Siren wailing, lights flashing, the ambulance threads its way through traffic. Cars veer, swerve, try to pull out of the way. But it’s gridlock, three packed lanes all the way to the intersection.
‘Take her up on the footpath,’ says the senior paramedic.
The rig rocks as it climbs the kerb. Wild eyes peer through car windows as they pass. At the lights, they drop back onto the road and roar through.
The paramedic squints at the GPS. ‘Turn left here.’
They round the corner and accelerate along a side street.
The field is straight ahead: a patchwork quilt of pitches fringed by orange cones. Imposing concrete clubhouse. Tiered spectator seating. Large car park lined by pine trees.
The other paramedic, driving, kills the siren as they draw near. A man stands by an open gate and waves them through.
They bump across pock-marked grass, bypassing a stalled game, gaping faces, a bloke videoing on his phone.
In the middle of the field, an official in a fluoro-orange vest directs them to a gathering of long-faced people huddled in small groups. Adults and kids, some in tracksuits, some in coats. Players in blue-and-white vertical stripes, others in red jerseys and filthy white shorts. All watching.
The man in the vest yells at everyone to make room.
The crowd parts.
The driver eases the ambulance through. All around, anxious faces. Kids with tear-streaked cheeks. Drooping shoulders. Heads hanging.
On the ground, someone in recovery position beneath a grey woollen blanket.
They pull up as close as possible, grab their gear and leap out.
The paramedic sets down his bag and drops to his knees on the damp grass, takes a quick look at the patient. Pale skin, slow breaths, fluttering lids. Crooked face. Bruising and swelling already emerging on the jaw. Undoubtedly, a significant fracture.
He checks the eyes. Lifts the lip. Assesses the neck carefully. Takes the pulse and blood pressure while his partner tugs back the blanket and navigates her way along the patient’s prone body, checking for injuries…
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