Naked Hero - The Journey Away

a change. It had shades of brown forming crazy patterns in the background, with black, ghost like figures floating above it. “It’s the Emu Men, isn’t it?”
    “I was relieved when you said you liked it,” said Lee, thrilled at the response. “I had to guess which ones to go with. There wasn’t time to wait until you’d seen them at the gallery. There are five other designs, some with sleeves, some without. You could just pick one to wear, or change them around as the match goes on, but only if you’re comfortable with doing that. Don’t worry about the clothes, just think about winning.”
    “I sweat like a pig in the heat here, so I’ll need to change at least every set. Can I see the rest?”
    “You might want to consider some of the other sponsors, Lewis. As I said, they are offering big bucks up front.”
    “This is what you recommend, isn’t it? Why on earth would I want to go against your advice after all the time you’ve spent looking into this? Now come on, let’s see the rest of the gear.”
    Still barely able to credit the trust, Lee unwrapped the other shirts.
    Lewis worked his way through them, trying each one on for size and comfort. He didn’t remember every painting the designs were based on, but Lee had chosen well, as each one was spectacular in its own way. “Am I okay wearing these? Is there not some sort of copyright infringement going on here?” he asked.
    “HIM Clothing own the copyrights,” Lee assured. “And the paintings have been bought for you by them as a gift. The artists, or their next of kin, have given permission for the designs to be used. They’ll get a nice kick back, so everyone’s sweet. What do you reckon?”
    “I think they’re wonderful. The Aussies might think I’m taking the piss, though.”
    “No, they won’t,” replied Lee. “This is your tribute to their country and their heritage. Something they should be proud of. You’ll win the crowd, Lewis, and then they can help you to win the title.”
    Lewis looked at him in amazement. Lee was giving him a key. “ You need to win them over,” that’s what Scott had said to him, and Lewis knew that he was right, but he couldn’t see a way. Scott had his own approach: keep things quiet. Here was another option: loud and proud. The clothes were certainly loud, and Lewis would wear them with pride.
    “Thank you. You have been busy. Is that them all?”
    Lee hesitated and fumbled in the bag. “There are some shorts here as well - I kept those tame,” he offered as his mind turned over. “Sweat bands and things like that. You can try them on later and go with what you like best...”
    He thought to stop – it had all gone so well. Then a haunting statement from a different rulebook made him think again: “...and saying nothing... that would have been like a lie in a way. Do you not think?”
    How could there be lies on this day of poignant truths?
    “...There is one more shirt, though,” Lee nervously added. “It might be a bit over the top… you can decide if you want it or not.”
    “Let’s have a look,” Lewis brightly encouraged.
    Lee brought out the last of the shirts, still in its wrapping, and handed it to Lewis for him to open. He placed it on the table and sat down, fascinated to see what Lee had kept up his sleeve for the grand finale. He expected another Aboriginal design, but surely not based on ‘Man’s Love Story’, that would be too much to put on a shirt. It was too complex to be reduced in that way. As he prised open the wrapping, he froze when he saw what lay underneath. The others did as well.
    Lewis just stared at it, a minute passed before he even drew breath - his fingers slowly moving over the fabric, teasing and caressing it. He seemed transfixed.
    “Do you recognise it, Lewis?” asked Fiona, the only one brave enough to dare break the spell.
    He tried to look up to her, but his head only rose a fraction before it was pulled back down, the spell still binding, fixing his eyes to the material that he held. Finally he put it down, pushing it away slightly, but his eyes never wavered.
    “It’s my dad’s tartan... He wore it to his wedding... when he married my mum. She’s still got the kilt. I think so anyway.”
    “Of course she has, Lewis,” said Fiona.
    Lee was desperate to speak, to ask him if it was okay, but Fiona touched him on the arm and held him back.
    “It’s not just your dad’s tartan, Lewis. It’s yours as well: the Macleod tartan. The