Johnny doesn't seem to notice the others laughing gently in the playground as he revs his motor, wrist pumping, making a motorbike noise with his bright pink lips. "I'm a motorbike, I'm a motorbike," he says. Then he smiles as he hits the power-band going past the bubblers.

Some days he gets bogged under the lemon tree near the science block. His wrist is like a blur as he pumps the throttle, his skinny legs pawing the ground, shoes slipping in the mud. "I'm bogged, I'm bogged!"

"Johnny, get to class," scowls Mr Schumann. "And pull your socks up!"

And Johnny smiles secretively, then powers away, popping a mono in protest.

* * *

We each choose a sport at the beginning of each term. In winter Johnny usually does soccer, sits by the post, ignores the goalie, picking blades of grass, talking to grasshoppers, or idling near the corner flag. Sometimes he does basketball, patrolling the sidelines in search of a berm or a table-top, or table tennis, examining a ping-pong ball up close. But never bushwalking - no, never again, they said. Not after the time he got lost.

This term it's cricket. Johnny fields at backstop, behind the wicket-keeper, Jamie, who never misses the ball, never lets one through, ever. Johnny putts around the outfield and never bats, never bowls, sometimes gets bogged at deep fine leg. He plays backstop for both teams.

Today our team takes an early wicket, and it's Neilson to come in at first drop. Neilsen, who is the captain of the junior team, a great bat. He's got his own Gunn & Moore, (the full kit) and never gets out, ever. He's really good, and he knows it - will even tell you if you ask.

Bare-headed, Neilsen strolls out to the middle, takes guard slowly as the sun beats down and the crickets scream in the bush nearby. He adjusts his gloves, then his pads, then his box (as if he needs one) and he's ready. Almost.

He lifts one hand and stops the bowler mid-run-up, looks around and sizes us all up, taking his time. He sees Johnny picking dandelions down by the fence and smiles quietly to himself. Then at last he is ready, and he sets himself.

Finally the bowler runs in, totally psyched out by Neilsen's little performance. Don't bowl a long-hop, don't bowl a long-hop, don't bowl a long-hop. He bowls, cautiously, too cautiously, and Neilsen's eyes light up. A long hop! he thinks, his bright eyes widening, a smile flickering. Six first ball - how good would that be! is what he's thinking. He winds up, lets go, left leg way down the track, aiming for the bench of nine lesser batsmen. He connects, gets under it, takes a thick edge, and the ball sails, sails, soars, not to the bench, but high over Jamie's head and his redfaced gloves. An edge for six - how good would that be! is what Neilsen's thinking.

Eleven voices shout at once. "Johnny!" Johnny looks up from his little collection of yellow flowers, then looks higher, spotting the ball at its apex, a dot of dark red suspended high in the brave blue sky. A catch? Me? Not likely! is what he's thinking. He sees it falling towards him now, picking up speed. He closes his eyes, cups his hands and holds his breath, just like the rest of us, just like Neilsen. Out first ball, caught by Johnny - how would that be! is what he's thinking.

The ball lands in Johnny"s hands, right in the middle.

"Drop it!" shouts Neilsen, but Johnny doesn't drop it. No, he holds it high above his head as Neilsen kicks the stumps over and the rest of us scream with laughter and run down the field to hug Johnny. He's laughing too. After all, he's a motorcross hero.

(c) James Roy 2000