The Promise by Tony Birch

sandwich and offered it to me.
    â€˜Get stuck into that. The old fella next to me can’t eat a thing. They cut part of his tongue out because of some cancer. He’s ate nothing, but they keep bringing him stuff.’
    I unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite. It was real ham, not the fake stuff you get in a tin.
    â€˜You don’t look sick, Bung. Fatman here said you were about to drop dead.’
    â€˜I didn’t say he’d dropped dead,’ Fatty defended himself. ‘I said he might be dying. It’s not the same thing, idiot.’
    â€˜Well, I’m not dying. I had to have this infection cut out and they’ve given me pills to help me get better.’
    â€˜Cut out? Where’d they cut the infection from?’ Fatman asked. ‘I asked Mum what was going on. She wouldn’t tell me. “Ask your father,” she said.’
    â€˜I’ll show you. Take a look at this.’
    He pushed the blanket to the bottom of the bed, undid the ties on his pyjama pants and pulled them down to his knees. The four of us were staring at the knob of his dick. It was bloodied and bruised and bandaged in yellow-stained gauze.
    â€˜Shit. What happened?’ I asked.
    â€˜The foreskin bit got all infected. The doctor said I’d gotten germs in it because I’ve been playing with it too much, so they had to snip it off.’
    â€˜Foke,’ Scratch whispered.
    My father appealed to the Victorian Junior Marbles Board on our behalf and the grand final was put back two weeks. It was another week before Bunga could move around on his own and piss without too much pain. By early in the week before the final he was just about back to his old self, giving us orders down at the marbles ring. We were back in full training a couple of days later.
    On the morning of the match Bunga reminded me to call up to Sparrow’s flat and organise the music. I had to knock at his door three times before somebody answered. His mother said he wasn’t home.
    â€˜Where’s he at then? Sparrow’s in charge of playing the music for the marbles final.’
    She lifted her bottom lip and sneered at me.
    â€˜Play his music? So you cheeky bastards can give him hell again? You and your cross-eyed mate.’
    Bunga wasn’t cross-eyed. He had a lazy eye. Just one.
    â€˜We’re not going to abuse him. We want him to put some songs on. I already asked him and he said he’d do it.’
    â€˜Well, he can’t do it, because he’s not here.’
    She tried closing the front door on me.
    â€˜Where’s he gone?’
    â€˜Where would you think? To the record shop. I’m sure he’s got a bed there.’
    â€˜When he gets back can you ask him to put the Beatles on? Loud.’
    â€˜I’ll be out doing the shopping. You see him, ask him yourself.’
    Back at the ring the team was warming up.
    â€˜You got him organised?’ Bunga growled.
    â€˜Yep,’ I lied. He was always grumpy before a big match. I didn’t want him losing concentration worrying over where Sparrow might be.
    By the time the Kensington team arrived, in a Salvation Army minibus, a large crowd had gathered, including teams from the other estates. A few of the dads had turned up, but kept their distance from the ring, enjoying a smoke and an early beer under a scraggy gum tree across from the ring.
    Before each match the regulations governing the game of marbles were read aloud by a Salvation Army Major. Although he was forever encouraging us to call him Major Bob, most kids knew him as Dr No. He called the event to attention.
    â€˜There shall be No swearing – No raucous barracking – No spitting on or near the ring – No walking through the ring – No coaching from the sidelines – No oversized or overweight marbles – No unacceptable attire to be worn by team members.’
    We won the opening lag, with Bunga lobbing his alley only a freckle short of