Almanac Life: Travels with ‘The Little Champ’

 

 

 

Never doubt the power of sport to bring back connection, across the years and even across ‘the great divide’.

My dear Mum, Helen, aka ‘The Little Champ’, who passed away in 2012, travelled with me again this year on a Christmas Eve spin around a few Melbourne sacred sites.

While the next generation of my mob went shopping, I headed down to the ‘G’ and Punt Road and walked about a bit, as I am wont to do on out-of-season trips to Melbourne from Canberra.

After the obligatory moment of observation at Louis Laumen’s statue of Barass, I headed across to Tigerland, recalling memories of many trips to the Cricket Ground with The Champ.

Starting in South’s last year as South, 1981, The Champ (who followed the Bloods) and I would head south for a match most years, often parking in the mire between the ‘G’ and Punt Road. On one occasion, the wait to get out was just too much for the Champ and a rest stop was required. The only option was the Royal Hotel on Punt Road. I stewarded the Champ, then in her 60s, into the popular venue that still advertises itself as ‘Melbourne’s only public bar with topless barmaids’. She emerged with round eyes and quickly proceeded to steward me, in my 20s, back to the car, over my tongue-in-cheek suggestion that perhaps she’d like to settle in for a whisky while I could have a pot or two as the traffic cleared out.

Next stop on Christmas Eve was Whitten Oval, which The Champ never attended, but where she was instrumental in engineering for her only son to see his first VFL match. That was 1973, when I was permitted, at the tender age of 12, and three years after my Dad’s death, to leave Mum alone at home and venture south with the Eastlake Under 13s, billeted out with (and thrashed by) our contemporaries at Avondale Heights. Talk about lasting impressions. The host family embraced me and my teammate, having happily taken two of us, notwithstanding that Gough Whitlam’s national sewerage program had not yet been rolled out to their street. They couldn’t have been more welcoming, even to the point of ensuring we had an ashtray in our bedroom.

But the highlight was Carlton v Footscray at the Western Oval. Off we all trooped in our flares and short-sleeve shirts with a pack of Viscounts or Craven As tucked up the arm. We were at the Barkly Street end and had a such a ball, not even minding when the Doggies beat my Blue heroes by a couple of goals. We stormed on to the ground at the finish and up the race to the Carlton room, arriving only 15m short of the slammed black door. Big Nick, reigning premiership captain-coach, was clearly not happy to drop the second last match of the home-and-away season to an also-ran when his side was favoured to go back-to-back.

Upon our return to Canberra, The Champ listened intently to my burbling recount of the weekend (minus the ciggies) and thought nothing of dealing with the sports bag full of stinking gear after our match on a gluepot that would have done Glenferrie proud.

The Hawks’ old home was next on my Christmas Eve itinerary, though it, too, was not a ground The Champ had attended, but I stuck my head in to re-clock that unusual brick edifice of a clubhouse and the sardine tin of a ground – but my real mission in entering that part of town was Kooyong.

After all that The Champ had done for me with trips with Eastlake, with her taking me to the Gold Coast after I had knee surgery at 14 and missed a season, and arranging with cousins various to have me at locations exotic (including a cattle station in the NT and a Gippsland sheep property), it finally occurred to me that I might return the favour.

The Champ’s 1984 Christmas stocking contained our passage to Wimbledon 1985, which would be her only overseas trip and, of course, we had a ball on the big stage, with centre court seats for the last four days, and a day at the Lord’s Test, at which AB made 196.

Thereafter, we had the tennis bug, attending a number of Davis Cup ties, at White City and Memorial Drive, with the standout being the 1986 final at Kooyong.

Walking in to that grand venue on Christmas Eve was like walking straight back to the sweltering three days that were 26-28 December 1986, when Pat Cash led the Aussies to victory in epic singles matches over Mikael Pernfors in five sets and Stefan Edberg in three (but three true Davis Cup sets, 13-11, 13-11, 6-4) and teaming with that gutsy man from Cocklebiddy, John Fitzgerald, to win the doubles.

The northern stand was just about exactly the same as 38 years ago and the memories came flooding back, no matter that the ubiquitous blue hardcourt has replaced the grass.

The Swedish fans captivated The Champ. They were tall, sunburnt and not well adjusted to what she suspected must be our stronger local beverages. With Australia up 2-1 after the Saturday’s play, one particularly well-oiled specimen leaned over the Champ, 5’2”, on the tram home: “If you smiling tomorrow, I kill you,” he ventured with just a hint of his own smile. This was water-off-ducks territory for The Champ, who continued beaming up at her interlocutor. “We’ll just have to see, eh?” she replied with a wink.

She was mates with all in the stands, friend or foe, and all kept an eye out for her in the holiday heat, making for a grand three days, just one of dozens of fun trips with a keen judge and a great mate.

 

To read more by Andrew Fraser click here.

 

 

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