At Easter-time Stawell Giveth and Stawell Taketh Away
I’m moving up the track in the wrong direction. I start at the finish. At the end rather than the beginning. As I begin my slow jog, the white strings that line the full length of each lane rise gradually from ground level to their eventual height of almost a metre. They are fed through small loops at the top of white stakes set ten metres apart. It creates a distinctive visual effect, a sort of string art on a large scale. The sprint track is seemingly lifted above the rest of the field. It becomes like an athletic altar, a place of sprinting worship.
I have just shaken the hand of Premier John Cain – and various local dignitaries – who all look very pleased to be here. I just wished they would all get out the way and let me get on with things.
I feel remarkably calm, considering; considering this race is the culmination of many childhood dreams. I am fit, strong, and think I can win. Am I sure I can win?
As I jog and walk up the track the commentator is summarizing my summer’s form and previous performances:
“He run (sic) second in the Rye Gift in January of this year and recently won the Avoca Gift in the fast time of 11.90 seconds. He won his heat comfortably on Saturday in the time of 12.28 seconds and his semi in the time of 12.19…….”
And then it came “……and his father won this race back in 1955”. I always love hearing that.
It is absurd that my predominant thought is not the imminent race but a wish that I was a bit taller. I wish my track suit pants, provided by the sponsors of the race, weren’t dragging on the ground. Don’t they have a smaller pair?
Why am I so calm?
##
When you first get to Stawell it seems thoroughly unremarkable. Driving in along the Western Highway from Melbourne you pass a petrol station, a collection of lonely looking motel cabins and a hotch potch of small semi-industrial businesses. A sign says “Welcome to Stawell” above a picture of a few blokes desperately throwing themselves at a finish tape, with “Home of the Stawell Gift” underneath. That’s your only clue that this town has something special about it.
It’s always dry up here. Even after rain this town looks and feels dry. The air sucks the moisture out of your lips and the local cockies screech with parched throats. Gum trees scratch a living out of the sandy compacted soil and patiently wait for the next rain. They are good at being patient. They even look patient.
These trees are magnificent. Not awe-inspiring magnificent like Uluru, but rather simple-magnificent like a foraging wombat. They stand humble but proud despite their blotchy and dilapidated appearance. Their role is to act as homes for the local wildlife not to dominate the skyline like their rainforest cousins. Possums, koalas, spiders, snakes, hawks, and various local rodents all reside in these multicultural council flats. But they are also tough practical survivors and will drop limbs in the still heat of the day, if the going gets too tough. The only warnings will be the same high-pitched squeal a rusty dunny door makes, followed by a crack as the branch lets go. The dropped limbs gather around the tree base defeated and rejected. But part of it all.
Looking over Stawell is the majestic Grampians mountain range. It sprawls across the horizon like a giant in deep slumber and changes from brown to blue to black as the day grows old. The Grampians reflect the mood of the surrounding area. During a storm the giant will seemingly rise up all black and purple and lash the landscape with vicious wind and rain, and then will shrink away again and lie down peacefully like a cat on a sunny window sill.
From time to time I’ve found myself staring at the Grampians in pure wonder. Not only do they change colour across the day but they also seem to change shape as if the sleeping giant moves in his dreams.
I love this country. It has a powerful resilience and a beautiful ugliness. I love that it is so ancient but so familiar and I love that it is so important to me and my family. I feel a part of it and humbled that it has let me in on just a few of its secrets. It is my country.
On my arrival every year the town seems to greet me with a quiet nod and a tip of the hat. There is no fanfare. There doesn’t need to be. It sits comfortably in a landscape scarred by old gold mines and erosion. Nothing moves quickly, not even the birds in flight. Cars and four wheel drives meander around the streets barely above a fast walking pace and slow conversations are conducted with long pauses in the shade of a tree. Life seems to unwind without pretension.
The locals reside in a typically rural collection of homes. Stately weatherboard houses with return verandahs shaded by a peppercorn tree share the streets with asbestos sheet houses that boil in the sun. There are also newer brick townhouses, probably built by those who have come into town off their farms looking to find a comfortable place to see out their days.
Up at the top end of town is the main shopping mall. The footpaths have plaques embedded in them naming the Stawell Gift winners since 1878. This is the Hollywood avenue of stars, Stawell style. Simple concrete blocks with the year and a name engraved into them are plonked in the brick-paved walkway. There are still a few strange gaps. Apparently families of previous winners don’t get a plaque unless they pay for it. The Stawell Gift has always been bigger than the individual.
This place seems entirely happy in its own skin.
Making camp I try to hammer the pegs of my tent into the ground and I curse and moan that the ground is so hard. Droplets of sweat appear on my forehead as I labour. The kids begin exploring the immediate surrounds by climbing up and falling out of trees, poking sticks down mysterious looking holes, or scratching an area out of the dust for our camp fire. The local ants appear out of their nest wanting to know what all the commotion is about. They quickly spread across their kingdom searching for the threat. Soon I’ll be sharing my camp with them. We’ll come to the usual agreement; I’ll let them have some of my honey and bread crumbs if they promise not to bite.
As you wander past Central Park on Good Friday you might hear the starter testing his gun for the Easter Weekend athletics carnival, or the familiar “tink tink tink” sound when hammer connects with metal pegs as ground staff quietly erect the marshals’ tent and the judges’ marquee. Perhaps the commentator for the event is testing the PA or a few runners are chatting as they go about their preparations. If it’s late enough in the afternoon some local kids will be out selling the programs for Saturday’s races.
“Pro-ooo-gram” is their natural call.
But that’s about it. There won’t be any hustle and bustle.
##
I’m at the top of the track waiting for the other runners to arrive. The commentator is introducing them with his “he run third here and he run second there” statistics as they jog, walk, or do a show-off sprint up the track. Looking down my lane, lined as it is by the beautiful white strings, I’m terrified and exhilarated. I start to flick my legs, one at a time, as sprinters do. Flick of the left leg, flick of the right, flick of the left, run on the spot. Now my heart is really racing.
Nothing else matters at the moment. I’m in a surreal place. This is the final of the Stawell Gift.
I’m trying to enjoy the moment as I was advised to do.
“Suck in every moment” I was told by a previous Gift winner, “because it may not come around again”.
But the moments won’t stand still. Now they’re drowning in a nerve soup. I set my blocks, get in a few practice starts to ensure they’re steady, and stand ready for Mr. Starter to commence his race instructions.
My lane is a stairway to heaven. It’s my lane. I own it. I can’t wait to hear the gun and get stuck into these blokes around me. Geez I’m really pumped now.
##
Near the centre of town is the footy ground. I wish it could talk. On one side is the picturesque timber grandstand, built over a century ago. It houses the public bar and the St Johns Ambulance medical rooms. On the other side is a pair of brick grandstands designed and built with nothing but function in mind. They have all the charm of an industrial estate.
Every Easter in the shadows of the old timber grandstand old men congregate. They talk about old times from beneath old hats and through old teeth. Some carry souvenirs from wars with the empty arms of jumpers or shirts tucked into the tops of their trousers (though their numbers are dwindling fast). Some hold a green can in their slightly shaky hand and guide it up to their lips as if they’re parking a giant container ship. Others mutter to each other like old blokes do and laugh and cough about their glory days as athletes. They’re old runners.
Old pros don’t call each other by name, but by initials. It’s just the way it is, part of the mystery of pro running that is dying with this aging generation.
“JD!”
“Ahhh the great JK!”
Usually these greetings are accompanied by a pat on the rump with a rolled up program.
The bookmakers take up residence under the shade of the oak trees at the finish end of the Gift track. On Easter Saturday morning they gather and form a circle just like the settler’s wagons in the old American westerns did to protect against Indian attack. In a short time they are. Some punters are in the know, most wish they were in the know, but all will be hell bent on cleaning the bookies out.
“Heats of the Gift!” yell the bookies, like weekend stall owners selling cheap jewellery. “Heats of the Gift. Each way. Heats of the Gift!”
Blokes in peeked caps with large knowledgeable noses roam around sniffing the air. A lot of money has gone on at the call of the card on Friday night so the major plunges may have already occurred, but still the punters and bookies eye each other off like dogs passing in the street.
To the side and behind the bookies is a small timber platform. On it is conducted the highland dancing tournament. It’s been held every year that I can remember. A melancholy bagpiper plays and young girls, costumed in tartans and kilts, dance on their toes. They flick their legs out as their arms remain almost motionless at their sides. It’s a strange, noiseless dance that confounds a modern world. But it’s what they know; what they love. People sitting in deck chairs around the platform applaud politely as the girls show off their discipline and skills. It’s very quaint, very unobtrusive, very Stawell.
##
The starter calls us all behind the scratch line to give us his instructions. I’ve heard it many times before but he commands your attention. You must give it to him.
“Any runner leaving before the gun will be penalized a metre” he barks.
He tells us to settle over the blocks as quickly as possible and then he gives us a final warning. “Don’t leave before the gun !”
He disappears behind us to make the final preparations. We’re left to our own thoughts, like diggers in the trenches waiting to hop the bags. My heart is pounding so hard I can see my beautiful green silk vest moving to its rhythm. I know there are other blokes around me but I’m so focused on my lane they may as well be a thousand miles away. I have something to do. Something important. When that gun goes off, run like hell.
“Walk to your blocks!”
A deathly quiet settles on the whole arena. Silence. The people are enveloped by it, holding their breath, watching from any vantage point they can get. On Dad’s shoulders as he stands on his toes looking over the hats in front of him. Everyone does the best they can to get a sight.
I get on my blocks. My silk vest is still dancing in time with my thumping heartbeat. It was doing a waltz but now it’s doing the rumba. This is intense. I take a look up and set my gaze on the narrow lane of grass. My lane. My head drops, I’m waiting for the starter to give the order. I feel like a convict waiting for the hangman to pull the leaver. It’s an agonizing wait. Relax, concentrate, breathe, remain steady.
“Seeeeeeet!” screams the starter.
The crack of the gun. Run!
We blast out of the silence and out of our blocks. Arms and legs flay about searching for power and speed, accompanied by grunts and sharp breaths that sound like air bursting out of a car tyre. I am alone in my battle with these blokes. There is no recognition of a crowd watching, only a sense that those immediately around me are straining just like I am, reaching for the prize. This is competition at its rawest; brutal and unforgiving and bloody fantastic.
Rod Kirsopp is next to me and a bit in front. It’s not the fast start I wanted but I feel I can control him as the race goes on. The middle part of my race is normally where I can split it open. Breathe.
It’s just Kirsopp and me. Out here on our own. None of the others will get near us. This is what I expected, but I didn’t expect to be chasing him down. I’m struggling to bring my race together. Where’s my momentum?
Still I’m a chance. The race nears its crescendo and all I can hear is a loud, sharp “SSSHHHHHHHH” next to me as my opponent goes through his own physical and emotional torture. I’ve lifted but so has Kirsopp. The finish approaches too quickly. Just need to get past him. He’s strong. Bloody strong.
From behind there’s a flash of colour; red colour. Must be Singleton. He’s fast, a blur out of the corner of my eye. I can’t hold him off. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Breathe. Kirsopp is still ahead of me, but Singleton has headed us both. He’s swooped on us swiftly and skillfully like champions do. Winners seem to be able to get that lift, that extra push to the line as if the hand of God has decided they are the ones. Singleton is running like a winner. He is free of strain, free of turmoil, free of spirit. No one could beat him today.
And I’ve run out of room.
I reach the gate;s that frame, the famous finish at Stawell but I run through them without any intent or energy, like a gentle spring breeze through an open window .No arms raised in triumph, no ecstatic laughing and untold joy.
Third.
I feel like I’m at my own funeral. It’s a lonely place to be despite having people patting me on the back and saying bad luck. Some just stand off a little way and give me a nod of support. I see my uncle. He raises his hand. It’s a simple moving gesture. Frank knows how this feels. He ran third behind Barry Foley and Treva McGregor in 1970.
It’s hard to have perspective when it all comes to nothing. I’ve just gone from a place of extraordinary anxiety, of heightened awareness the like of which I have never experienced before, to this; sitting on the grass nursing the immense elephant of defeat on my lap. It has an extraordinary weight that goes way beyond the physical exhaustion of the race. There is no relief. I can’t run over to the other competitors and say “Race you again” like I could in the school yard. There is no alternative but to suck the loss in with all its bitterness. It’s a foul taste.
The crowd is cheering and applauding, the winner is surrounded by well-wishers and media. I’m not feeling jealous or anger at not being in his place. Good luck to him.
The losers can please themselves.
##
It has taken many years to understand what happened that day. I’ve watched a tape of the race since then, but it has always felt like I’m watching someone else. It’s only recently that it has all started to make sense. I lost that race before I had even made the trip to Stawell that Easter. It was lost in my own impetuosity, my own unintelligent, youthful exuberance. It was lost in my lack of respect. I thought that to win was simply a matter of running fast. I should have known better.
My father’s prophetic words have haunted me for a long time. “You’ll run a courageous third”, he told me some months before the race as I informed him that I was ready to have a crack at winning. “You’re not ready.”
He knew what Stawell had in store for me.
This is a place and a race born out of hardship and struggle. Just as only a few found the treasures of gold so only a few have grasped the spoils of victory. It’s not sufficient to turn up and run fast because the Stawell Gift has a habit of bringing down the show ponies, the impatient and the immature. It leaves many competitors beaten and rejected like the discarded limbs of the gum trees.
And the people who watch the race understand it. They cheer with gusto when the roughie emerges out of the pack at the 100metre mark to dash into history. They barrack hard for the ordinary bloke, because that’s what this race is about. Those who know Stawell embrace its quaintness, its toughness, and its quirky place in Australian sport.
In my mind it’s now quite simple and clear. To win at Stawell one must first understand Stawell.
This sprint cannot be rushed.
About Damian O'Donnell
I'm passionate about breathing. And you should always chase your passions. If I read one more thing about what defines leadership I think I'll go crazy. Go Cats.
Great tale.
Enjoy it all again this year Dips…the campfire, the kids, the stories, the racing.
Look forward to the review.
Really great story Dips, loved it.
Have another great time.
I must have missed this when it was posted last Easter. It’s beautifully written, Dips. I have read other pieces about both amateur and pro-running and none has come to life they way your memoir has. If you couldn’t get the Gift at least you got the story – and that may be even rarer than the Gift!
Fantastic story Dips, beautifully written.
I had my first visit to the Gift last year and it was a memorable experience for both myself and my 13 year-old daughter who is a keen runner. I can’t recommend it highly enough.
I can’t make it this year, but already have 2011 in my diary
I can vouch for S. Fahey’s presence there. I was also there. As was the 1950 winner W.K. Trewick. I might post the story of his victory later.
JTH, after reading Dips’ brilliant piece I think I can finally answer the question you asked me at Stawell just before you did a live cross on ABC radio from the betting ring last year. They are OAK trees !!!!!!
Superb.
Love the seeeeet.
Thanks Dips,
Enjoyed reading this a 2nd time.
B. Matthews NSW (6 metres) has been backed from $31 to $13ish. Watch.
PJF, W.K. Trewick (Brisbane) very disappointed with the 2011 field. Which probably indicates no-one has dropped any mail on him. He’s now 85, which means some of his best singers are gathering their info from the front room of the Eventide rest home in Woop Woop. I rang him the other night to say g’day. He had told me about a 3yo he had an interest in, and for a moment I thought it was Absolutely, as he is close to Mick Kent. But no. He was giving nothing away about this year’s Gift.
Mick Kent is a genius.
Kevin Brittain ran a good heat last year then seemed to fall away in the semis a bit too easily. Was he waiting for 2011? Worth a shekel or two.
D O’Donnell,
I’ll have a look at K Brittain.
Final on Tuesday this year.
Hadn’t read your full account before Dips – a great personal insight to a legitimate “time honoured” Australian event. 99% of us don’t know 99% of the runners, but those with any skeric of sporting fibre end up taking interest anyway. There’s something generally reassuring about Stawell that the race still remains – and by the sounds of it, has retained its character – and characters.
If I may, can I test you with the following cheeky conundrum …if you had to choose, would you forego ever seeing Geelong win a flag for a first place at Stawell??
DD
DD – tough ask. You’re asking me to put the personal (Stawell) ahead of the team (Geelong). I would have to say no because whatever happens to us, helps make us what we are.
Dips,
at least you were there and you had a crack. No one can take that away from you.
Dips – good response!
DD
#12 Flynny – Brittain won his heat pretty nicely from all reports. My brothers got on him at $26. Very pleased. On Tuesday we’ll find out if he’s a pretender or not.
A comment from Graeme Rule:
Memories of Central Park
Like a sports journalist well known to almanacers my Dad was a country minister. With five kids and a below average income, Dad dug up the front lawn and planted spuds. While we were slaving away we could hear the P A system at Central Park broadcasting the heats and semis of the Stawell Junior Gift. My big brother could run and got through to the final. With the mile handicap still to come, I said to dad, “I’m off, I’m going to have a go”. Well, even little kids knew it was four laps to the mile at Stawell. There was no red singlet for me being five years younger than brother Mike. All I figured I had to do was get my little legs round the Park four times, as fast as I could, but near disaster struck, being like Winnie T B of little brain I had not factored in my very genorous front mark. I don’t think it was Brasher or Bannister who ran past me as I was dawdling in lap 3. Up came big Bro who yelled,”Go Jackson”, genorous to a fault Mike added a third to his triumph in the Junior Gift. With a cheque for coming second, Mum bought me a maroon jumper. Years later I began barracking for everybodies second team the Maroons.
Another Stawell Gift season I would like to tell of my awe at the smell of the liniment and the sight of the muscle definition of Barny Ewell, (Eddy Betts size) and Loyd La Beach (built like a giant greyhound) meeting Pastor Doug Nichols and his boys, and as for a couple of Essendon stars Norm McDondald and Lance Mann, well Percy Bushby coached Stawell. So for another day, and go backmarkers. “Get ya program, only six pence”!
Graeme Rule
Should have ripped your hammy Dips.
#18 – my old man often talks of Barney Ewell and Lloyd La Beach. From all reports they were sensational athletes. Apparently Barney Ewell liked to enjoy life at night and then would run 10-in the next day. Extraordinary.
Dips, from my research of the newspapers in 1950 – Sporting Globe, Age etc – Ewell was quite something. He had been brought out to draw the crowds, which he did. He was given the scratch mark for Stawell. Then, lo and behold, if that wasn’t tough enough, he went out and won the Wangaratta Gift (I think under lights from memory). So every other runner was pushed out one yard (because he couldn’t go back behind the starting line). Apparently a great character, by the tone of the reports, which conveyed considerable affection.
Brilliant Dips you took us all along for the journey even as a very casual follower of athletics , Stawell is special happened to be there, Easter Sunday 1 year and
went for a look you could feel the atmosphere and history . Unique
Dips as always fantastically written Thank you !
Fantastic Dips – you had me in the moment. I must make an effort to get there one day and experience it all.
Beautifully written, Dips.
Enjoyed every word.
I chanced upon the Almanac website at Easter 3 years ago, via a mention in a Martin Flanagan column on the Age website. Strangely the first 2 pieces I read were not about footy, they were the Dips and Harms pieces about the Stawell Gift then filed under an “Almanac Classics” tab on the front page that sadly no longer exists (how do you choose.
I thought then and say to JTH every Easter that they are the purest and most engaging pieces of Australian sports writing I had read for many years. Harms piece on Ken Trewick written from outside the fence with the perspective of time; Dips with the immediacy of the man inside the ring.
I felt then that I had found a home and still do.
They will always be my Almanac Classics.
P.S I have been to Stawell twice when I lived in Adelaide. The first in 1975 when Jean-Louis Ravelomanantsoa from Madagascar became the first man to win off scratch.
Brilliant Dips. Can’t wait for Monday, look forward to having a beer with you.
PB – you picked a very good Stawell for your first visit! Watching Ravelo win that Gift was like watching the first bloke walk on the moon. Steve Proudlock’s win remains high on my list, and Edmonson’s the favourite of all.
Luke – I’ll be there on Saturday too – watching the heats. And certainly there on Monday. We laways stand next to the old grandstand towards the finish tape. Just follow the smell of camp fire smoke. Unfortunately I have to leave after the final. Usually I stay until Tuesday.
Cheers MOC, djlitsa and Mr Rulebook..
Great read, Damian. Terrific insight.
Like a lot of athletes, you might have gone ‘off’ just one year too early. Another 0.5metre up the track, a year older & wiser, and who knows….
But from my perspective……..I’m glad you did!
Bit of Stawell Gift material on the ProTrack forum……..
http://protrack.easyforumlive.com/
Great stuff Paul. I watched your victory in 1985 with a bad dose of glandular fever so wouldn’t have been there anyway!!
Do you still get up there? If you are there look us up. Will be standing on the grassy knoll near the grandstand.
Yep I’ll be there.
I’ve got five athletes entered in various events. Hoping one or two might go OK. :)
Over the years I have seen your father standing near the grand stand, near Malcolm Durant. I always catch up with Mal when I up at Stawell.
Catch ya at Stawell
PY
PS: That run at Avoca when you won the non-penalty Gift in 11.9 was a cracker. No doubt it sent a few shockwaves through a few stables!
To all the young Friars boys. I understand you are reading this today in the company of J.Harms. Listen to what he has to say and you’ll learn a lot.
Go Friars!
Hi Dips,
John’s given us NOTHING!!!
LOL.
5 classic stories are coming the Almanac’s way!!!! Stay tuned!
Nick D’Urbano is with us too. We’ve just read his piece – ‘A day to remember’ and your piece too. Your piece was lovely.
My family is from Stawell. They ran the Earle Albion.
My dad’s cousin was a pretty good runner, William Earle and his dad played for the Dons – William ‘Stabkick’ Earle and they hail from Stawell so I really enjoyed your story.
Let us know what you think about the guys’ pieces!
I have a nice article about some of our old boys who’ve gone on to become writers if you’d like a copy. Send me an email if you’d like to read it!
Great we could read your piece and see Whitefriars guys enjoying telling their stories!
Looking forward to reading all the masterpieces. Lets see what talent is lurking around the Whitefriars corridors. Plenty I’m sure.
I’m pretty sure one of the Stawell carnival trophies still has the name Earle attached to it?
Do kids still hide away down in the bush to smoke these days like they did in the 70s and 80s? Happy days at Whitefriars.
Dips,
I gave them NOTHING. They had to EARN it, which they did. Fantastic two hours of story-telling (these guys have a lot of sporting experience and knowledge already), followed by an hour of writing.
I suspect we will be publishing a few yarns tonight and tomorrow.
Thanks to Jill and Nick (an Almanacker from 2015) who both chimed in beautifully.
Go Cats
JTH
I never get tired of reading this yarn, Dips.
Painted a vivid picture there Dips of what it’s like to compete at that level in such an iconic race, I really enjoyed that. I was even compelled to check out the Stawell Gift honour roll. I note the winner Singleton had finished 2nd the year before so your point about experience and timing rings true. I’m interested to know how many Gifts you ran.
Cheers Jeff. Had a trot down the track in 1983 (glorious 2nd in the heat), 1984 final, 1985 glandular fever, 1986 ran like a dickhead, 1987 made the semis, then left for Europe!
LOL, ‘ran like a dickhead’!
I guess like the Melbourne Cup the nature of the race makes it very tough to have more than a couple cracks at the title. Looking at the list of 1-2-3’s, very few names appear more than once. Without the tribulations of ’85 & ’86 would making the semis in ’87 have been as likely?
Probably not Jeff. I was chasing the dragon.
Its changed now. The cut throat approach has been lost, which is what gave the race its mystique.
Timeless, old mate.
hello
Bit dissapointed by your article/ post. As a member of The Stawell Historical Society there is so much more we could tellyou about Stawell.
From your words it seems that you came in one end of town and did not see what this town has to offer.
The Mall has been gone for years. Perhaps on your next visit you might take the time to visit us on the highway and grab a copy of the detailed coach tour or historical walk.
The town is full of magnificant building from the Gold rush days, main street is lined with Cafe’s, Beautiful parks, the lake area, the operational commercial gold mine, Big Hill.
I would just ask that you (or anyone) considers what damage they can do the a town and it’s commerce by being dismissive and negative.
Thanks for reading this. Please do not hesitate to contact me if you would like to discuss this.
Kind regards
Kate
I may be wrong, but I suspect you have misread the article Kate. It is a piece by an athlete whose family is deeply connected to Stawell. This poor blighter ran third, and his old man won the whole shebang. They camp there every year. I’m sorry but I think it is one of the best articles we’ve ever published.
Hello Kate. Wow. Not sure what to say. I would think (and hope) that my love for, and connection to, Stawell would come through here loud and clear. In many respects Stawell was central to my upbringing. It loomed large (and still looms) in my consciousness. Indeed, my extended family (uncles and brothers and father) have played a huge part in Stawell over the years. An O’Donnell has won the 75 yards, 100 yards (as they were), Stawell Gift, 400m, and 800m finals at Stawell. And come plenty of places in other finals as well! Pity the historical society is not aware of that.
To be fair I don’t regard Stawell as a tourist destination, but that’s got nothing to do with the fact that it has nothing to offer, and everything to do with the fact that I feel part of it, not outside of it. Does that make sense?
Might I urge you to re-read what I have written. Negative comments? Where? Dismissive? How? Might I also urge the historical society to research the O’Donnell name in Stawell’s record books. We are a big part of it. I
Ripper article, Dips! (I came to it very late!)
The Stawell Gift is a bit like the Melbourne to Warrnambool, in that it is a dead-set Australian classic sporting event.
I recall attending the the Gift as a kid, with my family. I’d say we went a number of times. My main memory of it is the 1975 final won by (as you’d know) Jean-Louis Ravelomanantsoa from Madagascar, off scratch. He was easily one of the best athletes ever to run in the Gift, I reckon.
Probably the most impactful thing to happen that Easter Monday over forty-six years ago was that on the way home, travelling in the family car back to Geelong in bumper-to-bumper traffic – on a one-lane-each-way road – my father ran over a koala! If he had’ve tried to swerve or stop suddenly there would have been a massive pile-up. Jeez, there was some damage to the front left side of the car, too.
Don’t know how many times I have read this and been in awe of the ability to take you there. There? Stawell, the town, oval, history, tradition, the race experience. Just brilliant. Have never been to Stawell Gift. Been wanting to for years. I dragged the family into town on an Easter trip to Melbourne back in ’98. Centennial Park was all set up. Marvellous sight and feel. The kids had a great time racing each other down the straight. I may have even joined in. I have been to many Bay Sheffield’s and even dabbled as a very slow pedestrian for a couple of years in the very early 80s which enabled me to appreciate your words even more Dips.
Hopefully it didn’t take Kate too long to realise she got the wrong end of the stick.
Cheers Daryl and Kevin. Appreciate the comments.
Despite its lagging fortunes (unfortunately) the Gift still gets under your skin. Interesting race this year. Felt very sorry for Houlihan who just couldn’t carry the weight of expectation in the race.
Glad you enjoyed the read.
Hi Dip, have been re reading your posts and do understand where you are coming from. Yes your name is well known locally. I guess I was just concerned about the words saying Stawell has nothing to offer. I beg to differ! We have so many visitors who love the history of the town and the old buildings and their backstories We are fighting to encourage visitors to town for more than just the Gift. I just hosted a coach tour around Stawell and had nothing but great comments from people who said they had no idea Stawell was so interesting. Individual perspective I guess.
thanks and cheers, I do enjoy your writing
Great Dips! I wonder why it’s taken me this long to find the piece. Superb.
When I was racing this year, the final of the 800m was about 15 minutes after the Men’s Gift. I happened to be putting on my spikes directly behind the starting blocks and witnessed first-hand what the big boys see and hear before the gun goes off. Ominous, nerve wracking silence… and a flurry of colours and noises like no other. I had money on Houlihan. I felt for him too.
I did my solo cool-down through the back streets of Stawell afterwards, and your descriptions of the trees and the houses couldn’t be more correct. In the dry heat I saw Stewy McSweyn, Ryan, Rayner, Robbo and Rambo trot through a residential area and wondered whether the old blokes in the tin sheds had any idea the calibre of international athletes that were striding past their front yards. It was surreal. A special place.
Wonderful stories about the Gift. It is a remarkable event and remarkable that the community of Stawell and District has sustained this Icon since 1875. I grew up with Graeme Rule (see his comments above) and he captures the meaning of the Gift for locals. May its continue for ever!
Dips fantastic to re read ! Are you at Stawell this year ? Thank you
Yes mate. Seen about 55 Gifts now. Loving it.
A wonderful and colourful read Dips. You have helped me understand Stawell.
Just read this Dips great read .Ah Stawell and the mystique of pro running Great coverage on Channel 7 but the print media aside from after the event were sadly lacking but given they don’t think country footy scores are relevant any more why am I surprised .
Love the way the old blokes refer to each other by their initials I see it every year at Keilor when they greet . The young fella who won it this year had clearly beaten the handicapper but he he held his nerve which is not always the case in the final .
That’s probably the best story I’ve read on the Stawell Gift, having written hundreds of them myself, having run last off scratch in the 1973 Victory Mile, and having camped with the likes of Johnnie O’Donnell, Keith Boyd, John Wiltshire and Co. for decades at the Grampians Gate. As favourite for the 3200 metres middlemarkers’ handicap in 1977, I demolished a bottle-and-a-half of rough port by the campfire with Boydy the night before the race. My performance, fuelled by a couple of aspros borrowed from the St. John Ambulance people in the hope of containing a murderous headache, was shameful. Some of my punting friends did their money cold. So embarrassing, I could barely look them in the eye. It was time to retire from the track.
John Craven, Melbourne Herald athletics writer, 1973-83.
Hi John. I remember your running days very well indeed. Some mighty efforts around the circuit. In 1973 I was 9 and dreaming of running out on that track one day.
My old man (JD O’Donnell) came back to the tent a few times rather wounded after sessions around the campfire with you blokes. Happy days.
Thanks for the comment.