In Episode 10 of ‘The Search for the Shield’, Swifty Taylor meets up with the Swami, a master of rhyming slang.
He was once a hell of a good-looking rooster, and seemingly had a new dame hanging off his arm every time you bumped into him. Which, in the nightspots of Williamstown, was often. When he was playing footy, he was the life of every post-match social function that was held at our footy club. ‘The Swami’ was such a smooth talker that he had that rare ability to play both sides, running with the foxes and hunting with the hounds, and no-one would even bat an eyelid. The blokes would jostle to be his mate, and the ladies would swoon over him. He would take delight in regaling one and all with his barely believable barrows of bullshit. But I could always see through his charade – and he knew it. Maybe I had always been a tad jealous of him, too.
It had been so long since I’d set eyes on him that I presumed the man was either dead, or had found that place of enlightenment for which he had always claimed he had been searching, somewhere in Nimbin or Seminyak, perhaps. The more likely story was that he was locked away in some sort of care facility, hand down his pyjamas, doped out of his mind. But since visiting Rick in the big house, subtle inquiries revealed that Swami was living in a simple brick veneer, somewhere out in the wild west, in a place called Tarneit. And when I knocked on the door of a non-descript abode, set among the oversized temples and spice shops of this frontier town, it was here that I found him.
I rapped on his door, and like the ghost of footy seasons past he appeared at the door. He eyed me suspiciously. The years had not been kind, the illegal substances having taken their toll. He had resorted to shuffling about his home in a pair of Crocs, always an indicator that a person had abandoned the desire to be a productive contributor to society. It took a few moments, but recognition did break through his misty eyes. “Swifty Taylor,” he said slowly, probably still unsure if I was real or just an apparition. In truth, when I woke this morning I wasn’t too sure either. “Come in. I’m feeling a bit Kevin Sheedy this morning. In fact, I just had a Stewie Dew”. He had always used rhyming slang when speaking, a habit which could be endearing to some, but was downright annoying to me. But there was no denying that he had mastered the art of this peculiar brand of vernacular, and you had to have your wits about you to keep up with the conversation.
He invited me in, and I sat down with him on an op-shop couch in his lounge room. The house stank of hooch, incense, and Lynx Africa. I shrugged. At least he was making some effort to maintain his personal hygiene. But I sense it had been a long time since he had entertained any female company here. I was in no mood for small talk, which was no surprise, as I hadn’t been since Keating was prime minister. It would take me god knows how long to get back to Williamstown from out here in the sticks. “What can you tell me about the missing shield, Swami?” He looked confused at first, but he soon began cottoning on. “I’m on my last legs, Swifty. No Bugs Bunny left; I am just about tin-fruited. I can hardly even summon the strength for an Uncle Doug these days. Too many Persian rugs over the years”.
While this was all of slight interest, it was not the information that I was seeking. “You still drink at the same rubbidy-dub, Swifty? I remember those days when you would drink until you were off your Lemond spread”. I winced at the memory. He then closed his eyes for so long that I thought he had drifted off. “Wake up, and give it to me straight, Swami! No porkie pies!”
He spoke softly, “Ah, Swifty, I was just meditating, not sleeping! And, yes, I know about the missing shield. The last time I saw it, it was hanging on the wall, taking pride of place in the clubrooms”. I was intrigued: “You never saw anyone take it?” He pondered this for a moment, eyes closed. Or at least I thought he was pondering – he could have drifted off. “I never saw a tea leaf in my time at our footy club.” I dug deep into my brain for the rhyming slang translation and found it: tea leaf = thief. “You need to ask a bloke called Big Jack. He confided in me that he knew where it ended up. But he wouldn’t tell me any more. Maybe he will tell you…”
I grabbed my car keys. He yelled to me as I departed. “You watch yourself out there on that frog and toad. You never rated me, did you, m’ old china?” I turned to look at him. He was once so handsome, but now he was just a shadow of his former self. “True, Swami. I never thought you were Mickey Mouse, in fact you were always a massive pain in the lemon and sarse. Even when we played on the same team.”
You can read Part 1 Here.
You can read Part 2 Here.
You can read Part 3 Here.
You can read Part 4 Here.
You can read Part 5 Here.
You can read Part 6 Here
You can read Part 7 Here
You can read Part 8 Here
You can read Part 9 Here
You can read more from Smokie HERE
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The ever present need to be remembered and rated by your teammates decades after playing.
Perhaps to be remembered for one good game.
Or just to be remembered.
Sadly I’ve never run into anyone I played senior footy with. Mostly by virtue of distance.
A few of them could’ve turned out to be like Swami.
One or two ended up in the clink, too.