Boxing day

They were already arguing before anyone remembered why they’d come out. The Sandbar smelled like hot oil and damp carpet, the sort of place that claimed “coastal vibes” despite being three suburbs from the water. Mitch was at the bar first, talking to the bartender about how sustainability was just “risk hedging dressed up as ethics,” though the bartender was clearly thinking about chips. Tim arrived barefoot because shoes were “a concession to systems,” and immediately started saying something about infinite growth like it was a personal betrayal.

Kelly turned up ten minutes later with the energy of someone who’d spent the afternoon negotiating with children and the evening pretending not to think about her husband. She didn’t greet anyone. She just asked who was shouting and why it was always Tim. Dave followed, thinner than last month, pretending he wasn’t, complaining about hospital parking fees like they were the real crime. Tony came last, late enough to reset the room, slapped Mitch on the back too hard, knocked beer everywhere, and called it “gravity.”

Tim tried to get traction early. He always did.
“Infinite growth’s a lie,” he said, not to anyone in particular. “You can’t expand forever in a finite system.”

Tony leaned into him, not angry, just bored. “Mate, you can’t even finish a sentence before someone tells you to shut up.”

Kelly said, “If the system’s finite, explain how my grocery bill keeps growing.”
Tim opened his mouth again and Mitch threw a chip at it.

Dave watched them like a man with limited patience for metaphors. “I don’t care if growth is infinite or not. I just want my body to stop depreciating faster than my super.”

That derailed it for a while. They talked about hospitals, about how everything important had a waiting list, about how nothing worked unless it was on fire. Tony said the health system was just incentives wearing scrubs. Mitch said everything was incentives. Kelly said the only incentive that mattered was sleep.

Somewhere in there, without warning, the Boxing Day Test came on the TV above the bar. No one asked for it, but no one complained either. It just existed, like background radiation. Mitch nodded at the screen and said the Barmy Army looked happy, then corrected himself. “Actually they’re never happy. They only pretend to be. They don’t want England to win — they want five days. Rain delays. Long lunches. Bad light. A draw where everyone’s drunk and sunburnt and singing shit songs.” Dave said that sounded about right — that the point wasn’t the sport, it was the sporting, the ritual of turning up together and pretending it mattered even when it didn’t. Tony called cricket blokes standing around in hats, but still admitted he’d be disappointed if it finished early. Kelly said England fans weren’t there to beat Australia, they were there to be England in public, which annoyed everyone even though no one could quite say why. Someone said Bazball. Someone else said Bazball was just vibes pretending to be strategy. Then it slid away again, as everything did.

Tim came back in, louder, because volume felt like progress. “That’s exactly it though — the economy’s like cricket. It only works if everyone pretends the rules make sense.”
Tony shoved him sideways onto a milk crate. “Sit down, Don Bradman.”

Kelly laughed, sharp. “He’s right though. No one’s there for the score. They’re there because it takes five days and that feels like meaning.”
Mitch said, “So capitalism’s playing for the draw?”
Dave said, “Capitalism’s rain-affected and still charging for tickets.”

That stuck longer than Tim’s metaphors ever did.

The conversation fractured again — school pick-ups, crypto apps, whose shout it was, whether Mitch’s card would decline again (it did). Someone argued about plastic bag bans. Someone else claimed carbon markets were a scam invented by consultants. Tony ate someone else’s chips and called it a negative externality. Kelly threatened him with a fork. Dave stole the last wedge and said cancer came with perks.

Tim tried once more, stubborn as erosion. “We maintain the lie because telling the truth costs too much.”
Kelly wiped beer off her jeans. “Everything costs too much. That’s the truth.”
Mitch said markets were rational in the long run. Tony said the long run was bullshit. Dave said the long run was something other people got.

The Test flickered in the background — a batter settling in, crowd noise swelling for no real reason. Tony pointed at the screen. “See? That bloke’s not trying to win today. He’s trying not to get out.”
Dave nodded. “That’s everyone.”
Kelly said, “That’s marriage.”
Mitch said, “That’s the economy.”
Tim looked like he wanted to make it a thesis. Tony pre-emptively shoved him again.

Later — later enough that the edges blurred — Tim tried to tie it all together, slurring just slightly. “The model wasn’t built to lie. It was built to work. Then it worked too well.”
Kelly said, “Like men.”
Mitch said, “Like leverage.”
Dave said, “Like chemo.”

They toasted anyway.

By the time last drinks were called, the Test was still going, rain threatening, nothing resolved. No one could remember who’d started the argument or why. Infinite growth had become a joke. Incentives were just gravity. Truth was something you handled carefully, like a hot plate. And sport — like the economy — turned out not to be about winning so much as staying in the game long enough to justify the noise.

They left in dribs and drabs. Tony forgot his jacket. Mitch forgot his dignity. Kelly forgot, briefly, to be angry. Dave forgot what day it was and laughed about.prediction models being overrated. Tim stayed behind arguing with the bartender about entropy until the bartender turned the lights up.

Outside, the night didn’t care about any of it. Inside, the weave held — not because anyone planned it, but because nothing ever really leaves a room like that. It just waits for the next round.