Scott Boland Fairytale

I have little interest in test cricket these days. I went right off the Australian team many years ago because of their arrogant attitude, including sledging and whingeing when things went against them, and, not least, the reluctance of the selectors to pick Victorians. It was capped off by the sandpaper incident in South Africa which brought disgrace upon our nation.

So for a long time I have barracked for Australia's opponent in test cricket, unashamedly. I had a good laugh last year when India came from behind and won the series. I don't care if you're Australian, English, Indian, Pakistani, Kiwi, whatever, my respect needs to be earned, and is not given blindly through nationalistic hoorah. This extends beyond cricket by the way, to tennis and other sports, in fact into all areas of life including politics and international affairs. 

But in the main, I couldn't give a fig about the result of the test cricket, though I do always like to see Victorians do well. Despite having moved to South Australia where I now reside (and paid well over $20,000 stamp duty to the SA gov and drive a car with SA plates and buy SA'n when I can), in the cricket I follow Victoria, and of course in the footy I'm 100% Melbourne. I'm warming to Alex Carey and Travis Head, but my interest really in the Boxing Day test was for Mark Harris and Scott Boland to do well. Did they ever?

About 6 years ago (I think), we were over here in March on holiday, staying in a caravan park (West Beach?), somewhere between Glenelg and the airport. As it happened Victoria was playing SA at the Glenelg ground and as Gord was keen on the cricket we went and watched on a couple of the days. The Adelaide Oval was unavailable for cricket, maybe some festival was on. The Vics had a strong team and won outright. If it wasn't the shield final it was the game before to get a spot in the final, which Victoria won, for memory one of three shields in a row. There was hardly a crowd at all, we went to the other side of the ground where nobody was and sat on the single row of seats outside the fence behind which was grass.

Young Scott Boland was fielding at fine leg on the fence each second over for a while, and I had quite a chat to him between balls. At one point the batsman made a big hook with a flourish and the ball flew high, I thought for a minute it was going to land on us. Scott took off and didn't get there to catch it, it went so high and had bit of a spinning curve on it from the top edge of the bat. As Scott returned to his position we all had a bit of laugh about how we all thought it was to land on us.

Since then I've kept a bit of an eye on his performances, glad to see he made the Australian ODI team in 2016, hoping he'd one day make it into the test team, which never really looked likely as NSW quicks Starc, Hazelwood, an Cummins had a stranglehold and there was a couple of others ahead of Scott when one of them was sidelined through injury. So I was very happy to see him get a game finally through injury to Hazelwood and workload worry for Richardson and Meser. How lucky is that. I thought he was set up to fail, to be a bit player, bowling only to give Starc and Cummins a rest, rotating with Lyon and Green. At least he'd be able to say he'd played test cricket, if only for one game.

I was very pleased he took a wicket in England's first innings, and made further contribution late with two outfield catches. Robbie was over for a few days at Christmas and I was taking him back to the airport the day after Boxing day. We listened to the cricket on the radio, day 2 of the test, last hour, England batting second time. Starc took two early wickets, Scott came on first change took a wicket immediately then removed the nightwatchman. 2/2

 Next day, yesterday, I watched it on TV. Starc took another wicket, then almost unbelievably, Scott took four wickets for few runs of four overs, to finish with 6 for 7. I was so happy for him. He won the medal for best player of the match. Amazing. It's one to stick in my memory to be recalled every Boxing day, by me while I'm around, and history well past that. And especially by Scott and his family.

 

Miraculous

The magpies came down in numbers this morning, as they do most days, into our backyard for a feed. They warble, and fly down from the neighbour's roof and the tree on the other side, when they see me come outside, arms outstretched in a welcoming gesture. I think it doubles as an imitation of flight, who knows what the magpies think. A joyous song of thanks from multiple throats and beaks. The young'uns, this past spring's babies, squawk and plead to their parents, waiting their turn, letting the mature birds eat first.  These young are noticeable by sight because their feathers are not so shiny, especially their chest which looks a bit motley or downy. Some are fed in turn by parent's beaks. The squawks diminish to a satisfied gobble, while sometimes an adventurous one will take a chance and feed itself, risking a charge and pecking.

A few months ago, there were no young. The adults would come and hungrily fill their beaks with as much food as would fit, and off they'd fly, presumably to feed babies in nests in the trees, or their mate sitting on eggs. Some time before that, there was no taking food away, presumably before breeding had begun.

When I look at the young magpies, fully grown and able to fly, it amazes me that but a few months ago they were still in an egg, just a couple of centimetres or so long. An egg, high in a tree, supported in a stick nest, through all the late winter early spring gales we had. Miraculous.

I collected seed from the rough barked manna gums, which grow along the river with the red gums and blue gums (leucoxylon - called yellow gum in Vic). I sat the seed pods on white paper in the office for a couple of weeks and they opened up, spilling their seed out like orange sand. I sprinkled the seed into pots and now little eucies are growing, hopefully  to be planted next winter as seedlings along the river reserve where acacia weeds have been removed, part of a restorative project by the Friend's Group. These seeds, tiny as grains of sand, have the potential to grow into very large trees with little assistance other than natural rainfall and sunshine. It amazes me. Miraculous.

As for sunshine, nothing is possible without it. I'm told the sun is 92 million miles away, and is a huge ball of exploding gas that has been doing its thing for billions of years, the provider of energy and life. Trees and plants capture the energy of the sun and this in turn gives us food. Miraculous.

As you read this, consider that by means of an alphabet I learned when young, I can string together letters to make words in a coherent form that records my thoughts, so that you can know my thoughts (hopefully), wherever you are. Somewhere along the way 26  letters were invented which gives us the English language. Not only does this enable me to write, but speak also. We communicate everyday with multiple people in speech which conveys our thoughts, instantaneously for the most part, the sentences or sequences of letters and words just flow. My mate Ralphie sent me a book on Muhammad Ali. It's about 20 cm long and 12 wide, less than 25 mm thick. It contains thousands of words strung together to tell of a man's life, with cultural, political, racial and religious issues in historical context, in a profound account that gives insight into American society. And the English language is one of hundreds, maybe thousands around the world, many using different alphabets or systems. Amazing. Miraculous. 

Of course we read and see the natural world through our window to the world. Our eyes. An intricate miracle in themselves. And behind them our brain, which interprets everything our eyes see. The brake lights on the car front alert us so we don't crash our vehicle into it, for example. 

None of what written here is news to anybody. I have hardly scratched the surface of my amazement. Everyday we are surrounded by miracles. From the depths of the ocean to the mountaintops and into the clouds and space. Mystery and miracle. Miraculous.

  

Movie Matinee

This week for our movie matinee we watched 'The Changeling'. We had seen it before but couldn't really remember it. It's a Malpaso production directed by Clint Eastwood. Without going into the plot, I say that this "true story" shows that indeed truth is stranger than fiction. It's set in Los Angeles, starting in 1928, ending 1935, so it's fairly recent history, as I said to Lib, in the lifespan of our parents.

At one point well into the movie I said to Gord next to me, "I think the overriding theme of this movie is that you should never trust police, the government, or the medical profession." The police in the story were corrupted by their power and motivated only to project a favourable public image. To hell with the truth, or well being of citizens. This hand in hand with the local government. Aided by doctors, medical and psychiatric, happy to serve their masters.

Of course this is not good advice from father to son, especially to one such as Gordon who will remember my words long after I'm gone, so I tempered it with comment that you can't generalize and put them all in the bad basket. There's good and bad present in everything.

As they were about to forcibly put the lead female character, who had been thrown illegally into a psychiatric ward because she was making the police look bad, into electric shock treatment because she refused to comply, I had a flashback to my youth. I remembered my friend Ricky Ralph, who had some sort of adolescent disturbance or mental health issue, was put in a St. John of God hospital for electric shock treatment.

I would not normally mention something like this about someone, I only do because Ralphie told me once that I could write anything I liked about the past concerning him, he enjoyed what I wrote. To quote him, "Don't hold anything back. It's all part of life."

He escaped from the hospital. I was home at Mt Waverley when the phone rang and it was Ralphie. He was calling from a public phone box, dressed in his pyjamas. He wanted me to somehow pick him up. He had no money or shoes. He said the phone box was just around the corner from the hospital, I think in Brighton. I don't think I was yet at driving age. I was aware he'd be out of circulation for a while while this treatment was on, and I was asked by his father not to say anything to anyone about it.

 

I told him to stay there I think, I'd try to arrange something. I can't remember all the detail, I don't think he wanted me to contact his father, but not knowing what to do, I did. His father thanked me. The end of the story was that Ralphie somehow hitch hiked home, pyjamas and all and I think that was the end of the treatment. Ralphie's turbulent adolescence passed and he's had a successful life and is live and well in happy senior years.

The same could be said of me. I was referred to a psychiatrist in my youth, courtesy of the headmaster of Camberwell Grammar, due to indiscretions . He once dressed me down in front of a group saying I was on the lunatic fringe. The incident in this case was a movie at a public theatre in the evening we had to compulsorily attend as part of English subject. We were required to wear a suit. I didn't own one, and defied the instruction to hire one if necessary. Of course I was never really given the opportunity of a rational discussion with him, just the power ranting of a distressed overworked man whose main concern was to project a favourable public image. He picked on me because during the lecture to the group he noticed me not looking at him but artwork on the walls of his office. In this rant he raised other issues such as me having used bad language on the football field. It was quite an ordeal for me to make my way into the city after school to see the shrink and answer a load of personal questions. Fortunately the shrink didn't think I needed any treatment. 

Another friend of mine around the same time also suffered turbulence in adolescence and for a time was sent to Larundel Psychiatric Hospital. I recall driving out to see him there as he was allowed visitors. I don't know the extent of his treatment, but he was on medication ongoing and did have issues, in holding employment and with some unacceptable social behaviour. I lost track of him and didn't see him for decades. He died in his early fifties, cause unknown, he lived alone and was not found for some time. I went to his funeral, his brother told me he was misdiagnosed as a youth and given wrong medication.

As far as the government goes, I have no trust or faith. Before I was 21 years old I was a conscript in the military. At the federal election in 1972, whilst a conscript, I was unable to vote (the voting age had not yet been lowered to 18). How nutty is that? And now, politics in this country seems a shamble. Pork barreling, water theft, anonymous donations, scandal after scandal. Lack of integrity, accountability.

As for the police, in my lifetime there has been almost unbelievable, well documented corruption in Queensland, NSW, and Victoria. My sister was married to a policeman for 10 years during which time I witnessed some appalling actions and attitude.

I try not to be negative or cynical, to remain positive. Maybe we'll have comedy next week for our matinee.