I’m in love with a girl called Jacinta. She’s in my Grade 3 class at Ss Peter & Paul’s Primary School: an overcrowded Catholic school in Doncaster East. There are 37 kids in our class. Lunchtime footy games are reduced to a rugby scrum, with up to 50 kids swarming over a timeworn Sherrin. It’s hard to get a piece of the action.
Jacinta is a darkhaired beauty to whom I have never uttered a single word. But I feel there is an unspoken chemistry between us. Only recently we had momentarily ended up in the same corner of the classroom together. Just the two of us. Her face turned red from embarrassment. And I’m assuming mine did too. I probably should have said something, but predictably I froze. But our time is coming. I can just feel it.
Sometimes our class is permitted to enter the church at the front of the school. I am transfixed by the pictures of Christ that adorn the walls: Jesus arrested at the Garden of Gethsemane. Jesus before Pilate. Jesus beaten by the Centurions. Jesus carrying his cross on the way to Calvary, dropping to his knees the process. The resurrection pictures hang on the other side of the church and I never seem to get a good look at them.
We never really talk about religion at home. I guess we are what you would call ‘cultural Catholics’. My older sister recently had her First Communion, and it is said that I will participate in the same ritual in the next year or so. Later I will attend Whitefriars College. My future is all mapped out.
The story of Christ resonates with me. A few years earlier on Good Friday, I spent the entire morning in the garage with some wood and nails, hammering out a cross. Once I had completed the structure, I marched out of the garage onto our street and found a hole in a cement drain near the gutter in which to erect the cross. It fitted perfectly. I then asked my sister to help tie me onto the cross. Moments later my grandparents, arriving for Easter lunch, drove into our street and were horrified to see their six-year old grandson hanging from a cross.
*
In the early 80s mum embraces an evangelical form of Christianity. She believes in miracles, prophecy, and tongues of fire. I attend a few of the meetings and find it all very strange. But I keep quiet. I am told I will be healed of my chronic asthma condition. I just have to believe. I don’t know what to think. My two older sisters start going to church with mum on Sunday mornings and Sunday evenings. I stay home with dad. Dad is a philosopher, a pacifist, and a vegetarian, who has dabbled with Eastern religions. He’s a bit of a weird cat. But I like that about him. Evangelical Christianity is not quite his thing, but he would never dissuade mum from going to church. She has found her passion.
I spend a lot of time with the old man, while mum and my sisters are at church. Sunday mornings consists of playing footy for Doncaster Heights, followed by lunch and World of Sports at nonna’s. On Sunday nights dad and I cook omelets and then saddle up for the Sunday night movie. There always seems to be an adaptation of a classic French novel on the telly in 1981. Les Misérables. The Count of Monte Cristo. The Man in the Iron Mask. I love these films. There is a scene in Les Misérables that will stay with me forever. It’s when the protagonist Jean Valjean steals silverware from the Bishop, who has shown him nothing but kindness. When the police capture Valjean, they bring him back to the Bishop to confirm the crime. But the Bishop protects Valjean by pretending the silverware was a gift. ‘But I asked you to take the candlesticks as well.’ The police accept the Bishop’s explanation. Valjean is blown away by the Bishop’s mercy.
Mum’s newfound faith causes friction with the extended family. It’s bad enough that none of her kids speak Italian, and now this. On one occasion at my grandparents, a big argument breaks out between mum and my indomitable nonna. Mum storms out of the dining room in a huff and cries out to us while we are watching tv in the loungeroom, ‘Come on, we’re leaving now.’ Nonna hurriedly follows mum into the lounge and apologises unreservedly. Mum relents and stays. A major rift is averted. But you can feel the tension.
‘The Catholics have got it all wrong,’ is the vibe from the Pentecostals. I am caught in the crossfire. Before long, mum makes plans to pull us out of Ss Peter & Paul’s. She can no longer allow us to attend a Catholic school. I am devastated.
Mum has found us a new school, Donvale Christian School – a small multi-denominational school in the outer-eastern suburbs founded by the Dutch Reformed Church in 1975 . It’s out in the sticks, no uniforms are required and the school does not even possess an automatic bell. Two students are rostered on every day to collect two large golden bells from the staff room and are then required to run through the school grounds ringing the bells at recess, lunch, and home times, so that all can hear. Let him who has ears hear.
I plead with mum for us to stay put at Ss Peter & Paul’s, but my protests are all in vain. We are leaving and that is that. The plans are already in place. Resignedly, I tell all my mates at Ss Peter & Paul’s that I am leaving at the end of the term. None of them believe me.
*
On the last day of term, the automatic school bell rings and our class is dismissed. It is finished. I reluctantly rise to my feet to leave. Tears are welling in my eyes as I retrieve my bag and trudge pass Jacinta in the school corridor. She sees my tears and is perplexed. I will never see her again. I will never taste First Communion.
To read more by Damian Balassone click HERE.
To return to our 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 things keep ticking over please consider making your own contribution.
Become an Almanac (annual) member – click HERE.
About Damian Balassone
Damian Balassone is a failed half-forward flanker who writes poetry. He is the author of 'Strange Game in a Strange Land'.
- Web |
- More Posts
I can relate to this story in reverse.
I hard a dark-haired beauty named Kim in my grade 3 class in 1973. I was new to the school and she had been there since Prep.. I couldn’t believe my luck when I was seated next to her at the front of the classroom for the whole year. We never really spoke in class (I was too shy and quiet) but I kept giving sideways looks at her during class and she smiled when I was doing it.
I bumped into her a few times outside of school during the year and we talked more. She invited me to her birthday party at the end of the year and I was one of only three boys invited, but I was her favourite.
I was in her class again in grade 6 and we spoke more to each other in class.
In Year 8, although I wasn’t in any of her classes she would call out hello to me in the playground and I would say hello back.
I wasn’t in her class again until Year 11 (1981) and once again I couldn’t believe my luck again as I was seated next to her again at the front of the classroom for one of my subjects. We spoke a bit to each other before the lesson began.
I never even thought about asking her out because I didn’t have the confidence back then. I have been regretting not asking her out ever since, thinking what might have been.
Of course, it’s too late when you eventually find out she ends up getting married with children and is still married. I’ve bumped into her sparingly at one school reunion and another place, but her interest isn’t what it was, maybe because she’s now happily married to someone else, but mine still is. Looks aren’t everything but they certainly play a part.
Another school crush I had was another dark-haired beauty named Shelley in my Grade 5 class. I never spoke to her but found out later she left the school after grade 5 to live in another country permanently and I’ve never seen or heard of her since.
The lesson learnt is to “strike while the iron is hot.”
By the way, did you ever find out what happened to Jacinta or did you ever try to track her down?
Thanks for your feedback Anon and for your fascinating anecdote. To answer your question, I never saw Jacinta again, nor do I have any idea what she is doing now. I highly doubt that she would have any recollection of me whatsoever. It was a long time ago.