wombat football

Owen’s Party

Adam says he can make it, easy. We’re all a bit scared he’ll end up in hospital or kill himself, but we’re still egging him on, and we’re most definitely still going to watch. He gulps down the rest of his beer, sprints between us out on to the balcony, and uses a patio chair as a vaulting spring to launch himself over the railing. A split second passes; it seems like minutes.

There’s a horrible snapping sound, and we all rush to the edge and tentatively look down into the garden below. Owen’s mum’s lawn border obviously took the brunt of the impact: there are broken conifer leaves all over the driveway, and one of the trees is almost completely flattened.

Then Adam is there, staggering drunkenly from behind the wreckage, arms raised aloft like a victorious prize fighter. He’s ripped his sleeve, and his hands are bleeding. A cheer rises up from the audience. He’s the one: the one they’ll remember when they’re older, reminiscing over dinner while their kids play together. Remember that time Adam jumped off the balcony, they’ll say, laughing; we used to be so reckless, oh for the freedom of youth.