I really enjoyed "Plum", and not in a polite, bookish way. I mean I tore through it, laughed, winced, and felt properly pissed off that it’s taken this long for a novel to grab sport’s concussion crisis by the collar and shove it into the centre of the room.
This book drags concussion out of the too-hard basket and slams it on the table, where it sits there daring you to look away. No euphemisms. No duty-of-care waffle. Just the slow, grinding reality of what happens when a sporting culture is built on the idea that being able to take a punch is a virtue. I was a good, ordinary footy player. My value was tackling, bumping, getting in the way. Same deal when I boxed. If your main talent is absorbing damage, you learn very quickly how thin the romance is. Cowell doesn’t romanticise a thing.
What caught me off guard is the tenderness. For a writer who clearly enjoys a swinging-arm metaphor, Cowell handles the emotional fallout of brain trauma with real care. Not just the medical deterioration, but the panic, the grief, the humiliation of not trusting your own head. The novel lives inside Plum’s foggy, boozy, concussed consciousness, and I felt every headache, every lapse, every moment where the lights flicker and don’t quite come back.
Plum’s internal monologue works. Funny, raw, self-loathing, self-searching, often all at once. Cowell gets how blokes like this think, or refuse to think, and how humour becomes the last defence against feelings you don’t have the language for. The supporting characters feel painfully real too. Broken bodies, broken dreams, the odd broken TAB account. Nobody here is aspirational. They’re just hanging on.
The Cronulla setting is thick with sweat and habit. Sometimes it flexes a bit too much, like the book’s proving its Shire credentials, but mostly it works. This place breathes. It remembers everything.
I loved the way Cowell demolishes the footy players don’t read books bullshit by making Plum a poet-in-progress. It’s cheeky, risky, and it mostly works. The link between sport and art has a feral plausibility here. You believe Plum could read Bukowski and belt someone in a tackle drill without seeing the contradiction. The ghostly cameos from dead poets act as a shortcut into Plum’s subconscious, letting Cowell dig around without forcing introspection on a bloke who’d rather skull a Tooheys than examine a feeling.
That said, the cameo parade flirts with gimmickry. An author’s allowed their fun, but it sometimes feels like Cowell yelling "LOOK, I READ BOOKS TOO". I kept thinking one apparition, worried properly, might have been sharper. Still, I admire the audacity, and I kind of love that it works more often than it should, even when the book tips into full Cronulla fever dream and briefly convinces me Sylvia Plath would barrack for the Sharks.
Where the novel stumbles is when violence-as-identity starts crowding out quieter emotional beats. The message can get heavy-handed, almost sermon-lite, and the hyper-masculine meat-and-potatoes world occasionally thickens into caricature. I’m also less impressed with how minority characters function. Too often they feel like narrative maintenance rather than people, there to validate Plum’s manhood instead of complicating it. That’s a real blind spot.
Still, I respect the hell out of this book. It punches through the wall between sport and literature and yells EVERYONE GET IN HERE. It’s messy, sweaty, chaotic, and smarter than it pretends to be. Like a front-rower who secretly writes haiku and dares you to laugh.
It’s not perfect. But it’s alive. It gives voice to something literary fiction usually sanitises or avoids altogether. Cowell has a proper crack at the big bloke questions. What it means to be a man. A father. A former weapon with a failing brain. Sometimes he lands the punch. Sometimes he swings himself off balance. Either way, he doesn’t look away.
Four stars. Because it hits harder and with more purpose than most novels trying to be “about something”, and because it refuses to pretend that taking damage is character-building rather than corrosive.