The View From Connor's Hill (25 page)

Sorry, got waylaid again — God, they can yak, those Benambra buggers.

Back at the oval …

As it happened, after Bernie smacked Bob in the ear'ole a second time, he glared at Bob and stated, ‘Call me a stinking bastard, a shithead, or a low-down mongrel, but never call me a cad and a bounder.'

Bob just smiled, and Bernie took another swipe. Well, that really riled our Bob — it was a bit below the belt, and all that stuff. Too late for Bernie … Bob had a tradition to uphold. He leapt at Bernie like a sumo wrestler, and knocked him flat on his back,
thump
. So there was Bernie, down on the deck, and our intrepid goal-sneak, Bob, sitting on his chest mumbling profanities. Bernie started punching Bob furiously. All this time the game kept going, although I and most of the crowd were riveted on Bob the Turd Burglar, and Bernie, that cross-eyed bastard from Beloka.

Unperturbed by the crowd's adulation, Bob, after focusing on several strategies to enhance his position and move forward in a meaningful way (I have added that sentence for all the CEOs reading this book), decided to shove two of his rarely washed fingers straight up Bernie's nostrils. Hooking them as far as he could, he then proceeded to lift poor frigg'n Bernie's head off the ground. Bernie was stuffed. Nevertheless, so was Bob.

Stalemate. Bob knew that, if he let Bernie up, that Beloka inbred bastard would most likely kill him … slowly. Suddenly, Bob had another burst of intellect. Choosing his words carefully, he informed Bernie, ‘I got worms, ya ugly bastard, and I've been scratching me arse with these two fingers for the last week.'

Bernie dry-retched and tried to get to his flat feet. He was a frightened man. Although I have called this a burst of intellect on Bob's part, and it did have the desired outcome for Bob, he could have taken another tack. Bob, being a plumber, spent many an hour in the belly of septic tanks performing jobs like unblocking huge turds, emptying overflowing bowel movements, and general maintenance. Bob should have simply told Bernie he showered, at the most, once a fortnight, never changed his underwear, and that lice loved his body — a slight exaggeration, but you get my drift. You see, Bob was in fact a walking bacterial time-bomb. Now, that would have frightened the crap out of our Bernie, or any other poor bugger picked to play on this plague-infested plumber. The impasse continued; Bob would not remove his fingers, and although Bernie tried to explain he would not be biffing Bob again, his voice sounded like a duck with a peg in its throat.

‘Jeethus christh Richthards! Leth us up, ya basthard, you farthking … fucathing, faaarknth (he couldn't get that word out) well win.'

Bob couldn't decipher a single word. Finally, the ump ran over. He had to — the crowd and most of the players were enjoying the Bob-and-Bernie show. It was better than the footy.

‘Okay, enough …' said the ump, with a huge grin on his face.

‘Bugger off — I'm busy,' muttered Bob.

Finally, two of the heavies from both teams separated the pair and sent them to either ends of the ground. Bob received whooping cheers and tooting horns as he sauntered to the back pocket. He adjusted his jockstrap, and cleared his left nostril. Yes, he'd done well, and the tradition lived on … he'd been prepared to put his life on the line for the club.

As for poor Bernie, not only was he pleased to get away from Bob the Turd Burglar but, after that incident, let's just say he remained subdued for the rest of the season. To be honest, poor Bernie walked around with his head bent back for the next month. It wasn't a pretty sight, looking up those hairy nostrils. As you can imagine, no one was game enough to ask him if he had worms.

chapter fourteen

‘You're a weak-kneed chicken, Heard.'

THE SUMMER WAS OVER. EVEN THOUGH I WAS WORKING AT
Ensay, I had played cricket for Swifts Creek and enjoyed it immensely. I'd started playing for them in my last year at school. Perhaps the highlight of the season was a game against Omeo. I was the wicket-keeper, and I'd watched their early batsmen amass quite a total. Suddenly, their top scorer was out. Admittedly, I had a little forewarning that what was about to happen might be amusing. Several times I'd noticed kids run across the road from the pavilion to grab more beer for the waiting batsman. This meant that Alex, the next batsman in, would be very well primed. Slowly, he wandered across the oval in an S-like weave as he came to face up. After Alex duly took block, the bowler rushed in. Alex waved his bat far too late, wobbled backwards and then sideways, tried to focus on me, fell over on his stumps and, some ten seconds after the ball had been bowled, was given out — hit wicket. He was totally drunk.

In fact, most of the Omeo side were quite merry. This always happened if the opening pair did well. Naturally, after the game, regardless of the result, everyone headed for the Hilltop for a good feed and some serious drinking. One of the players, Ned, drank so much that he collapsed at the bar. Team mates rushed to his aid, carried him outside, and sat him in his blue Austin ute, where he came to. Someone started it up and he drove off. Much later that evening, we were heading home and, just past Holland's, there was Ned in his ute, in the middle of the road. It was upside down. On inspection, Ned was okay. He commented, ‘I'm sorta lost. I think I missed the turn-off, mate.'

CRICKET WAS A LOT OF FUN
, and was always played with good spirits and a lot of camaraderie. However, footy was a different matter. I was seventeen years old, and the footy season was about to begin. Growing up in both Tongio and Doctors Flat, which were both only a few miles from Swifts Creek, legend had it — some say it was carved in stone — that you played for the local team
.
The Swifts Creek coach, a schoolteacher who'd watched me play, was keen for me to pull on the jumper the year after I left school. I felt pretty chuffed that he'd spoken to me, and I looked forward to playing with the Creek. My father, Bob, played with them, so I would be following the family tradition, so to speak. Over the years, when I'd watched Bob play, I'd enjoyed the camaraderie that existed in the dressing shed and the huddled groups that got together during breaks on game days.

This particular year, it being at the start of the new season, the community of Swifts Creek naturally thought I'd play for them. At the same time
,
the Ensay community thought, ‘Barry's a local now … he'll play for us.' I'd been on the farm at Ensay for just on ten months.

Even at that young age, I could see I was in a no-win situation. My schoolmates played for Swifts Creek, while both my bosses played for Ensay. Looking back, the Ensay community helped me make up my mind. It was very small, very welcoming and, just like Benambra, very close knit. Everyone was involved in everything. I liked that.

To be honest, I don't think I gave the decision a lot of thought. I simply donned an Ensay jumper, and we played Omeo at Ensay in my first game. I kicked four goals and, afterwards, the umpire voted me best on the ground. Never mind that the bloke I played on was nearly 50, had one bung knee, couldn't run, and enjoyed chatting more than playing footy. After the game, there was a barbecue, and then we all ventured around to Cossie's Little River Inn for celebration drinks. Despite being under-age and not allowed to drink, I was still welcomed into the bar and made to feel at home. This was what life was all about — getting a pat on the back, an ‘Onya, mate', and a ‘Well done, son'. I was shouted countless sarsaparilla drinks.

After the celebrations, I hitched a ride home with one of the Omeo blokes, and received a traitor's cool reception for the remainder of the weekend at home. Bob wasn't impressed with me. The following week, we would be playing against the Creek. I was to play on the ball, a difficult position that normally requires speed and an ability to turn quickly — neither of which I possessed much skill in. I was to change in the back pocket on my father. He had a reputation as a goal sneak, and was very quick.

After a week's work on the farm, I returned home to Doctors Flat. Come Saturday we got up very early, went out, and worked on our bush block. That was the normal pattern. Bob and I were clearing 640 acres of stringy-bark trees with axes … I am serious. Then, just before lunch, we returned home and prepared for the footy. Mum, Bob, and the kids drove up to the ground in the new Holden, while I stood on the road out the front of our house and hitched a ride with one of those Ensay mongrels.

After changing into our footy gear, our team got a rousing talk from the coach that offered no intellect or wisdom. I would be playing on my stepfather. He played for Swifts Creek, and from the day I donned the jumper they were definitely the enemy. But there was a bigger worry for me than playing on him … so help me, who could forget the time when I'd watched him play at Benambra? It was etched in my mind like a brand on a calf's rump. Yes, the way he wrestled that player to the ground, sat on the poor sod's chest, and jammed two fingers right up the bloke's nostrils. The incident had bestowed hero status on Bob.

So, with this recent memory deeply imprinted in the fear-department of my mind, I turned up on Saturday to play the Creek. Now Bob, the old man, hadn't spoken to me on the Friday night when I'd arrived home from work. That was okay — for those who don't follow our sophisticated game of footy, treating your opponent as if he was a carrier of the black plague or smallpox was part of the pre-game ritual. Even Mum and my brothers kept themselves aloof.

Then came the big day. After an inspiring talk from coach Jim, we burst out of the dressing shed and charged onto the ground. Little did I realise what was about to happen.

‘You turncoat prick, Heard.'

‘You low, Ensie piece of shit.'

‘Hope some bloke knocks the crap out of ya.'

Boos and jeers came from every part of the ground. The Creek crowd were disgusted … fortunately, some of the Ensie supporters told them to ‘git stuffed', and so on. After the toss of the coin, I quickly moved to my position … on my bloody father. No handshake, just a spit on the ground, and then some jumbled words that announced a total dislike for any Ensie bastard. Several Creek supporters I'd known for years gave the old man advice on how to take the slack out of me. The umpire raised the ball, blew his whistle, and it was on.

The crowd faded — game on. I was keen to get a kick. It had been going for ten minutes, and it was exciting even before I got my first kick; cars tooted their horns, and several girls screamed — I loved that.

By the end of the first quarter I'd managed a few more kicks, and coach Jim decided I was to be moved to centre half-forward, which was a key position — boy, that was an honour and, just quietly, I was relieved to get away from Bob's nostril-wrecking fingers.

The second quarter started. I had been in my new position for about two minutes when the football came soaring towards me from a great height — I believe our tiny league has a reputation for kicking a football higher than any other league in Australia. I braced my ten-stone frame for a screamer, then …
thump
,
crunch
,
wallop
, and
crash
! I ended up pummelled into the ground. I could hear some swearing, and blokes mouthing off to one another. There were others pushing and grunting. My main concern was my lungs — they'd stopped working and I couldn't take in air.

I'd been the only one going for the ball, according to descriptions of the incident I heard after the game. The Creek full-back apparently had me lined up from 20 yards away; he was all of eighteen stone. Their centre half-back, a fifteen-stone thug with a gut like a poisoned pup, had me in his sights, too. Mrs O'Brien reckoned he took ages to gather full speed, but he was at peak acceleration when we collided. At the same time, our playing coach — probably the toughest bloke in the district — had this Creek bastard, who he didn't like, lined up. The bloke back-stepped, and I was hit by all three of them. Hell's bells — I'd been crushed to death. Vaguely, I recall several car horns tooting, and many a cheer. Apparently, it took me three goes to get up on my feet. My only memories were a terrible taste in my mouth like rust, or rotting teeth, and sparkler flashes popping and going off like bursting stars within my vision. Then someone eventually ran out on the ground and put a mixture of dead maggots, sheep urine, one of Bob's fingers, and wombat dung under my nose. They had the gall to call it ‘smelling salts'. It cleared my head, burnt my throat, and made my eyes water to the point where I had no vision.

One of the Creek blokes ran past and muttered, ‘That's just for starters, ya skinny arsehole.'

Unfortunately my legs, knees, and brain would not cooperate after this near-death experience, and I had to sit down again. I remained on the ground. Suddenly, the umpire and a player pulled me up to my feet and gave me the footy. As I stood there in a haze, I quickly worked out that I hadn't taken a screamer — in fact, I'd been well and truly ‘decked', as they call it. At least there was a small compensation; the umpire had awarded me a free kick. No, I didn't spin the ball in my fingers as was customary. I simply staggered backwards, as spots blinked and splashed in front of my eyes; I was in excruciating pain. But, true to male form, I gritted my teeth to hide any sign of agony. Then, just as I went to kick the ball, the umpire blew his whistle. He gestured several times, pointed behind me, and was just about to say ‘play on' when Jim Mildenhall, our coach, sprinted past saying, ‘Y'are facing the wrong way, ya bloody drongo, Baz.'