Almanac Life: How Johnny Famechon Saved Me
Yorketown Area School third year high school 1970. We are the big kids on a joint primary and secondary campus. Going on to Leaving or Matriculation (years 11 and 12) would require a daily 20 mile bus trip to Minlaton (the ‘big’ town).
There are two third year classes. 30 – with subjects like maths, history and science for those of us who might stay at school beyond 15 years of age. 3A – had subjects like woodwork, metalwork and cookery for those who aspired to carpentry, farming or marrying one.
There is a healthy rivalry between these groups. ‘Nobs’ or ‘rock apes’ depending on who you asked. Our classrooms are adjoining demountables at the far end of the school. Down where the land slopes into the salt lake like dozens of others that dot the Southern Yorke Peninsula landscape. The lake where we lash oil drums together making perilous rafts for antipodean Huck Finn’s sailing the salty Mississippi until it evaporates in the December heat. And stash well-fingered stolen copies of Man magazine in the rocks on the far shore.
At recess times the teachers disappear into the distant staff room to nurse their hangovers; ask the new PE teacher if she’s doing anything Saturday night; or debate the Friday night three hour drive back to the big smoke. ‘Duty of Care’ is a distant legal fantasy and the sole yard duty teacher amuses themselves with the primary school kids playing hopscotch out by the main road.
Lunch time is footy or cricket, but recess is too short for getting gear and getting out to the nets or oval. Instead we amuse ourselves with the traditional local sport of ‘gibber tossing’. Yorke Peninsula is a thin layer of fertile loam, over a jagged limestone base which protrudes intermittently to scarify the diving cricket outfielder. The 50 yards between our demountable and the lake has been thoughtfully ploughed to break up the limestone and bring it to the surface in cricket ball size chunks.
The 3A and 3O armies assemble 30 yards apart and casually hurl ‘gibbers’ across the divide. Seeking to emulate the Doug Walters or Paul Sheahan throws over the stumps from the MCG boundary. Roles are allocated. Tossers carefully select gibbers of optimal size and jaggedness. Etiquette suggests that sides hurl alternately in a feeble nod to risk minimisation. But there is no umpire to prevent a surprise barrage. Lookouts scan the sky and shout ‘incoming’ to warn those searching the ground for future missiles.
Meanwhile the girls hoist skirts Twiggy length and contemplate prospects from their respective WAGstands. They appear unimpressed by our display of dinosaur masculinity. “If this is the best breeding stock within an hour’s drive, I can’t wait to do that hairdressing course in Adelaide and open my own salon in Para Hills. All the blokes there look like Leo Sayer apparently.”
The inevitable happens and one of our 30 gibbers collect a slow witted 3A lad. “Watch out.” “Shit.” He is bleeding but breathing, and the 3A army advances bent on revenge. They are led by the policeman’s son, hulking simian Ernie Abinett.
“Who chucked it?” he demands. Scared silence. So Ernie decides on a matching feeble target. Me.
He advances. My options flash before me. I could possibly outrun him but the shame would haunt me. I stand my ground. In terror not defiance. He throws a looping haymaker. I duck and it whistle harmlessly past.
“That’s it, Johnny Famechon dance and evade,” I decide. “Lionel Rose counter-punch would be asking for trouble. Fammo never gets hit. Jab and dance like I’ve seen him do a dozen times on Monday night TV Ringside.”
I’m running. But at least still facing him. Back-pedalling. Merv Williams’ TV Ringside special comments in my ears “he’s like the boy with the barrow, he’s got the job in front of him”.
Ernie catches me. “What would Johnny do?” Grab and clinch. Ties, buttons and shirt sleeves are ripped. Ernie can’t swing in close, but I’m trying to survive not retaliate. “He’s like the boy who fell out of the balloon, he’s just not in it,” Merv silently commentates.
Fammo’s scoring punch is a jab I think, so I throw a few phantom lurches from distance. Getting close enough to collect would put me inside Ernie’s range. No thanks. “Where’s the bell?” Every recess ends 10 minutes too soon, except for this one. “Ring that bloody siren, the referee – sorry teacher – can’t intervene soon enough.” I can’t keep dodging and weaving. Ernie can’t keep missing.
Finally it rings. The sweetest sound I’d heard until the 2018 Grand Final siren. We drift apart. Mutually dishevelled. Observers astounded that I’m still alive and standing. Though not as surprised as I am.
The teachers arrive and ask the obvious. “Dunno. Musta fell over.” Looking at the assembled evidence of a similarly ragged Ernie and his bleeding companion in the 3A line, my explanation seems improbable. School kids observe omerta more strictly than La Cosa Nostra. We know that revenge lurks in every toilet block or footy changing shed.
“Off to the headmaster” we’re told, where I maintain fight club rules before being sent home for a change of clothes and mum’s interrogation.
Relief has given way to exultation. I walk taller among the jocks and jills for the next month thanks to my remarkable evasive display,
Thanks Fammo. You taught me that success goes to the quick-witted as much as the strong. There is a middle way between running and attacking. Ali’s ‘rope a dope’ masterclass at the Rumble in the Jungle is still four years away. I reckon Ali learned from Fammo how to let a stronger opponent tire and punch himself out.
You were always a champion Johnny, in and out of the ring. Paul Simon must have had you in mind.
In the clearing stands a boxer
And a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders
Of every glove that laid him down
And cut him ’til he cried out
In his anger and his shame
“I am leaving, I am leaving”
But the fighter still remains, mhmm
Read Dips O’Donnell’s piece about Johnny Famechon Here
You can read more from Peter Baulderstone Here
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Interesting PB. Good footwork is as much a part of a boxers repertoire, as fast, strong hands. Look at young Harry Garside, recent Commonwealth Gold and Olympic Bronze medallist. Garside has done a lot of ballet, proving a wonderful springboard for good dainty footwork.
Fammo, Judith Durham, ONJ, my childhood memories have been given a battering in recent weeks. Actually my childhood was a long time ago, back in the 60’s, 70’s.
Keep up the good writing, PB.
Glen!
One of the best things I’ve read Pete. Growing up in WA most neighbourhoods in Spring or Autumn would have that yellow sand delivered in a vane attempt to resurrect their dead lawn. With a bit of moisture after sitting there for a while the sand would go hard forming “kuundies” or “buundles” depending on which side of the river you grew up on. You could hurl the chunks a long way and they become the weapon of choice for us kids on the street. Unfortunately an erroneous stone could make its way into the sand pile and would be mistaken for sand. Inevitably it would land on someone’s head and we would all get called inside by our parents. I love the PE teacher bit too! Cheers
Marvellous piece that Pete.
Among the many evocative references, the one asking the PE teacher what she was doing Saturday night possibly rang the loudest bell if only because I recall nervously pursuing that very strategy myself many years ago!
RDL
The shelter shed fight!! Love it. Calling on the skills of others to get out of trouble.
Nice work PB.
Just fabulous reminiscing, PB!
Great piece.
That hairdresser was right, we did.
Thanks PB. Well done.
I can vouch for the occurrence of similar staff room activities at Findon High School in 1971.
Brilliant PB, just brilliant.
Wry stuff PB. I enjoyed your tour down to the SYP. As I played them decades ago I’d love to read your recollections of the Yorketown, Stansbury and Port Vincent golf courses too. I reckon the latter had a couple of nice holes right by the beach.
Fab read PB. Reminded me of my experience with a bully in grade 2 at Colac West PS in 1958. Being vertically challenged, though I could be feisty when riled, I was occasionally picked on by this one particular boy, much bigger than me. He thought it funny to boss and push a little kid around. I thought learning to box at the local youth club would help me but with the weight of the gloves on my tiny hands I could hardly lift them so gave that up as a bad joke. One thing I had in my favour was being very quick on my feet, so I devised a plan of action. I decided next time he bullied me I’d get in first with the unexpected, I’d whack him then run as fast as I could. Caught him completely by surprise, I hit him so hard in the guts he crumpled and cried, much to the amusement of his mates, but I still decided the best course of action was to run. He never bullied me again! Thanks PB.
Love it Peter. A cracker of a read.
Oh I love this, PB.
The boy with the barrow.
Great read Peter .
Brings back schoolyard memories .Every school seemed to have a bully who in my experience never amounted to much when called out particularly when the other kids had growth spurts and were as big as him .
Boxing is a farce now with more divisions and titles on offer than prizes at a Sunday school picnic . At that time there were only 8 divisions with one title holder and Australia held the bantam and featherweight titles courtesy of Lionel and Fammo . We were certainly punching above our weight [pardon the pun] .
Fammo and Lionel were akin to the Stones and the Beatles .It was mandatory to declare your allegiance to one or the other and I was a Fammo fan despite my admiration for Lionel . Fammo was a gentleman in and out of the ring .
Ringside with Ron Casey and Merv Williams was compulsory viewing and Merv may well have described your plight as ‘he is in more trouble than a grasshopper in a pen full of starving turkeys ‘
Keep up the good work