Free My Private Pectus by Shane Thamm Page B

out. ‘It wasn't just any tackle,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘It was a ripper!’
    He started to build.
    Later that night, between footy games on Foxtel, Dad stuck his head into my room. He was absolutely glowing. ‘I've got to show you something,’ he said.
    Back at the dining table, he sat me down at the laptop and talked me through My H.Q. , the online enrolment for the Australian Defence Force.
    â€˜What if I want to do something else?’ I asked him.
    â€˜Such as?’
    â€˜Be a mechanic.’
    He screwed up his nose like it was the stupidest thing he'd ever heard. ‘If you want to be a mechanic then do it in the army. You'll even get a trade ticket. And you won't be working on a Japanese hunk-a-junk. Think about it: four-wheel-drives, tanks, armoured personnel carriers, trucks. That's the stuff, Jack; let me tell you, that's the stuff.’
    The excitement of the day drained away. I felt numb. I don't want trucks, or tanks. I want things to be simple, easy, I thought. And Dad didn't understand. There was another question, too, a more important one: what if they won't take a kid with PE?
    But he looked on as if this was my only hope. Or am I his only hope? I thought. Maybe I'm the last dregs of his dream that got stripped away? I'm his chance to live again. It was then I realised that this battle won't ever end until one of us gives up.
    So I started going through the enrolment page by page, filling in my details: date of birth, address, job preferences. At one point it asked, reason for applying? Dad was still behind me, watching over my shoulder, so I turned to him and raised my eyebrows. He got the drift and went back to the footy on Foxtel.
    Dad wants me to join, I typed then sat back. I moved onto the next page before Dad could come and check. But after a few more minutes, he couldn't help himself. He got up from the couch to see how I was going. My H.Q. was now asking questions about my civil record:
    PLEASE INDICATE IF YOU HAVE EVER BEEN CONVICTED OF ANY OF THE FOLLOWING TYPES OF OFFENCES:
    DRINK DRIVING
    SPEEDING
    DRUGS
    THEFT
    INSTITUTIONALISED
    OTHER
    Thinking about what it's like living here, I clicked on institutionalised.
    â€˜Hey! What are you doing?’
    I unclicked it.
    Finally I got to the last page which was about scheduling a Job Options Evaluation Session, or JOES, which is a meeting with a career guidance officer and a physical examination. A physical, I thought. It could be my ticket out. If it's not my PE, I'll just fail the fitness. It'll be one or the other.
    Dad adjusted his glasses as he read. He rummaged around on the table for a pen and paper then scribbled some notes.
    â€˜Fifteen push-ups, forty-five sit-ups and a shuttle run.’ He stopped; re-read his notes then stuck them to the fridge. He adjusted his pants. ‘That's nothing,’ he spat. ‘It was harder than that in my day.’ He tried to tuck his shirt in. ‘I reckon I could still do that now.’ He turned to me, and tapped his temple. ‘That's if my head would let me.’
    I didn't reply.
    He looked at his notes again. Then he clapped. ‘Jack, you can do that!’ He took the notes back down and held them in front of my face. ‘Fifteen push-ups! You'll be a shoo-in!’ He slapped the back of my head. ‘Ha!’ he yelled. Then he leaned forward again, examining the computer screen. ‘What's a BMI?’ he asked.
    We've done this in phys. ed. ‘Body Mass Index,’ I told him.
    He gave me a blank look.
    â€˜It's a weight to height ratio. How many kilos you weigh per metre squared.’
    He screwed his face up at it. ‘What's the point of that?’
    â€˜Everyone has an optimum BMI—a healthy BMI range.’
    â€˜Outta my way,’ he said and pushed me away from the laptop.
    â€˜Hey!’ I got up anyway and sat in front of the TV while he googled everything about BMI. I changed the channel.
    â€˜What's the