November 23, 2017

Become The One

Playtime Adam Fawcett

In 2017 – my 35th year on this planet – I finally stopped making excuses and decided to prioritise my writing. I wanted to give the ideas and characters that had swam around inside my head for the better part of a decade a chance.

Somewhere to go.

Somewhere to grow.

Where? I didn’t know. And I didn’t care.

Each day of 2017 I have tried to make a conscious effort to write something, or if I wasn’t writing, to read, or listen, or view something about writing.

I have been inspired, challenged, changed.

And I have finally finished a fucking script.

BECOME THE ONE is an unapologetic main stage queer romance between a bisexual AFL player and a younger man that examines the hyper-masculinity of sport and what happens to clandestine relationships when good intentions and patience aren’t enough anymore.

After five drafts and a reading, I have just discovered it has been selected for the Playtime Staged Readings held by Gasworks Arts Park as part of the 2018 Midsumma Festival.

Playtime aims to identify, support and develop new talent and get queer issues out there for mainstream audiences to consider and enjoy. From an open call for applications four plays are selected to participate in the staged readings. One work will be selected by an industry panel and audience feedback to go on to receive support and development to become a full scale work and be presented at Midsumma 2019.

This is an incredible opportunity and I am quite humble and extremely honoured to have my work chosen.

I was asked to provide some commentary about the work for potential press opportunities.

This is what I came up with.

I first had the idea for this story in 2007, as a provocation to the fact we still didn’t have an openly queer player in the AFL. I continued to sit on the idea, convinced that it was only a matter of time.

Fast forward ten years, and despite greater acceptance for LGBTIQ people, historic victories such as the recent marriage equality postal survey and events like the AFL Pride Games, we still don’t have an openly queer player in the men’s league.

As usual, it has been women who have led the way, with AFLW players like Penny Cula-Reid and Mia-Rae Clifford celebrating the queer space that exists on the sporting field.

What does this say about Australian men? And for a country seemingly obsessed with sports that idolise masculine traits, what does this say about all of us? I love watching AFL, but I hate the toxic culture of masculinity that permeates every part of it and which often prevents me feeling like I can safely attend live games.

In 2015 an international study found 80 per cent of Australians involved in sport witnessed homophobia and 75 per cent believed an openly gay person would not be safe as a spectator at a sporting event.

While this is perhaps one of the reasons behind a lack of any openly queer AFL players, I find it difficult to believe that, statistically, from the thousands of men who have played at elite AFL level, not one of them has ever experienced a queer relationship while still playing.

Treating this assumption as fact, I turned my attention to these hypothetical queer partners of AFL players; to their silence, to their complicity, and to the obvious points of conflict their position in such relationships must throw up.

Over the past ten years I’ve lost hope in an AFL athlete coming out on their own, so I wrote BECOME THE ONE to ask: what if it was the partner, and not the athlete, who became the driving force behind breaking this heteronormative taboo in Australian sport? What would they – and their journey – look like? What might it take, and what might be sacrificed, to live openly as a queer couple?

The Playtime Staged Readings will take place at Gasworks Arts Park as part of the 2018 Midsumma Festival at 7.30pm on Wednesday 17 January 2018.

And I’d really love to see you there.


(Image by Karina Carvalho on Unsplash)

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November 4, 2017


Push against the front door until it bursts open.
A packhorse covered in tote bags and overpriced greens.
Wagging tail escorts me down the hallway.

Switch on the radio: Vivaldi.
Shrink-wrapped chook tossed into the sink.
Text from a friend: don’t sell him the whole shop.

Make up the bed with fresh linen.
Arrange the flowers like Mrs Dalloway.
Trim. Douche. Moisturise.

Light unscented candles.
Slather duck fat over the chook.
Scan your timeline and prepare my talking points.

Ignore your open mouth when you chew.
Ignore the way the Shiraz stains your teeth blue.
Ignore the fact you may not find me attractive.

We fuck and you’re too rough.
Wipe it away with tissue paper.
You agree to move in.

You start missing payments and stop putting dirty clothes in the washing basket where you know they belong because I’ve told you that’s where they belong.

But you stand in the doorway with that grin.

Those dimples.

That twinkle.

And everything resets.

You say I’m not pro-active enough.
You say equality has to be won.
I dish up more pork and promise to come next time.

You question my allegiance when I don’t retweet your rally cry.
In bed I bite the pillow so hard I think my teeth will shatter.
You grab my love handles again and I die a little on the inside.

Checkout man checking me out again.
Strong arms. Kind eyes. Big thighs.
Swipe the corn beef and exit stage left.

Another dinner party. Another twenty minutes in front of the wardrobe convinced I have nothing to wear and if I do find something, convinced that I’m too fat to wear it.

Lukewarm beef.

Cheap wine.

Expired conversations that go nowhere.

But you put your arm around me – and it is everything.

At the rally we march; a sea of rainbow preaching to the converted.
This is how we fight! you spray over me.
I hold your placard and think about dinner.

Drunken breeder calls us poofters on King Street.
I pretend not to hear it.
But you chase him down and we end up in casualty.

I clean your wounds and soothe your anger with warm strokes of the flannel.
You want to know why I don’t fight back.
Legislation is passed on the same day we visit the shrink for the first time.

You switch shitty jobs and seem genuinely happy.
I walk into a glossy store and exchange my savings for an engagement ring.
You compliment my chicken, and I feel like we might just make it.

The front door bursts open.
The turkey is flung into the sink.
The dog looks confused.

I rush into the bedroom.

There are no clothes on the floor.

Only empty shelves.

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November 3, 2017

The Anniversary

Liam nudges his coltish frame past the tree ferns and scrambles down the embankment. Cockatoos and pied currawongs perform in the canopy above him, their harmonies bookended by the occasional piercing cracks of a whipbird.

The silt on the riverbank melts under Liam’s sneakers as he removes his puffer jacket. Coated in a shade of gunmetal usually only reserved for pointlessly large luxury cars, he holds it out in front of him for closer inspection.

Four hundred. He had announced the price of the puffer jacket after arriving last night, while Liam was still retrieving it from the gift bag. Wood smoke choked the cabin like too much incense and Liam couldn’t stop himself wondering what he would have given her for their three-year anniversary.

He shrugs, flattens it out onto the damp bank, and assembles himself into the lotus position. Cluttered with twigs and a few plastic bags, the river moves at a glacial place; the only sign of life a dead dragonfly drifting slowly downstream.

Liam closes his eyes and breathes the sharp morning air into his lungs. In-two-three-four, out-two-three-four – slow it down – in, two, three, four – drop the shoulders – out, two, three… four. Meditation was helping, but in these early stages it was still a bit hit and miss.

In. Two. Three. Four. Out. Two. Three. Four.

Eventually, the world slows down around him.

The chorus of birdsong suddenly drops away as a gush of air comes rushing down from the mountain range.

The treetops sway like intoxicated bodies as a wave of leaves shower over him.


Later they will drive into town for groceries. He will remain in the car at the bottom of the parking lot, handing his wallet to Liam with a sheepish grin.

The supermarket is the same chain from home but the lanes are arranged differently, and Liam will move through them in a fog: bread, milk, bacon, eggs, lube and – his favorite – cherry tomatoes.

At the self-serve checkout Liam will open his wallet. He will know the drill: always cash – but, wrapped in their knitted beanies and matching snow mitts, four rosy faces will gloat back at him through the faded plastic, and Liam will find himself pulling out his credit card instead.

They will spend the rest of the day on the verandah, drenched in sunlight and buried in the kind of crappy novels places like this always seem to attract. When the sun drops behind the ridge and the light turns from gloss to matte, he will scoop Liam up and take him to bed.

He will tell Liam that he loves him.

At night there will be a simple pasta dish with basil and cherry tomatoes, washed down with cheap wine. When they make love again on the lumpy couch, Liam will notice the persistent hissing of the damp logs as they fight for oxygen in the neon glow of the fireplace.


Sunday morning and Liam is back in the forest.

Ankle deep in wet leaves, he picks his way through a maze of thistles and blackberry vines as the crescendo of the river draws him further upstream.

When he finally reaches the other side, a waterfall several metres high opens up in front of him. Slabs of basalt the size of flat screen TVs press up against each other like dominos in mid-fall and all Liam can do is rest his claret speckled hands on his hips, transfixed.

In. Two. Three. Four. Out. Two. Three. Four.

Throwing off the jacket and undressing, he wades into the surging waters.

In, two, three, four, out, two, three, four.

Liam pushes his head into the deafening sheet of water. The torrent cuts into the back of his neck and the pressure brings his eardrums to breaking point, but he stands like this until he finds an answer to the question he’s been too afraid to ask.


The sound of the torrent morphs into a scream as Liam howls like a wounded animal inside the womb-like cavity of the waterfall.


When he returns to the cabin, Liam will be greeted by the smell of bacon and eggs. He will have woken early and packed their bags. In the shower Liam will notice the lube has been moved to the windowsill. He will let the hot water rush down the back of his neck and spine until his skin blushes.

On the verandah they will embrace for the last time.

He will tell Liam that he loves him.


The Anniversary was published in n-Scribe’s annual print magazine in November 2017.

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Become The One
The Anniversary