Almanac Life: Max, the Kookas and a shirtless Shillo

 

My brother-in-law, Max, is a serious swimmer, a Geelong fan and a cinematographer.

 

So, respectively, a discipline worthy of high praise, an affliction we can feel we keep in the family and an occupation that has paid unexpected dividends for a sporting side that has, until now, received not a lot of media spotlight.

 

I speak of the Kaleen Kookaburras, five blokes filling three spots on court each week in Canberra’s Division 7 autumn and spring Monday-night tennis comps (the other two seasons are too extreme for our fragile constitutions).

 

Max had a recent gig at Melbourne Park and was given four handsome dark-blue Australian Open shirts with the Grand Slam’s logo on the breast. He offered the lot to me. Score.

 

But you’re ahead of me, I can tell. Four into five doesn’t go. What was to be done?

 

Of course, one went straight into my kit. That left three.

 

I texted the team with my best Demtel impression: first in on the low price goes home happy.

 

Teammate Sharkie was just as he is on court: quick as a flick of shit off a shiny shovel. He’ll look very fine in dark Blue (thankfully replacing his Geelong jumper) as he goes about his business on a Monday night next season.

 

Sharkie’s signature move is a health hazard, deployed throughout each of his three sets on a comp night (we play six sets all up each night on two courts: each player having a set of singles while the other two play a set of doubles). Sharkie’s party trick goes something like this: I’m at the net, banging the strings against the heel of my other hand and saying “Too good, mate!” as the opponents’ handsomely struck pass rockets past me up the tramlines. A metallic crash and a groan is the next thing we hear, the rest of us turning to watch Sharkie trying to extricate himself from the wire fence, having launched himself cross-court to have a go at getting a racquet to the ball I was too slow to volley.

 

Two shirts left.

 

The texts are coming in a withering rush, just like thoroughbreds over the rise at Randwick.

 

Skipper Mike gets the nod for second. He truly deserves his new strip. I mean, not only does the man follow Carlton, he leads us gently, week after week, organising the roster, sorting out what each of us owes in rego fees and ensuring we have new balls for each home match. I guess we should have expected no less. He played a lot of first-grade footy (same side as Sharkie but in slightly different eras) and was then a long-time committeeman and leader. Our all-round good guy.

 

One shirt left. Two mates.

 

Both come from rugby backgrounds and the pair of them bulldozed into a photo-finish for the remaining booty as though they were packing a scrum in the good, old days before “touch, kiss, engage, push a little” or whatever their new rule is.

 

After calling for a developed print (a difference of only a single minute between their texts), the shirt went to Anthony, our favourite Swans supporter, ahead of Shillo, ex-first XV at that harbourside rugby academy, St Ignatius’ College.

 

With that sort of pedigree, Shillo is unsurprisingly now an urbane barrister by day and a comically caustic commentator and smooth stroke-maker by night, probably just the wrong bloke to have missed out.

 

I’d be copping plenty, I rightly predicted, from our resident wit, including an especially entertaining workout over a lunch with some other lawyerly types.

 

Of course, it’s all in good spirit.

 

Or is it?

 

I woke in a cold sweat the other night from a dream in which Sharkie and I had been on our court playing doubles while our No 1’s singles opponent was waiting, and waiting, on the other.

 

Suddenly, a shirtless Shillo explodes form the sheds, drops to one knee and thrusts a Hewittesque hand toward his forehead, screaming:

 

“C’mon, c’mon ….

 

“C’mon, Dougie, where’s me bloody shirt!”

 

 

To read more by Andrew Fraser click here.

 

 

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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.

 

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