Almanac Fiction: The Search for the Shield (Episode 9)

 

 

In Episode 9 of “The Search for the Shield”, Swifty Taylor finds himself in the big house.

It had taken me the best part of four and a half decades, but I had finally landed at the spot where, for many years, I thought I might one day end up spending time. If I was totally honest, some of the indiscretions I had committed in my younger days probably warranted a spell in here. And, just like the hinges of hell, the facility was as cold and forbidding as I imagined it would be. Barwon Prison is no place for the feint of heart, but luckily for me I was just visiting. This time.

My cousin Timmy, who is a prison guard at this high-risk maximum-security accommodation monstrosity, had called me with some news. “Swifty, there’s a bloke in here named Rick. Says he used to play at your old footy club. Says he remembers handling the Tony Williamson Shield”. Handling? What the hell did that mean? But because my diligence knows no bounds – or at the very least is subject to the widish parameters I choose to place on it – I decided then and there to pay this Rick fellow a visit and check out his digs. He wasn’t in leg irons, but by the way he shuffled in to the meeting room one could have been forgiven for thinking that he was.

His face looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him. When he sat down before me, the sneering screws looking on impassively, he sensed my confusion. “You don’t remember me, Swifty?” I pretended that I did not. But then again, it was a habit of mine to forget people who were of little consequence to me. “What brought you in here?” I inquired. He gave me a story about a container load of tomato tins (diced, not whole peeled) which, when they were opened and inspected by the feds, were found to contain a powder much whiter and more expensive than tomatoes.

He began explaining himself. “I played quite a few matches but was too small to really be any good”. It was true, he was not much larger than your average jumps jockey, but just as crooked. But in my heart I had to admit that, back in the 80’s and 90’s, there were plenty of us who could have applied ourselves more seriously to the business of playing footy. “Don’t beat yourself up, Rick. You weren’t the only average player in those days,” I admitted. Suddenly the little man looked a touch less crestfallen. “Word reached me inside here that you’re searching for a shield”. I studied him closely before replying: “Yeah, well, I’m not having too much success at this point of proceedings. What do you know about it?” With that, it was like a tap had been turned on. He began blabbing like I was the first person he had spoken to in weeks. And considering his current circumstances, maybe I was.

He began reminiscing. “Do you remember the good old days of the footy club discos?” I nodded, recalling fondly the days when the absence of a liquor licence at the Fearon Reserve was no impediment to serving drinks until the early hours of a Sunday. I almost went misty-eyed at recalling how many beers I consumed and how much luck I had on the dance-floor. “Those nights would kick on and on. They were huge. The place would be packed to the rafters”. Indeed, I recalled some players occasionally hanging off those very rafters. “Do you remember ‘The Swami’?” he asked.

How could I forget? Back in the day, The Swami was the organizer-in-chief of all social functions. And boy, could he pull in the punters. For a short time, our footy club was the place to be in Williamstown on a Saturday night.

“Well, one night he organized this novelty game called a “Bladderbuster”. The beers were free up until when the first person went to the dunny”. I told him that I did indeed recall the “Bladderbusters”. He continued: “It was great in theory. But the big problem was that, in the interests of keeping the free beer flowing, guys would relieve themselves everywhere. Under tables, into glasses, pots, and jugs”. Yes, I agreed that it was unsatisfactory and unsavoury, but I would never cease to be shocked by the levels of debauchery to which a man would stoop to earn a drink on the house. “One bloke ripped the shield off the wall and pissed all over it. I tried to grab it off him, but he hid it somewhere”. I was stunned that a club-person could possibly perform an act of such desecration. “It was dark – I couldn’t see who it was that did this. There were rumours. But I reckon The Swami would know”.

I stood, straightened my tweed jacket, and nodded a goodbye. “I do remember you, Ricky. It’s just that I try to forget all my small forward teammates who flew for the ball in competition with me, when I should have been left one-out. Forward craft 101. It never made sense to me”. He looked at me sadly. “I know that now, Swifty. And it is one of my great regrets”. Given his current predicament, I accepted that admission gratefully.

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 more from Smokie HERE

 

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