Almanac Fiction: The Search for the Shield (Episode 7)

 

In Episode 7 of “The Search for the Shield”, Swifty Taylor casts his net further afield

It wasn’t unusual for me to have a run-in with my next-door neighbour. I made it a habit to not fraternise with the people in my street, and I tried to keep my distance from her, but it was inevitable that I would occasionally catch sight of her out on the nature-strip. Crazy Mary I called her. She had set in train years of cold-shouldered hostility by complaining to me that my dog’s barking was keeping her awake at night. Problem was, I didn’t own a mutt, and never had. So, rather than laugh it off, I took issue with her stupidity and told her what she was – in no uncertain terms. She was left in no doubt. It was only later that I wondered if “dog barking” was a euphemism for something else. Well, I never got the chance to inquire, because we hadn’t uttered a word to each other since.

She thought it humorous to be standing on the kerb right when the garbage truck emptied my bottle bin. And sure enough, there she was, sneering knowingly, when the pneumatic arm of the bin truck groaned under the weight of a month’s worth of my empties. She shook her head and probably “tut-tutted” for good measure, but the clamour and clanging of the glass made it impossible to hear. I had spent the previous evening with my old friend Winker, who had arrived on my doorstep unannounced just as I was about to turn in for the evening. He had recently returned from a few weeks in South-east Asia, and was keen to spill the beans about his exploits. In the process, we polished off a few bottles of red, the remnants of which were now being crunched in the bowels of the truck before me. In truth I was a little dusty, and probably still had clown lips from the wine, which was only adding to my neighbour’s mirth and disgust.

We had set about seriously draining the shiraz, and when he took a break from telling me tall Thai tales, I had explained to Winker what I had been doing. He had mentioned that in Moonee Ponds there was an antique dealer who specialized in old sporting trophies. I considered it for a few seconds, and decided that it might be worth a throw at the stumps. And truth be told, I needed to get out of Williamstown and suck in some clean air.

My first stop was the Fitzroy Pool, to take a dip and clear out the cobwebs – of which there were plenty. “Aqua Profunda” the painted words welcomingly scream. Just so you are in no doubt. As I punched out the laps and increasingly strained for each wall, I couldn’t help but wonder at the pool in Geelong which was constructed two metres short of 25 metres. For months, schoolkids from G-town were breaking state swimming records like they were back in the ‘fast-suit’ era. Until some wise guy brought a tape-measure to a swimming meet and spoilt all the fun. Towelling myself off, I watched a group of women partaking in a Pilates class. I marvelled at the modern miracle that is active wear. In Fitzroy, it sure is difficult to say a bad word about it.

Masquerading as an antique store, “Barrel’s Emporium” is a barn-sized junk shop near the junction on Mt Alexander Road. You name it, this place has it. Well, maybe except for anything that might be of some use. Tea-cosies, communion dresses, metal trays adorned with beer labels, commemorative spoons. The list of useless knick-knacks on display was endless. An elderly gent with a head resembling a moccasin shuffled toward me. “Help you?” he barked, instantly reminding me of my neighbour. It was obvious that I had disturbed his morning siesta. “Got any sporting trophies or memorabilia, old man?” He had made me grouchy all of a sudden. He nodded toward the back of the store, “Out the back there”.

The room to which he directed me was a monument to worthlessness. Wooden tennis racquets, badminton shuttlecocks, broken table-tennis nets, golf clubs made of hickory. There were a few footballs, as deflated as I was beginning to feel looking at this lot. The few trophies on the benches were nothing more than plastic dust-collectors, long forgotten by the kids who had been awarded them for merely participating. “Do you ever sell any of this shit?” I inquired of moccasin head. “You would be surprised,” he replied. I asked if he had seen any shields in the past year or so, but he was adamant that he had not. Another damn dead-end.

That night, as I poured myself a small finger of Jameson, I reflected on last night’s drinking session with Winker. He had lost a little weight in Thailand, he looked well, and was upbeat. But I suspected that there was a sadness somewhere behind his eyes. Maybe he was just better at hiding it than the rest of us.

 

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 more from Smokie HERE

To return to The Footy Almanac home page click HERE

Our writers are independent contributors. The opinions expressed in their articles are their own. They are not the views, nor do they reflect the views, of Malarkey Publications.

Do you enjoy the Almanac concept?
And want to ensure it continues in its current form, and better? To help keep things ticking over please consider making your own contribution.

Become an Almanac (annual) member – CLICK HERE