Almanac Country (Footy) Music: Memories from childhood

 

 

By Mark Chivers

 

Do you remember, nothing stopped us on the field in our day

– Flametrees, Cold Chisel

 

When the scream came, it was not ‘blood-curdling’ or ‘terrifying”’, it was that of an 8-year-old boy who had just pierced his scrotum.  I turned to see my good mate, Geoff, suspended  half-way down the left-hand side bannister of the Rosedale Footy Club’s grandstand.  The grandstand was a rotting pile of old wood in those days and we were repeatedly warned as kids not to slide down the bannisters, not least because of the massive splinters but also because they were, at their peak, a few metres off the ground.  The scream Geoff let out stopped the Rosedale seniors game* and it didn’t resume until he had been extracted from the bannister (God knows how this was done, I didn’t look) and quickly bundled into a car. Geoff kept the 10cm (or was it 5?) splinter in a jar on his mantlepiece – a reminder of what not to do. 

One of my favourite things to do when I was a kid was to go and watch the footy at Rosedale with my Dad.  We lived on Albert Street, about 500m from the ground.  Like most country towns, the weekends revolved around sport: kids’ sport in the morning and adults’ sport in the afternoon.  As soon as the siren sounded we’d head off in the car so that we could honk the horn if Rosedale kicked a goal.  Dad knew I liked that. I would sit on his lap and give it a good old toot if the Blues scored.

As I got older I soon tired of this and decided to join up with my pack, my tribe.  We each wore the colours of our VFL team and our footy boots if it was dry and gum boots if wet.  At least one of the tribe would bring a footy and we’d play kick-to-kick with each other, not always missing the cars parked neatly around the oval.  Often our ball would run onto the ground to be passed back to us by one of the players.  We’d collectively say, “Thanks, Mate”, as if the player concerned was part of our group.  My poor mate Geoff was in my tribe and I was in his. He was Essendon, I was Fitzroy.  You didn’t see many kids wearing Fitzroy jumpers at the Rosedale footy ground in the 1980s.

We’d roam the ground, looking for stuff to do.  Watching footy took up maybe a quarter of our time.  If there were girls we fancied, we’d steal glimpses of them playing netball on the adjacent courts.  We’d receive stern looks in return, which communicated  “Get lost, ratbags!” extremely effectively.

Rosedale is famous in the local area for its bakery.  It’s now massive, with a cafe serving ‘flat whites’, of all things.  The bakery of my youth was simple: soft loaves of freshly-baked white bread, tall dense vanilla slices (or ‘snot-blocks’, as we liked to call them), glistening coffee scrolls, Boston buns (which we would take to Nanna’s), salad rolls and meat pies.  The bakery supplied the club’s canteen.  My Nan used to work the canteen and I was always struck at how business-like she treated me, never allowing me to push in or give me little extras.  I was proud she worked at the canteen. I’d always say to my mates, “Don’t worry, my Nan will sort you out”, as if they didn’t know she worked there.

At quarter time and three-quarter time my Dad would wander over to the Rosedale huddle.  He was always given space by the other men.  It was mostly men. My Dad, being originally from Templestowe, had ‘played a bit’ at Footscray and was a member of the Footscray Under 19 team that made a Grand Final in the early ‘60s.  Rosedale was in Footscray’s designated selection zone and three of its favourite sons, the Cordy brothers, were referred to in reverential tones by the members of my pack. This was not least because we had a tenuous connection to them: their Mum happened to be a teacher at my school.

I’d follow my Dad on to the ground but I’d often be distracted by a stray footy booted at me by one of my mates.  I remember clearly the sickly smell of Deep Heat, stale beer, sweat and cigarette smoke mixed with the delicious smells coming from the canteen. I loved hearing the boot studs clanging on the concrete as the players ran out onto the ground.  These were the smells and sounds of my childhood.

After the match we used to collect rubbish and empty cans for the poor bloke who made a living doing so around Rosedale.  It upset my Dad that the ground would be left in such a mess.  We’d then have a kick of the footy on the oval if it wasn’t too wet and often Dad would go into the clubrooms to talk to the  stalwarts of the club, large men with nicknames like ‘Frosty’.  He sometimes paid a visit to the coaching staff and occasionally one or two of the players.  He always did so quietly.  Every now and then I’d hear him be a bit blokey with people who greeted him jovially but it didn’t sit right with me.  I could tell it made him uncomfortable.

This is footy for me.  This is how I’ll always remember it.  Watching from the crowded terraces of that mighty crucible that is the MCG is an experience, but I couldn’t do that every week.  Buying lukewarm, commercially manufactured pies from the ‘Cold Pies Warm Drinks’ sellers, as we used to call them, is not for me.  Give me Rosedale, Traralgon, Sale, Boisdale, Gormondale footy grounds any given Saturday.  It was particularly special when Gippsland put on one of its sparkling, crisp days with blue skies, a hint of mist and a bite to the air.  I loved seeing my breath billowing in front of me and hearing the ground crunching and crackling underneath my boots.  I’d have to get rugged up and sometimes my Mum made me wear two pairs of socks.  Squinting into the low sun, the pie warming my hands and burning my tongue, I loved it, I loved every minute of it.

On Tuesday and Thursday evenings, I would be in my PJs and, on the way to bed, I would peer out of the dining room window and see that the lights at the ground were lit.  I didn’t really have to look, I could already tell by the sounds of footy training: grunts, yells, cheers, thuds, a whistle here and there, the thump of boot on ball, travelling languidly to me in the clear cool night air.  The music came only in snippets, a disjointed symphony of barely discernible words, voices and sounds and, slowly, I’d drift off to sleep.

 

*On being consulted for this piece, Geoff believes that the event happened after the game, not during it.  Which is fair enough.  It was nearly forty years ago, so I may be slightly misremembering things.

 

Photos of the newly refurbished Grand Stand (free of splinters) can be found here.

 

 

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