My Heart Beats True

An email came last week from the MFC inviting members to write about why they barrack for the Demons or a facet of their affection for the club and players over time, something like that. It was a competition of some sort but I can't recall the prize or the e address it was supposed to be sent to as the email was deleted from the inbox and then from deleted items. The bad weather on the weekend gave me the opportunity to write a piece and I include it here. I like it. I sent it to the club to their general info address but I know not if it will get to the person coordinating the competition. I forgot to include my name, but I guess they have my return e address if they feel the need.

MY HEART BEATS TRUE


I was 12 years old in 1964 when my best mate Bubs and I somehow managed to get standing room tickets to the Grand Final. We caught the first train from Mt. Waverley and queued till the gates opened. Some people had camped overnight to get a good possy at the front, right up against the cyclone wire in the southern stand. We rushed in and started our long wait as the crowd built behind us to a frightening monster.

In the seating in front of the wire there were plenty of red and blue scarves, blankets on laps, steaming thermoses and picnic baskets. The standing room area was largely a Collingwood stronghold. We dared not leave our place at the front for any reason or we'd be unable to see. When Gabelich ran down the ground bouncing and fumbling the ball to kick a goal that put Collingwood in front late in the last quarter the monster, erupting with the most deafening roar I've ever heard, surged forward. Bubs and I thought we'd be crushed to death against the fence. I truly feared for my life.

When 'Froggy' Crompton snapped the famous goal that regained the lead, the monster behind became an angry seething mass wanting to fight itself, but there was no elbow room. Fear and tension gripped right to the end. I think it was Barry Bourke, moved from full forward to stack the backline in the dying seconds, who took a saving mark. The final siren brought euphoric relief, but in fear of the angry mob dispersing we remained at the wire fence for some time.

The twenty men in red and blue that day became my lifelong heroes. Barass left the next year, we were OK early in '65, till a showdown with Bubsy's team, the Bombers, who went on to win the flag. Little did I know, we wouldn't make the finals again till 1987. I kept following Hassa and his men. New champs came; Stan Alves, Gary Hardiman, Greg Wells and Robbie Flower were great footballers. ‘Tiger’ Ridley and ‘Skilts’ gave us hope in the seventies. Big Carl was...Big Carl, Barass came home. Gerrard Healy was a beauty who got away. The Northey class of '87 let us dream. Balmy and Danners had a crack. Garry, Todd, Big Jimmy, Schwarter, Neita, Stinga, Febes, Wizard, Robbo, Jimmy Mac, they went close. Shwarter's knees, Garry's back, Prymke’s back, merger drama, financial crisis, wooden spoons, Big Jim's cancer; a rocky road.

I caught up with Bubs recently after a 30 year gap. He’s on the Gold Coast. We're closing on sixty now. His Bombers have won five flags since '64, he reminded me. I hope Bails and the new generation of young guns can give my sons lifelong heroes like the gladiators of '64 did for me. Wife Libby was eight years old then. She says she and her sisters chanted in the streets of Wangaratta, "We won the war, in 1964."

Shortest Day

The previous two posts have been saved as drafts for some time till today. I put them up briefly when I wrote them but took them down quickly afterwards, waking up not happy about them. In fact I've been suffering a complete lack of confidence for some weeks. I think we all suffer from loss off self confidence at different times. In my case lately there's probably more than one reason and they are too personal for this forum.

But I'm back. My friend 'Blossom' helped snap me out of it with a thank you card she sent me a couple of days ago. I visited her back in April and planted a few salvias in her back garden. Her birthday was earlier this month and I was late sending a card and the customary quick pick. I also printed out some months of this blog and sent it with the card, as she likes to read my news and thoughts but doesn't have a computer. A few days after her birthday and obviously before she received my mail, her card came in the usual graceful handwriting thanking me for the salvias which she says are thriving and make her think of me every time she goes out. Then she wrote, "Where's my blog, Mr. Carey".

A small thing to most, but to me at that point it was just the tonic to restore some confidence in my writing efforts. I'm so happy to bring 'Bloss' a little pleasure. She's a long standing friend who recently had a second operation for bowel cancer. She lives by herself and has done it hard for nearly two decades now.

I add a piece of local news. The President of the Emerald Museum, Hamish Russell, has resigned as of yesterday's meeting. The committee will possibly go into voluntary (or involuntary) recess while the council "assists" with some solution. I mention this on the off chance committeeman KT who's in London for two months happens to check my blog. He may be looking for some local news. I would post in detail about the EMNHP and it's tribulations over the last couple of years but it would take an application I fear I can't manage now.

Police Corruption Victoria

On the radio news a week or two back, Chief Commissioner of Police Simon Overlander said that he underestimated the level of corruption in the Victoria Police when he joined as an Assistant Commissioner in 2004. This followed the recent dropping of murder charges against a drug squad detective who was alleged to have been implicated in the the execution style killing of a Crown witness and his wife. The witness was to testify that the detective was involved with him and and another policeman in the theft of drugs. The murder case was withdrawn after the natural death of a witness and the ill health of another.

Pretty strong stuff right here in our 'great state', as ex Premier Steve Bracks described it, after receiving his Queen's Birthday medal.

The Chief Commissioner's comments came as no surprise to me. He first joined the Australian Federal Police as young man, in 1984 I think.  A person close to me had been married to a member of the Victoria Police for some years by then. I was a frequent visitor to their house for a meal and a relaxed evening, particularly before I married in 1981. I saw many on and off duty police visit to sit by the blazing open fire in winter, and the the back yard barbecue in summer. Beer flowed, tongues loosened.

There were exceptions who showed discipline and didn't drink while on duty. These were few. I formed the general impression that many police officers saw the public purse as something to be milked while doing as little work as possible. A comparatively innocuous example was one who boasted he hung on to his morning bowel motion till he arrived at work. He loved being paid while doing it. He'd take an hour and read the paper. He'd knock off the station's toilet paper, saying that if he had to go at home, at least he'd use their toilet paper. It's better I don't relate more serious examples of dishonesty and flagrant disregard for the law. It was a long time ago. I'm unable to substantiate.

It tarnished the image I'd grown up with, that of a squeaky clean police force ranking up there with the best in the world. I watched the corruption scandals in Queensland and New South Wales unfold in the 1980's and 90's, still with some expectation that Victoria was above that. That's shattered now also, after the gangland wars, drug caches disappearing from police headquarters, the execution of witnesses, and a couple of whistle blowers.

There's a bitterness that creeps vinelike over me if I dwell too much on the negatives. Better that I move on and open my heart. Police, after all, are flawed human beings like the rest of us. There's greed and corruption in other areas of public service and commerce. Ethical battles go on all the time, all of us face them.

I wish Simon Overlander all the best in what must be the toughest job of all, but perhaps also the most important. There's something rotten in the state of Victoria, for sure, and it must rooted out.

We don't want it.

Greta Football Club Reunion/ Leigh Candy

Last month there was a back to Greta for the 30 year anniversary of the 1980 premiership. I did mention it but not in any detail. I've struggled to find time to blog recently.

One of my old teammates is a fellow blogger. The enigmatic Leigh Candy and I had instant reconnection and learned we have more in common than we realized previously. We both love to write and are both bloggers although Leigh hasn't posted since Feb 2009. That's a pity as he's talented in my opinion, as he was on the football field. He had the knack of coming up with something against the flow of the game just when we needed it.

Leigh wrote a piece about the reunion which he sent me as an attachment to an email. I'm hoping he starts blogging again. I put his reunion piece here on my blog, not because he says nice things about me, but it makes interesting reading and shows his talent.

REUNION

Late Saturday morning I leave Mansfield via Dead Horse Lane, then drive through the arched canopy of eucalypts on the gently winding road toward Swanpool, green sunlit undulations through the trunks striping the roadside. I zigzag my way to Greta via Molyullah.

The ovals at Swanpool and Tatong are vacant: both teams are away today. The Greta Football Club is at home to King Valley and already at half past noon a big crowd is in. The gatekeeper recognises me—“Leigh, isn’t it?”—and relieves me of $10 despite my special guest status as premiership player returning for a 30-year reunion. I don’t mind.

I park away from the fence where the dog can be tied to the back of the car and not bother passers-by. Outside the clubrooms I scan for faces, adding thirty years’ wear and tear, but don’t see any in the crowd swarming at the function-room entrance or queuing for pies and beer.

Someone says hello and I winkle his name out of a crevice in the memory-box. “Hello, Paul.” We watch the second quarter of the reserves game. I comment that I might still get a kick at this level and he tells me that the standard has declined since our time.

Greta isn’t a town; on maps it’s designated as location. The football oval is Greta, the ground surrounded by late autumn poplars and oaks.

“I don’t recall it being this beautiful thirty years ago,” I say.

“Rain,” Paul says. “Been a good season.” He’s on land 500 metres up the road opposite the Catholic church, which is for sale, despite Paul being one of eight O’Brien siblings, surely enough to keep a small country church afloat.

At half-time we enter the function room. Half a dozen familiar faces, three more O’Briens—Bill, Frannie and Gerard. There’s Pat McKenzie, the full-back who single-handedly kept us alive in the prelim final against Beechworth. And Tony Fisher, the team’s youngest member, who liked jumping on heads to pull in speccies. Maxy George is chomping gum, Barry Tanner is big Barry now, Bushy Dinning greyer than the grey he was 30 years ago.

A table is loaded with food but vegetarians needn’t bother. Although there are rolls stuffed with olives and sun-dried tomatoes, some part of a dead animal adorns every one. I nibble dry biscuits and cheese.

Everyone asks where I am now, what I’m doing. Each volunteers a memory of me, most forgotten by me: walking barefoot across the mid-winter ground to the changing sheds on game days; cogitating in a corner with a billowing pipe before the game; sitting on the footy in the centre circle while 35 blokes biffed each other on the wing.

The club president climbs on a bench and welcomes the 14 of us who’ve made it, and four survivors of the ’48 premiership team. He doesn’t introduce himself, utters some appropriate words of welcome, and excuses himself to prepare to play in the seniors.

Bushy Dinning mounts the bench. Like the current president, Bushy was a player while president in 1980. He presents each of us with a plaque engraved with an oval and the team in starting positions. I’m in a forward pocket surrounded by O’Briens.

Three of the team are deceased. The year after we won the flag Brains stuck his arse out of a speeding car window and unfortunately the rest of him followed. Keithy Rowan was killed in a more conventional car accident, and Mark Kelly drank himself to an unhappy death, according to Billy O’Brien, who works with the ambulance.

Bushy gives Lace, our coach, the 1980 grand final game ball, our faded autographs barely visible on the pigskin. I have no memory of signing that ball all those years ago, but I vividly remember the five times I kicked it through the major uprights at Moyhu that day.

Lace says he regrets not coming to more games, but can’t because it’s too painful not to be out on the paddock. Ditto me.

I catch Pat McKenzie and thank him for keeping us close enough to stage a monumental reversal in the prelim final when we came from eight goals down at the long interval to beat Beechworth and win our way to the grand final against Whorouly who beat us by a point in the second semi. Pat tells me I won the game with five second half goals. I tell him Gunna won the game because he got us back in it in the third term. Gunna hasn’t turned up yet.

We disperse and go out to watch the main game. The Greta boys are now the Blues, but today they wear the purple and gold we wore in 1980 in honour of the occasion. They get off to a flyer against an opponent that knocked off last year’s premiers a few weeks before. I circle the ground with the dog, taking photos. Gunna’s arrived when I get back to the clubrooms.

Thirty years ago I heard the pre-season thuds of boots on leather and walked up the road from the old farmhouse I’d moved to with a woman and our new baby. I asked if I could join in and ran a warm-up lap. Someone came alongside and said a bloke on the other side of the ground reckoned he knew me. Gunna Williams. Never heard of him, I said.

Gunna’s real name is Carey. We went to school together, but he was a year below me and we didn’t really know each other. I didn’t know he captained under-age A teams, didn’t remember that he got expelled. He says he was a troubled adolescent, dedicated to nothing.

The man in his late 20s was a great footballer—compact, robust, ruthlessly efficient, utterly understated. He was the club’s centreman, my preferred position, but I never played it better than Gunna. I don’t remember playing in any team or with any bloke like I enjoyed playing with Greta and Gunna.

He was an apiary inspector based in Wang and the week before the grand final I drove him over half of Victoria—his patch—to meet beekeepers and inspect their hives. He lost his licence and had to pay drivers so he could do his job. We talked bees and football and life. Now we chat during the second quarter and he tells me he goes to a writing group and has a blog—“Just something in me I like to do,” he says.

At half time I venture back into the almost empty function room and photograph the premiership flag, my name on the honour board as the best and fairest player of 1980, and the team photograph—blokes with masses of hair and porn-star moustaches.

Davy Kemp, quiet unassuming half-back flanker, comes in, says he wouldn’t mind a cup of tea. I could murder one too. There’s beer aplenty and any amount of canned fizzo and luminous energy drinks, but no cups of tea.

During the second half I concentrate on the game while my team-mates suck cans and no doubt the stories get better and better. Not being able to talk with drinkers has always been a shortcoming. That I could play the game better than most was the only thing that made it possible for an unclubbable bastard like me to be part of the club, but there are still limits.

Greta plays an attractive attacking game romps to a 21.21.147 to 6.6.42 victory. During the final quarter I buy a muffin for the journey home and write my current details on a piece of paper. As the siren sounds I slip it into Gunna’s shirt pocket—the paper, not the muffin—and quietly mosey off to the car. The sun will set in half an hour and I want that time to meander through the hills