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Reminder of notes from part 50

The Brownlow Medal - named after Charles Brownlow - is the highest individual award in football. At the conclusion of every home and away (regular season) game, the three field umpires award three votes to the player they agree was the best on the ground, two votes to second, and one vote to third.

On the Monday evening prior to the Grand Final, the votes are read at a gala event, and the Brownlow is awarded to the player judged 'the fairest and the best'.

Should a player be suspended during the season, he becomes ineligible to win the medal, although the umpires can still award him votes.

In 1996, one of the best-performed players, Corey McKernan from North Melbourne, was ineligible due to suspension.


From Part 52

The cab hadn't fully stopped when Mayson thrust a five-dollar bill at the driver and scrambled onto the sidewalk. She ran to the wide glass doors of the library and waited with foot-tapping impatience for them to deign to slide open.

Once inside, she scanned the assortment of library patrons but couldn't locate the shiny bald head that would signify Albert's presence.

...

For reasons that remained vague, Superman hadn't been able to see sufficiently well through the walls of the hospital to ascertain whether the gunman was telling the truth. And since he had so thoughtfully ensconced himself in the children's ward, the police were particularly indisposed to taking any chances. So, they had negotiated and waited until finally, Henderson and his cowboys had come up with a strategy, and the emergency had fizzled to nothing in a matter of minutes.

But the delay had made her late for her meeting with Albert. And now, he was nowhere to be seen.

She was only three minutes past their agreed meeting time. She would wait. Perhaps today was the one day when Mr Punctuality himself was actually running late.


Part 53

Lois stretched, her hands arched high above her head as she tried to ease the stiffness from her neck and shoulders. As her arms dropped back to the desk, she checked her watch and was astounded to discover that over two hours had passed since she'd sat down at the microfiche scanner.

She rubbed her dry and strained eyes and glanced over the chaos of her notes. For her time and effort, she'd come to one irrefutable conclusion - she now knew more about the early use of ecstasy in both Cornwall and Metropolis than she had ever imagined a footy journo from Melbourne would need to know.

The disappointing reality was that she still had no evidence that Nigel St John had been involved in the busted smuggling ring in England. She knew that the reported incidents of ecstasy use in New Troy had increased dramatically around the time he'd arrived in the States ... but the link was tenuous at best.

She had nothing beyond a few flaky coincidences, but she couldn't dislodge her gut feeling that the real reasons for St John's departure from England would somehow lead to the answers about his death.

Lois slumped forward, resting her elbows on the desk and her head in her hands. She allowed her eyes to slide shut.

She should be three hours into a night's sleep.

Dredging up the last reserves of her energy, Lois turned off the scanner and thrust her notes into her bag. She pulled Clark's cap lower, stood - and stopped abruptly when she saw Mayson Drake fifteen metres away near the entrance of the library.

Lois whirled around and skulked to the end of the partitioned desks. At the back wall of the library, she turned and passed three tall rows of shelves before sliding between the final two.

She'd run into Mayson Drake! Wasn't Metropolis supposed to be a *big* city?

Lois took a random book from the shelves - it was entitled 'The Case for Antimatter' - turned her body away from the front of the library, and bent her head low, staring at the page as she listened intently for the sound of approaching footsteps.

"Last chance, mate."

Lois froze. The voice had come from the other side of the shelves - a voice that spoke with a broad Aussie accent.

"No, please, Moke, please. I'll have the dough by next week," a second voice - also Australian - whined. "I promise I'll have it by then."

"Next week is too late, Bazza." This voice was calm and low - yet despite that, it had a sinister undercurrent that sent a shiver through Lois.

"No! Please, Moke. I can pay, I just need some time."

"How is time gonna make any difference?"

"I heard a whisper," Bazza said earnestly. "Some inside info."

"What sort of inside info?"

"The winner of this year's Brownlow."

A menacing snigger snaked between the books, chilling Lois's blood.

"This is fair dinkum," Bazza said desperately. "This year, it's gonna be a three-way tie."

"How would you know?" Moke sneered. "I suppose the AFL announced it in The Record?"

"No," Bazza said with breathless eagerness. "They've been putting mics on the umps 'cause the television stations think it adds to the footy telecast. Me sister's been dating one of the sound techies, and they -"

"I don't care if your sister's been dating Ned Kelly. I just want my money, Bazza. Today."

"The techies put bugs in the umpires' room, so when they discuss the Brownlow votes at the end of the games, it's recorded, and -"

"Which grounds? The 'G? Just the Victorian ones? Or the interstate grounds as well?"

"All of 'em."

There was a long silence. Lois dipped low enough to peer between the top of a row of books and the shelf above. She could see two torsos - one large and flabby and wearing a grimy white t-shirt and the other in a black cotton shirt with powerful arms folded across the chest.

"OK." Moke's voice came grudgingly. "Who's gonna win the Brownlow?"

"What's in it for me if I tell you?"

"You'll see another sunrise."

"And if I'm right?"

"We're even."

"If I'm wrong?"

"You'll be a shark's breakfast."

Bazza gulped so loudly that Lois heard it clearly. "Three-way tie," he gasped. "McKernan, Hird, Voss."

"McKernan's been suspended."

"But some bookies will accept bets on him leading the count."

"Hird and Voss are favourites. The odds won't be anything flash."

"Best roughie - Salmon. He'll come top ten."

"If this is a furphy, you'll be hearing from me in two weeks."

"So I can go?" Bazza said in a hopeful bleat. "Now?"

"Keep your voice down, you drongo." The muscled arm unfolded and clenched a fistful of the white t-shirt. "And if you know what's good for you, you won't say a word about this to anyone else."

"Who'm I gonna tell?" Bazza said, a sudden perkiness in his tone. "This place is crawling with Yanks who wouldn't know the Brownlow Medal from an Oreo."

The fist released its hold, and the two men walked towards the front of the library.

Lois followed - staying behind the cover of the tall shelves. Near the end of the row, she crouched low and pretended to be examining the spines of the row of books. She glanced surreptitiously to her left and saw the two Aussies walk out of the library - straight past where Mayson Drake still stood.

||_||

Mayson waited for five long minutes in the vain hope that Albert would appear - and each passing moment served only to darken her mood. The hostage situation had taken so long to reach a conclusion, not only had it wasted her time, but it had also ensured that even the most slothful of editors had managed to get a reporter on the scene ... which meant that her story wouldn't be an exclusive.

She really needed to talk to Superman and make him aware that she wanted prior knowledge of his exploits. That would just be the start. Later, she was sure she would think of other ways to use his powers to her advantage.

Although ... clearly, the man lacked intelligence. She'd expected that he would realise she had the green rock and seek her out with a clumsy attempt at negotiation.

Instead ... nothing.

Linda King hadn't seen fit to mention anything in her report that would tarnish the perfection of her grand event.

The spandex twins didn't seem particularly perturbed by Superman's collapse as he had walked up the aisle.

It was as if the entire episode hadn't happened.

This morning, she'd had the ideal opportunity for a quiet word with Superman regarding the green rock - except his wife had been there, acting like a celebrity just because she'd married an alien.

A trickle of satisfaction oozed through Mayson's despondency. It had taken just one look from her for Superman's wife to begin to scratch and hiss like a jealous cat guarding a chunk of meat. Mayson would remember that - provoking the pink floozy could prove to be an entertaining sideline to the serious business of capitalising on the green rock.

Mayson's fleeting good cheer dissolved as she recalled her encounter with Clark at his apartment. He'd totally rejected her and had even gone so far as to say he was in love with the woman in Melbourne. Mayson shook her head in bewilderment.

And now, to top off a dismal day, she'd missed her meeting with Albert.

Two men walked past her, and she caught a trickle of their conversation.

" ... and Voss take home Charlie, we'll *all* be winners."

The coarse accent reminded her of Scardino, and she glanced into the faces of the two men. It wasn't Scardino ... just two of his boorish countrymen.

With a sigh, Mayson accepted that Albert wasn't coming - or, more likely, had already left. She headed for the door ... and back to the newsroom to write up a meaningless story about an inept gunman, dithering cops, and an overly cautious alien.

||_||

From the cover of the tall bookshelves, Lois watched the blonde figure of Mayson Drake leave the library.

Lois took down another book from the shelf and rustled through it, her mind in turmoil. If any of what she'd heard from the expat Aussies was true, this was going to shake the foundations of footy. Every year, there were rumours of leaks leading up to Brownlow Medal night, but almost inevitably, they turned out to be nothing more than some educated guesswork. What were the chances a sound technician could put a hidden bug in the umpires' rooms? The same bloke couldn't do every ground - there would have to be a few of them in on the scam.

And when more than one person knew something, the rumours usually gained momentum.

But Lois had heard nothing.

Perhaps that was because she had been so engrossed in Operation Payback.

And Clark.

Clark!

If Mayson was back from the hospital, Clark would be, too. And if he arrived at his apartment to find her gone, he was going to worry.

From her bag, her cell sounded. She saw it was from Clark and disconnected it without answering. She hurriedly punched in a text. 'I'm safe. Be there in five.'

As she walked briskly through the busy streets of Metropolis, her mind was half a world away.

What Bazza had said ... It was possible ... not probable, but possible.

But it was more probable than the likelihood that information overheard in a Metropolis library could land her the biggest story of her career.

||_||

"Lois!"

She was still ten metres from his door when Clark emerged and sprinted towards her.

"What happened?" he said as he reached her, anxiety clouding his expression. "Where were you?"

Lois met him with a quick kiss and then took his hand and led him into his apartment. "It's OK, she said. "I'm fine. I was just doing some research."

"Research?"

Lois reached across him and closed the door. She put her hand on his chest and smiled at him. "Yes," she said calmly. "I was doing some research for your story about Nigel St John and the Boss."

Clark, however, was not calm - and he was becoming less so with every passing second. "Lois," he said with undisguised displeasure. "I can't believe you would take a risk like that."

"I can't believe you expected me to stay here like a well-trained puppy."

Lois saw him flinch at her words and regretted them immediately. She wasn't completely sure where such antagonism had sprung from, but now that it had been verbalised, there was no obvious path of retreat.

"What if someone saw you?" Clark demanded.

"What if they did, Clark?" she said, trying desperately for the middle ground that would neither provoke nor concede. "Who's going to recognise me? Lois Lane has never been to Metropolis in her life."

"There are security cameras everywhere, Lois. It only needs one person to identify you, and the secret - *both* our secrets are threatened."

Lois knew the prime source of his irritation was concern for her safety, but she wasn't ready to surrender her right to make her own decisions. She did know that they couldn't do this now. "Clark," she said, careful to keep all overtures of confrontation from her tone. "I can see that you're upset, but I don't want to have an argument with you now. I'm tired, and in my world, morning is just a few hours away. Would you please take me home so I can get some sleep?"

He paused, and she could see he was sorely tempted to reiterate his uneasiness.

"Please, Clark," she said wearily. "If you still want to, we can discuss this tomorrow, but if we have this conversation now, we are going to end up arguing."

"You shouldn't have left the apartment," he stated harshly. Despite his tone, there wasn't anger in his eyes, but fear.

"Take me home," she begged. "Please. I need sleep, and you need to get to the Planet."

He lifted her into his arms. Clutching her bag, Lois closed her eyes, hoping that would be enough for Clark to realise that the trip over the Pacific was not going to be the opportunity to continue this discussion.

A few minutes later, they were in her unit in Melbourne. "G'night, Clark," she said. She reached up and kissed him briefly, and then, without giving him the opportunity to respond, she walked into her bedroom and collapsed into her bed.

||_||

Lois's alarm pulled her from sleep just a few hours later, and she groaned as the events of yesterday inundated her tired brain. She didn't need to open her eyes to know she was alone. Refusing to dwell on the emptiness of the cold side of the bed, she hauled her protesting body from the cocoon of warmth and headed to the bathroom.

Half an hour later, she left her unit and took the train to Flinders Street. It felt like old times - getting up - alone - and commuting into the city with thousands of other workers.

"Hey, Flinders," Bluey said as she crossed the newsroom towards Browny's office. "What are you doing here? Have you given up on Hawthorn?"

"Not yet, Bluey," she replied lightly.

"Dunno if you'll get your job back," Banjo said with an overdone wink. "Spencer is the real deal."

"Yep." Lois tapped on Browny's door and entered his office.

Her editor looked up with a smile. "Well," he said. "Look what the cat dragged in. What do you want, Flinders?"

Lois pulled the chair closer to his desk and sat down. "I have what could either be absolutely nothing at all or could be one of the biggest footy stories since Barassi left Melbourne to go to Carlton."

She had Browny's full attention. "OK," he said. "Tell me what you know."

"Clark was in a library in Metropolis, and he heard -"

Browny's loud chortle cut across her words. "*Clark* heard this in a library in Metropolis?" he asked incredulously. "A footy story? In a library? In *Metropolis*?"

"I know it sounds unlikely," she admitted. "But there were two men talking, and one of them told the other about a Brownlow leak."

Browny's eyes narrowed, and he stared at her as if weighing her words. "Flinders," he said. "There's a rumoured Brownlow leak every single year."

"This one was specific."

"Go on."

"Three-way tie for the win and a roughie to make the top ten."

"That's all? Or do you have specific names?"

"I have names."

Browny waited, still obviously teetering between grudging acceptance and scepticism. "Go on."

"McKernan, Hird, and Voss to tie."

The editor took a moment to ponder that. "That's entirely possible. Hird and Voss are champions, and McKernan has had a stellar year."

"I know," Lois conceded. "He also said that Salmon would come top ten."

"Gazza told me that you mentioned Salmon the other day."

"I did," Lois said. She tried to read Browny's face. "You don't think there's anything in it?"

He didn't reply immediately. "Did Clark say how this bloke knew?"

"Apparently, the sound technicians who did the umpires' mics rigged up hidden bugs in the umpires' rooms and listened in while they did the votes after the games."

"At *every* ground?"

"The bloke said it was every ground, but you wouldn't need to do every ground. You'd need to cover the top teams and anyone who was having a great year."

"Have you checked with the betting agencies? Has there been a splurge on any of those players? Or on a tied result?"

"I haven't checked. I wasn't sure if asking questions would arouse suspicions."

Browny nodded thoughtfully. "I'm not sure about this, Flinders," he said. "The AFL go to such great lengths to keep the votes secret."

"But that's *after* the umpires have voted. This is *before*."

"OK," he said. "It won't be hard to check it out."

"By looking for the bugs?"

Browny nodded. "I assume you want to follow this up? Despite the merger vote being only four days away?"

"Do you think it's worth following up?" Lois said, trying to smother her relief that her editor hadn't immediately dismissed her information.

"We'd look like galahs if that's how it panned out, and we were sitting on a story this big."

"Yeah."

"OK," Browny said, suddenly decisive. "I'll organise a meeting for you with the AFL. You can tell them what you know, and we'll see if we can find evidence of these hidden bugs. If we can't, no harm done. If we can, we have a story."

"Do we have to go through the AFL?" Lois asked dubiously.

"Yeah, we do, Flinders," Browny said.

"But -"

"This is too big for us to investigate, Flinders. We can't demand entrance to the 'G and Waverley - not to mention the interstate grounds. It's not just the AFL; if this *has* happened, it's a police matter - unauthorised surveillance for the purposes of financial gain is an offence."

"I could get into the 'G," Lois insisted. "I've been through the tunnels under the stands a thousand times. I could find the room the umpires use, and I could locate the hidden bugs." She didn't add that all of that would be easier with a flying, superfast husband who could see through walls.

"No, Lois," Browny said firmly. "If you do that, not only will they slap you with a trespassing charge, you are going to be the number one suspect when it comes to finding who put the bugs there. It's going to look like we tried to use totally unethical means to set up a story - and all with no thought to undermining the integrity of the Brownlow voting process."

"I don't trust the AFL."

"Lois, you're telling me you know who wins this year's Brownlow. Your explanation for how you know is shaky at best - and although I'm sure Clark will support your story, that's not going to hold much water with either the AFL or the police."

"Can't we just go straight to the police? Cut the AFL out of this?"

"We could," Browny said slowly. "But I have a paper to publish - and it's not a good idea to offside the AFL."

"They will do anything to keep their image untarnished," Lois said, not making much effort to contain her bitterness.

"If they felt like they were backed into a corner and had the choice between nailing someone they employed and nailing a pesky reporter ... there are no prizes for guessing which way the finger will be pointing."

Lois groaned. "I didn't think of that," she said. "I didn't sleep much last night."

"We have to do this by the book," Browny said.

"Will the AFL try to stop us printing what we know?"

"We have to accept that there will be some restrictions. We'll have to agree to withhold all the names. The AFL could take out an injunction to stop the entire story, but I don't think they will because that would risk a rumour-mill frenzy. The AFL are going to be willing to do almost anything to keep those names under wraps."

"So the story will be that the sound techies *tried* to find out the umpires' votes ... not that they did?"

"That's my take," Browny said as he rubbed his hand across his chin. "If we get the evidence to support this, we'll have a huge story... Printing the names will only damage footy and cheapen Brownlow night."

"And neither of us wants that."

"You don't have to worry about the legalities," Browny said. "That's my job. You just get the story."

Lois fidgeted with her bag. "Do you think I'm up to it?" she asked quietly. "I haven't done anything like this before."

Browny's snort dragged her eyes from her bag and to him. "If I didn't think you were up to it, I would already have Banjo in here," he said.

"Thanks."

"You realise that if they find anything, the police will want to talk to Clark?"

"That's OK; he'll be here on Sunday for the vote on Monday."

"And they might want both of you to sign to say you won't place any bets, and you won't tell anyone what you know. Would that be OK?"

Lois nodded. That was the least of her concerns.

"Give me a few minutes to make the calls, and I'll let you know."

"What are you going to tell the AFL?"

"That you have heard about a possible situation, and in the spirit of goodwill, we're offering them a chance to be involved from the beginning of the investigation."

"Thanks, Browny. Thanks for listening and taking this seriously."

"You're a smart kid, Flinders. And Rubber's no fool." Browny grinned. "I guess it's a good thing he spent time here - or he wouldn't have even understood what they were talking about."

Lois stood from the chair. "How long do you think it will take to get the meeting arranged?"

"You know the AFL - never particularly accommodating unless it benefits them."

"I have something else I want to chase up," Lois said. "Would it be OK if I leave, and you ring me when you've organised a meeting?"

"Sure." Browny picked up his phone. "Oh, Flinders?"

"Yeah?"

"Good job. And it's nice that Rubber's still working for the Herald Sun - even from Metropolis."

"Yeah," she said, swallowing down her dejection as she remembered how she and Clark had parted.

Once out of the newsroom, Lois rang Seb and, when he confirmed he was still in Melbourne, arranged to meet him for coffee.

After she'd hung up, she paused, her mobile still in her hand. On impulse, she decided.

'I love you and I'm sorry I worried you.'

She sent the text to Clark. "And I wish you were here," she added. "Because right now, I could use a partner."

||_||

Seb crossed Melbourne's City Square and entered the cafe. He quickly located Lois in the far corner and wound a path through the tables towards her.

She stood and greeted him with a smile. A weary smile. His nagging worries flared to life again.

Seb reached over and kissed her cheek. "You look tired," he said.

"I've been chasing a story."

They both sat down. "I thought you were working with Operation Payback."

"I am."

Maybe that explained her tiredness.

A waiter arrived with a cappuccino for Lois, a latte for him, and a plate containing a large vanilla slice cut into two unequal parts. "You want the big bit?" Seb asked.

She grinned, and some of her usual cheerfulness came flooding back. "When have I ever wanted the big bit?"

He shrugged. "I reckon it's polite to ask."

"How was your date with Chris?" Lois asked. "And why are you still in Melbourne?"

Seb chuckled. Even when tired, Lois always got straight to the point. "Which date?" he said.

She broke into a delighted grin. "There's been more than one date?"

"Three," he said. "And I'm meeting her for lunch today." He took a bite of the vanilla slice.

"Four dates?" Lois exclaimed. "In three days? I guess that explains why you haven't managed to drag yourself away from Melbourne yet."

Seb decided to let that pass without comment. "I'm going back to Sydney this arvo," he said.

"Do you need a lift to the airport?"

"Nah. Mum's taking me. But thanks."

"So you and Chris?" Lois persisted. "It's going well?"

He gave her a half smile that stopped short of admitting anything. "Why did you want to see me?" he asked. "Somehow, I doubt it's just because you needed to share our zillionth vanilla slice."

"I need some information."

"About what?"

"Ecstasy."

That word clanged alarm through Seb's brain. "Lois," he grated. "What is going on?"

"It's for a story," she said.

He eyed her for a long moment. She stared back at him, not flinching under his scrutiny. Her secrets worried him ... but if those secrets were somehow linked with drug abuse, that would just about kill him. "What do you want to know?" he asked.

"Is it made locally? Or is it usually smuggled into a country?"

He stifled his exclamation and shook his head. "Lois," he rasped. "You are really worrying me."

She nonchalantly licked a dollop of custard from her thumb. "Seb," she said. "You know me. You know I wouldn't be involved in anything like that."

"You don't have to be *using* the stuff for it to be dangerous, Lois. The people who make huge profits from the drug trade are not going to blink twice at the thought of shutting up a nosy journo."

"This is *Clark's* story, Seb," Lois said. "He's investigating the murder of a man in Metropolis. The man lived in Cornwall in England before moving to the States in 1990. A few weeks after he left, there -"

"There was a huge bust," Seb said. "I remember reading about it. Did this bloke have anything to do with the operation?"

"Not that I can prove. But if he did, and he managed to avoid capture by shooting through, it could explain why his six years in the States are a complete blank. The first anyone heard of him was when his body was found under a pier."

"Perhaps whoever he doublecrossed in England found him."

"Or he got involved in a similar business in Metropolis and upset someone there."

"What do you want to know?" Seb said.

"What do you know about the stuff? Do you know how it's made? Would it be possible to manufacture it in a city like Metropolis? Or would it be easier to import it?"

"I only really know about the effects and the dangers," Seb said. "But I have a mate in the Drug Squad. He's always worked in Australia, so I don't know if his knowledge would be helpful, but I'll find out what I can and get back to you."

Lois smiled. "Thanks. Could you ask him about the Cornwall bust? If any little piece of information didn't make the papers?"

Seb nodded, and then sipped his latte as he pondered whether to raise the subject whittling at his brain. He decided there were already enough secrets between them. "Lois," he said. "I went to your place on Tuesday evening, and you weren't there."

He saw the unreadable expression that crossed her face before she was able to shut it down. "I was out," she said with just a hint of defensiveness.

"I know," Seb said. "But your neighbour saw me, and -"

"And she indulged in a little speculative gossip."

Seb nodded. "Lois," he said. "You asked me not to try to work out what is going on in your life, but the more I hear, the more concerned I get."

"I'm fine, Seb."

He sighed. "You told me that Chris guessed something about you that isn't true, and you didn't correct her."

Lois nodded.

"Lois ... this thing with Chris and me ... it's serious, and I hope it's going to be long-term. I know she won't break a confidence, but there's a chance I will inadvertently say something to her that will alert her that you haven't exactly been honest."

"I didn't lie."

"I didn't say you did." Seb sighed. "The truth is, Lois - I really don't want to be stuck between two women I care deeply about. I don't want to be put in the position where I have to choose where my loyalty lies."

"Whoa," Lois said. "You really *are* serious about Chris."

He nodded. "I haven't told anyone else how I feel. Not Chris. Not my parents. But we've always trusted each other, Lois, and I don't want that to stop now."

"Chris thinks I'm involved with a Hawthorn footballer."

"Lois!" He took a breath, hoping it would give him some time to moderate his reaction. "Does Chris know about Clark?"

"No."

"Dad told me Clark is coming for the vote."

"He is."

"Chris will be at the meeting. She's a member. She'll be voting. How are you going to explain Clark?"

"I haven't worked that out yet."

"Well, you've got four days."

Lois nodded. "I know." From her bag, her mobile sounded, and with a nod of apology, she reached for it and answered it. She listened for a few moments, and then said, "OK, Browny. Thanks. I'll be there in half an hour." She returned the phone to her bag. "Sorry," she said. "I gotta go."

"Lois ... this isn't about the drugs, is it?" Seb asked. "I have an appointment now, but if this has anything to do with drugs, I'm coming with you."

They rose from their table. "No," Lois said. "This is a footy story."

Seb left a ten-dollar note on the counter as they passed. "I thought you were only doing weekend match reports."

"This is a huge story," Lois said over her shoulder as they stepped from the cafe. "If it breaks, it will be the biggest story of my career."

"So this has nothing to do with the drugs, nothing to do with why you need info about ecstasy, nothing to do with why Chris thinks you're with a Hawthorn footballer, and nothing to do with why you came to my shop in the middle of the night asking for a chunk of opal?"

"No."

"Lois," Seb said, lifting his hands in exasperation. "You make my life look simple."

"Tell me about it," she said wearily.

He put his hand on her shoulder to halt her footsteps. "You know I'm always here for you."

Lois smiled, but Seb could tell it was strained. "Thanks, Sebby Boy."

He watched her walk away, wishing she would let him help her.

||_|

Glossary

Bushranger - outlaw from the 1800s.

Dough - money.

Drongo - idiot.

Fair dinkum - true, genuine.

Furphy - wrong or misleading information.

Galah - bird (cockatoo). 'Galah' is a slang word meaning idiot or fool.

Ned Kelly - Famous Australian bushranger - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ned_Kelly

The Record - The Footy Record - an AFL publication that is sold at footy games.

To shoot through - to leave, usually hurriedly and in order to avoid a bad situation.

Pics

The Brownlow Medal - http://www.aflcentral.com.au/images/chas.jpg

Vanilla slice - http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2382/1932234176_7760ecc161.jpg

A/N

Until this point, the football parts in this fic have been faithful to the events in real life. However, the story with the Brownlow leak is totally my creation. There are usually rumours of leaks, but to my knowledge, nothing concrete has ever been proven. (And often, once the votes are read, the 'leak' proves to be false.)

The umpires do wear microphones during the games, and they do meet after the game to decide the Brownlow votes.

The names of the footballers are real - and with the benefit of hindsight, I know that the 1996 Brownlow Medal resulted in a tie between Michael Voss of Brisbane, James Hird of Essendon, and Corey McKernan of North Melbourne. Due to McKernan's suspension during the season, the medal was shared between Voss and Hird.