Touch Footy

by Michelle Melendy (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find Australia

The nomenclature of touch-footy connotes something much warmer and flirtier than Australian rugby, but Aussies can’t be bothered much by misinterpretations. Educated on the intricacies of the game by our fellow uni students, Kelly and I cheered for the right colors and laughed softly together about our perceived superiority of American football. Amidst the joviality of the championship game on the student center television, Andy found a moment to invite me to a hot tub party at his flat. He would be moving soon and was hosting one last hurrah. As a matter of habit, I accepted for Kelly and myself. At nineteen, I was cracking open my chrysalis of shyness, and even if I did not emerge a social butterfly, I might be at least some other winged creature. Andy was one of the Aussiest blokes I knew, and generously he was seeing to my Australian cultural education. He was unpretentious but had the muscles of one used to hard labor. He was unafraid of manliness and joked that his furry chest hair was only one indication of how much of a man he was. Despite the display of testosterone, he was everyone’s big brother. Just his presence made us feel safer—if not a little concerned that some practical joke might be brewing behind his kind eyes. Kelly and I hurried back to the dorm to change. Twisting my hair into bun to avoid chlorine tangles, I was slightly jealous of the freedom Kelly’s short curls afforded. We had met at the Sydney airport as we embarked on a year of studies abroad and were pretty much inseparable. We had the same taste in music, adventure, and sometimes even men (but that’s a story we aren’t sharing). We quickly became best friends. My poetical tangents balanced her business-major practicality. Yet, we both were sensible enough to know that once we returned to the states, distance would punctuate our friendship. We hoped to create enough memories to outlast the time and space. Not ones to fuss too much, we were soon ready and squeezed into Andy’s used-to-be-white-before-years-of-love Corolla. Back in Kelly’s Ohio, Andy might have chauffeured us to his house in a gleaming lifted Chevy, but here most students lived out of their own pockets. Thriftiness was necessitated. I felt at home as my childhood driveway always hosted several beaters just so one would run enough to get my dad to work. Arriving around the corner at Andy’s house, I wondered if we had donned our bikinis just a little too quickly as no one was there yet. We made ourselves comfortable on a couch that would rival any grandmothers—clean, but well-worn and flowered—while Andy went to “fill the hot tub.” Kelly eyed me sideways, her sea-green eyes mirroring my questions. Shouldn’t he have prepared before now? Andy’s relaxed demeanor eased our anxieties as he returned assuring us, “Just a moment more, sheilas.” A few minutes later he invited us through a side door…into his bathroom where an over-sized garden tub steamed and gurgled waiting for our entry. Kelly hid her hesitation under her stoic Midwestern sensibility, while I smeared a hospitable southern smile on my lips. Sussing out the situation, there was just enough space for the three of us to maintain the thinnest bubble of space between us, almost avoiding all awkward tangling of toes. Apparently lingo misinterpretations weren’t restrained to sporting events. Refreshed by several hours of hot water and strong jets, Kelly and I exchanged another knowing glance as we dried off. Memories like this only happened coincidentally. The giggle in her eyes told me that Andy had not only shared a space to relax our muscles; he also gave us a moment we couldn’t remember without laughter. And that was worth all accidental foot touches.