be completely oblivious to his thoughts. "Is that like the flake and fries?" he asked, trying to sound casual. "It's tradition that you eat Milo at half time?"
Lois giggled. "Milo is a drink," she said.
"Oh."
"I can make coffee for you if you'd like," Lois offered.
"No, I think I'll have Milo," he said.
She was halfway to the little kitchen when she stopped. "Even though your knowledge is so deficient, you were going to *eat* it?" she teased.
"I'm willing to try it since you recommended it." She grinned, and Clark stood and followed her to the kitchen. "I noticed you were out of the office a lot yesterday," he said. "Were you following up a story?"
"I heard a whisper, and when I took it to Browny, he wanted me to see what else I could discover."
"And were you able to find out more?"
Lois shook her head with a depth of gloom that seemed to indicate more than just being unable to track down a story. "No one would say anything," she said. "That usually means something big is about to break open."
"Do you know what?"
"I can guess," she said. "But I hope I'm wrong."
"Are you willing to tell me what you think?" Clark asked.
Lois hesitated for a moment as she replaced the lid on the green Milo tin. "This doesn't leave this room," she said, her eyes grave.
"OK," he agreed.
"The word is that Fitzroy and North Melbourne are about to announce a merger."
"A merger?"
Lois nodded. "The North-Fitzroy Kangaroos."
"Would that be better than re-location to another state?"
Lois lifted her hands in despairing uncertainty. "Some will say so. From the very little I've managed to find out, I think the Fitzroy fans will see it more as a takeover than a merger."
"But surely ... if the choices are to move interstate or simply cease to exist ... this could be the best solution?"
"Fitzroy fans won't want the best solution ... they will just want to keep their club."
"Why is it being kept so quiet?"
"Because if this is actually happening, the AFL administrators will be doing everything they can to push it through. They've already awarded Port Adelaide - a South Australian club - a licence to join the AFL. They're just waiting for one of the current clubs to fold or merge."
"North Melbourne is the favourite to win the championship ... the *premiership* this year, and Fitzroy have only won one game," Clark said. "That doesn't seem like a balanced partnership."
"It won't be," Lois said. "Fitzroy are extremely vulnerable - no on-field success, a massive debt - if the rumours are to be believed - and no obvious saviour in the form of a wealthy supporter." She gestured to the television. "What we're seeing tonight is just the surface of a club that could be in the final stages of extinction."
"But a merger - wouldn't that keep the name?" Clark asked. "Wouldn't that be something?"
"The name would go very quickly," Lois said. "North Melbourne are often known simply as North. North-Fitzroy wouldn't be any different."
Lois gave Clark a chocolaty drink and took her cup and a packet of cookies back to the couch. "These are Tim Tams," she said as she opened the packet, revealing a row of chocolate-covered rectangular cookies. "We use the generic term 'biscuits', not 'cookies', and Tim Tams are absolutely the most heavenly of all biscuits."
Clark reached for one. "Thanks," he said. He bit into the chocolate treat and a smooth layer of sweetness spread over his tongue. He met Lois's enquiring look with a nod. "You were right," he said. "These are amazing."
Her eyes lit in a way that reminded him of when she had suggested they dunk their feet in the cold water on the boardwalk. "Wanna try something?" she said.
"Is it going to involve you needing your socks warmed?"
Lois giggled as she reached for the tissue box and put a handful of tissues on her lap. "Watch this," she said. "And after you've watched, copy me."
"OK."
Lois dipped one end of the Tim Tam into her Milo, and her cheeks concaved as she sucked on the other end of the cookie. A few seconds later, she made a throaty sound of triumph and pulled away from the melting chocolate. She licked a few drops of the chocolate-Milo mix from her bottom lip and grinned jubilantly. She popped the rest of the soggy cookie into her mouth and gestured for him to do likewise.
Hesitantly, Clark put one end of the cookie in his Milo and sucked. Nothing happened for a few seconds; then he felt the dam give way, and his mouth was flooded with a river of rich, chocolaty fluid that, impossibly, tasted even better than the cookie by itself.
He looked at Lois who was watching him, her eyes shining. She took another handful of tissues and offered them to him. Clark was vaguely aware of a small stream of liquid meandering down his chin, but all possible embarrassment was erased by Lois's smile.
"Good?" she asked.
"Very good," Clark said as he wiped his jaw.
"That is called the 'Tim Tam Slam'," Lois informed him.
His reply was cut short by a sharp rap on the door. Clark clamped down on the groan that rose automatically.
Lois opened it to reveal Esmeralda, her neighbour.
"Oh," Esmeralda gushed as she stepped uninvited into Lois's unit. "I'm *so* glad you're here, Clark. My washing machine has become unbalanced, and I'm not strong enough to straighten it, so I'm hoping you would be kind enough to loan me your muscles for a few minutes."
As she spoke, Esmeralda walked past Lois and stood at the end of the couch. She looked down at Clark and laboriously winked. He figured there was a good chance she imagined that her smile was alluring.
It wasn't.
"It's half time," Clark said in a voice he hoped clearly communicated that if there wasn't a break in play, he wouldn't even be thinking of going into this woman's unit.
"Perfect," Esmeralda said. "I doubt we'll need very long."
Clark looked across to Lois, still standing at her door. Her face was expressionless. She simply looked at him and awaited his decision.
Reluctantly, he wiped the remnants of chocolate from his mouth and hands. Esmeralda marched out. Clark followed, giving Lois a small smile as he passed. "I'll be back soon," he promised her.
Once in Esmeralda's unit, she pointedly closed the door behind them, and Clark felt his flight instinct roar to life.
"That's better," she crooned. "Much better."
"Where's your washing machine?" Clark asked tersely.
"In here," Esmeralda said as she opened a door.
Clark followed her, realising too late that she had led him into her bedroom. She quickly closed the door, stepped up to him, and slipped her arms around his waist. Clark took a firm hold of her elbows and pushed her away. "No," he said sharply.
Her smile was in no way dented. "Don't be silly, Clarkie," she said. "You must know by now that you're never going to get anything from that tight-wad, Lois."
Clark risked taking his eyes from her long enough to reach for the handle of the bedroom door. He opened it, but was stalled when it ran into her foot. "I'm leaving," he said firmly.
"You're being silly," Esmeralda said, just as firmly. Her hand reached for his chest. Clark caught it and held it away from him.
Using enough strength to move her, but not enough to hurt her, Clark forced the door open and stepped out of her bedroom. At the front door of her unit, he stopped. "I'm not interested," he stated firmly. "And that isn't going to change, so don't try anything like this again."
Esmeralda simply smiled smugly as if she knew he would eventually succumb to her charms. Clark strode out of her unit and decisively shut her door.
Once outside, he moved far enough away that he wasn't within reach should she try to follow him, and leant against the brick wall. He had become more adept at dealing with situations like this. Mayson had been good for that, at least.
Why was it that he seemed to attract beautiful women whom he found not remotely attractive, and yet the one woman who completely enthralled him showed no interest in being anything more than friends?
From deep in his pants pocket, Clark heard the shrill of his cell phone. He pulled it out, hoping fervently that Esmeralda hadn't somehow managed to procure his number. With relief, he saw that it was his mom. It would be very early morning at home. "Mom," he said, steadying his voice. "How are you?"
"Clark," his mother said with an urgency that gripped his stomach. "There's been a train crash in the subway in Metropolis. They're worried about a collapse, and if that happens, hundreds of people will die. Can you come?"
"Of course I can come," Clark said. "I'll be there in a few minutes." He slipped the cell back into his pocket as his heart plummeted. He had to go to Lois and make an excuse. And regardless of how convincing he was ... and past experience told him he was unlikely to be convincing at all ... she would think he was making excuses so he could go back to Esmeralda.
Clark groaned.
Then he remembered the trapped people, and hurried the few steps to Lois's unit.
She looked up as he entered. He thought he saw a glimmer of pleasure that he was back so soon, but he had no time to think about that now.
"Lois," Clark said, knowing he sounded a little breathless and despising himself for it. "Lois, I've just had a call, and I have to go. I'm sorry."
Her expression of surprise slashed through his heart.
"Thanks for everything," he said. "I'll see you tomorrow. I'll be ready by nine."
Clark shut her door and turned away quickly. He ran to the shrubs at the far end of the driveway, spun into the suit, lifted into the darkness, and flew to Metropolis.
Inside him rose the apprehension that assailed him every time he was about to be seen in public as Superman. He tried to calm himself by thinking ahead to the job that awaited him. Yet nothing - not his nervousness, nor his attempt to focus his mind on the emergency - could dissolve the memory of Lois's look of hurt surprise as he had mumbled his feeble excuse.
||_||
RL Footballers
Ron Barassi - Melbourne legend who played from 1953-1964 winning six premierships. Moved to Carlton 1965-1969 - one of the first really big names to switch clubs. Coached four premierships - two with Carlton, two with North Melbourne. Wore number 31.
Anthony Koutoufides - played for Carlton 1992-2007, and always kept the number 43.
Peter Knights - Hawthorn centre half back - 1969-1984, winning three premierships
Some of the best speckies (high marks) of all time (8:01, but you'll get the idea quickly. If you get to 3:09, you’ll see the best mark I’ve ever seen live – Nathan Thompson, number 23, Hawthorn.)
