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

 

In the eleventh – and final – episode of “The Search for the Shield”, Swifty Taylor reaches a conclusion… 

 

Truth be told, I had ignored the notification emails, but the words “Big Jack”, as uttered by Swami, had triggered something deep within my mind. Mentally, I was shaking the tree as hard as I could in the hope that something of value might be dislodged from the branches. Then I remembered that there was an upcoming past players function at the Fearon Reserve, and it was now essential that I attend. Big Jack would surely be there – he was never one to ignore the chance of spruiking stories of his playing days while knocking back a few sherbets. And sure enough, when I walked through the door of the packed room on the following Saturday, there was Jack himself. His gruff, tattooed, and bearded exterior belied a heart of gold and a mind like a steel trap. He was already five beers deep when I waded through the festive crowd to seek an audience with him.

Early in the day’s proceedings, a rumour had spread like wildfire that, a few years back, some mischievous lads had slipped the shield into a teammate’s bag. But that teammate, known as ‘The Anaconda’, had denied any knowledge of the incident. I had spoken to Snake, Anaconda’s father, and he had confirmed that the shield had never been in their possession.

I placed my beer down on the table next to Big Jack, and put a full glass on the vacant coaster in front of him. “The Swami said you might know what happened to the Tony Williamson Shield,” I said, as he thirstily eyed the next full schooner. He had a unique ability to make it look as if he was chewing on the glass as he swallowed his beer in the briefest of gulps. For young footy recruits new to the club, studying Big Jack’s drinking methods was an essential part of their induction. “Not even a hello from you, Swifty?” he replied. “You never were one to stand on ceremony.” That much was true. And I shrugged. I despised small talk. He confirmed that the Anaconda story was “a load of bollocks” but did not know how or where that tale had been born. “But yes, I reckon I know what happened to the shield”. The hairs on my neck were suddenly standing to attention.

He was half cut already, his voice growing louder as his old teammates urged him to regale them with more tall stories of exploits both on-field and off-field. “When you have your fill today, Swifty, I suggest that you go home, power up Netflix, and watch ‘Citizen Kane’. The answer is right there at the end.” Big Jack was a movie buff and trivia expert who could play Siskel and Ebert on the break, and he specialized in the golden era of Hollywood. But to request that I watch the classic Orson Welles film was an entirely surprising development. He continued: “I was here on the day that the shield disappeared. There was a working bee. It was an accident. I’m sworn to secrecy, but there are enough clues in the film to set you straight.” He was blabbering by now. A few hours later, I made my retreat. Our footy club had recorded a victory, and the crowd was in high spirits. But Big Jack’s comments had intrigued me, and I was keen to settle in with a tumbler or two of Jameson. I had seen ‘Citizen Kane’ many years ago; I was aware of the basic outline of the story, but plenty of details eluded me.

What unfolded on the screen before me was a movie which, 82 years on, was still a masterpiece of filmmaking. It is the story of newspaper magnate Charles Foster Kane, who utters the word “Rosebud” on his deathbed. A reporter is tasked with the job of discovering the meaning of the word “Rosebud”, but is unable to solve the mystery. I slowly come to the realization that the Tony Williamson Shield has been my “Rosebud”. And in the final scenes, when “Rosebud” is revealed to have been Kane’s childhood sleigh that is thrown into a fire by cleaners, the penny dropped.

I called Big Jack, and although he was barely able to communicate by this hour on a Saturday night, he managed a modicum of sense. “Swifty! How was the film?” I demanded an answer from him: “The shield was mistakenly tossed out into a skip during a clean-up, wasn’t it?” He began sobbing. “It was an accident. It was in a cardboard box. I didn’t know. Neither did the person who threw it on the pile.” The truck had driven off when they had realized their error. “Sorry for putting you through all this trauma on a fruitless search!”

The Tony Williamson Shield. A mystery that, perhaps, will still be discussed at past players functions 80 years hence. I poured myself another Jameson, and raised a toast to its memory. Just like the ambition I once harboured, and all the plans that I once possessed, I supposed that some things are destined never to be found. I knew that better than anybody.

 

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 Part 10 Here

 

You can read more from Smokie HERE

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