Machete and the Ghost by James Griffin & Oscar Kightley

Author:James Griffin & Oscar Kightley [Griffin, James & Kightley, Oscar]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781988516646
Goodreads: 47319324
Publisher: Upstart Press
Published: 2019-11-01T00:00:00+00:00

G: So the first time I actually managed to see Machete, face to face, turned out to be when we ran out onto the field for the second round of the comp, at the Cake Tin, for the ’Canes versus the Blues in a repeat of last year’s final. I was feeling pretty good about myself, to be honest. The previous week we’d cleaned up the easy-beat Crusaders by 50 points, down in Christchurch, and I’d dotted down three times. Sure it was only the Crusaders, the perennial wooden-spooners, but it had been a good start and I thought maybe the dreads were bringing me some good early-season form.

Anyway, we’re getting ready for the kick-off and I see Machete, looking at me, from deep inside his half. So I give him the nod — hey. Nothing. He’s just looking at me, giving me nothing. No nod, just the cold stink eye. It did not feel good.

M: At that moment in time, having just seen the abomination for the first time with my own eyes, I was beyond any form of communication. When he gave me the nod, all I could see were these things on top of his head, bobbing up and down, mocking me and my culture.

G: I just thought he was game-facing me, trying to get into my head. He did that sometimes, when we were playing against each other.

M: Nah, I was just offended on so many levels.

G: So, about five minutes into the game and we’re up by seven and I’m doing this wrap-around move with Conch. But the Blues cover is reading it pretty well so I put this little grubber kick through to turn them around. And I’m starting to chase the kick when — WHACK!! — I get flattened. It’s Machete and it’s well late — and the referee does nothing, just waves play on. And as me and him are getting up, he says to me . . .

M: ‘You feel that? That’s Bob Marley turning in his grave.’

G: And he runs off and there’s no penalty, nothing. I look to Conch — that was late, right? He just shrugs, turns away, and gets on with the game.

Halfway through the first half, we’re carving out a slick backline move. I’m in the line, I flick the ball on to the Tow Truck Driver, who is belting down the line. I swear I have time to watch him beat two players before — KA-THWACK!!!!! — I get flattened again. Machete. This time it’s so late that surely after the Tow Truck ploughs over in the corner the referee will turn to Machete and brandish the yellow card. Not that Machete seems to care, as he whispers in my ear . . .

M: ‘While you’re appropriating other people’s cultures, I s’pose you’ll be the white dude playing the digeridoo in Cuba Mall tomorrow.’

G: Then Machete jogs back to join his teammates under the posts, awaiting the conversion. As I struggle to get to my feet, I realise that none of my teammates are coming to help me or check on my state of health.

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