Almanac Footy – Loddon Valley: Where the river meets the footy

 

I hadn’t been camping for years. Five years or more I reckon. Work had consumed me the previous few years and I’d barely had a weekend off let alone time to get away camping. The past six months in particular had been incredibly stressful and I knew I needed to get away for a few days. Go bush. Somewhere quiet and peaceful.

 

Living in Torquay, the natural spot to get away from the rat race is to go deep into the Otways. But this time I felt a calling to go inland. North, to a river. Back to my old stomping ground. Gold country.

 

…

 

I wasn’t much of a footy player back when I played. I played junior footy from the age of eight but never went on to play senior footy. Never really had the desire to. I wasn’t born with natural sporting talent and I had a lazy streak when it came to training. Trouncing around in the cold, the wet, and the mud at training on a Thursday evening wasn’t my idea of fun and I never quite fell in love with getting up early on a Saturday morning to kick the icy dew off the ground. But I growing up in Bendigo that’s what you did – you played footy. That’s what your mates did and besides, there wasn’t a hell of a lot else to do.

 

I played a couple years of U16s at South Bendigo but mostly off the bench and in the back pocket where they could hide me. We had a pretty good side and I was constantly on the fringe of the best 18.

 

As U18s loomed I was asked by a couple of school mates if I’d like to come out and play at Bridgewater in the Loddon Valley League. I’d probably get to play key positions and would definitely get a good run every week if I wanted it. So I headed up the Calder highway each week to play with the Mean Machine and enjoyed my best year of footy ever. I’m always happy to tell anyone who’ll listen that the last game of footy I ever played was a premiership win. I played at full back that day and we beat Marong by five points. I even polled a handful of best and fairest votes that year. Something that was previously unthinkable.

 

…

 

As I contemplated the need to get well away from the stresses of running a small business in a flailing economy, I felt a calling to head back to the Loddon Valley and its eponymous river. I thought of Newbridge and its picturesque footy ground on the banks of that river. The same river that swallowed the ground, club rooms and all, during the floods of 2011. 

 

With some basic camping essentials, I borrowed my daughter’s decked out VW Transporter and headed north to the Newbridge Rec. Reserve – home of the Maroons – and the Loddon River.

 

Taking the Midland Highway north, I skirted around Ballarat and met the Loddon at Newstead. Then up through Maldon, arriving at Newbridge; a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it kind of town. There’s the pub, the general store, and the footy club. That’s about it. And that’s exactly what I was looking for. 

 

I was stoked when I drove into the Rec. Reserve and started scoping out the campsites between the footy oval and the river. Apart from a couple of blokes down one end of the reserve with a set up that looked like they intended to stay for a long time, there was no-one else there. It seemed the peace and quiet I was craving was mine to enjoy as I headed to the far end of the reserve. 

 

Finding the perfect spot right on the river bank, I pulled up the van, hooked up a tarp for a canopy, cracked a beer and settled into the camp chair. The sun was warm on my face, the bird life was teeming, and the river was calm and peaceful. I didn’t move for about two hours.

 

As the sun began setting over the high bank in the opposite side of the river and the cacophony of bird calls signalled the nightly ritual of finding a suitable place to settle for the night, a different call began to make itself heard.

 

‘Jezza, jezza, jezza, JEZZAAAA,’ came the cry from behind me.

 

‘Chooka, chooka, CHOOKAAAH!’

 

It was training night at the Newbridge Footy Club. Finals were looming and Newbridge were a chance to sneak into the last spot. The players were up and about and for the next hour and a half they ran through drill after drill. 

 

That’s the thing about camping at Newbridge Rec. Reserve. The beating pulse of the footy club intertwines with the peace and quiet of river life.

 

On that Tuesday night, whoever had the keys to unlock the light towers didn’t show up. So the boys trained in the dark. I wandered up for a look, can in hand. About a dozen blokes were kicking the footy back and forth. I could barely see a thing and had no idea how they could see what they were doing. I gave up and went back to the camp fire.

 

Thursday night training was back in full swing though. Lights blaring and a full turn out for training. The boys were up and about. A whiff of finals was in the air.

 

Country footy is a beautiful thing. The football-netball club is the heartbeat of many of these small towns. But it’s also dying. Kaye – the volunteer who collects the $15 a night fee from campers – told me that Newbridge were no longer able to field an U18s team. In fact only four clubs in the league could. Without the juniors, she reckons, the clubs don’t make money. The canteen is the main cash generator in a country club and it’s the juniors that drive the canteen. It’s the juniors that eat the pies. And it’s the juniors’ parents who staff the canteen. 

 

The bloke at the Newbridge pub reckoned the footy club is critical to the pub’s survival. Without the footy club, there’s no pub. Or netball club. Or CFA. At a guess I’d say this cuts both ways. A chicken and egg kind of a thing.

 

Sadly country footy is fast becoming another victim of modern global financial rationalisation. As the money floats to the top, those below are left to fend for themselves. The richer the AFL becomes, the poorer grass roots footy is for it. Or so it seems. 

 

…

 

Newbridge had a home game that Saturday. One they needed to win to stay in the race for the finals. Against their arch-enemy Bridgewater. My old club. Sadly I had to get back to work and so begrudgingly packed up and left on the morning of the game. As much as I would have loved to stay and see out the weekly cycle of the footy club, I had to face the realities of what was waiting for me back home.

 

I’m not sure if Newbridge won that game or made the finals that year. Once I’d left the peace and quiet of the Newbridge Rec. Reserve and the Loddon River, work swallowed me up again and I forgot to check in on the scores. 

 

Seems country footy’s not the only victim of economic rationalisation.

 

 

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