Country Footy: You wouldn’t like a game would you?

 

 

 

By Neil Anderson

 

It’s funny how you read a few sentences or hear a few words that spark your interest or throw you back in time. It happened to me when I read Paul Daffey’s introduction to the book of stories he and John Harms put together, Footy Town.

 

The book arrived in the mail as part of a welcome to The Almanac package. In my case it was welcome back to The Almanac. I recently rejoined to write something, anything, as the isolation blues took hold. I’d been through the various stages of grief. Despair that I wouldn’t be seeing the Bulldogs play. Angry that the Bulldogs would not have a chance to redeem themselves after being so poor in Round 1. (I thought Mick Malthouse’s suggestion to scrap the Round 1 results was an excellent one). The final stage was acceptance of circumstances and the need to find another social outlet. Writing something for The Almanac would be a start in the right direction.

 

Footy Town includes stories from country towns all around Australia and I was amazed to see a writer listed from my own small town of Panmure in south-western Victoria. Also our neighbouring town of Allansford was mentioned in regard to its historic grandstand. My family first settled in Allansford in the 1850’s.

 

So it was a combination of Paul Daffey meeting the gate-keeper at a local footy ground who asked him ‘whether he would like to pull on the boots’, plus seeing my local dot-on-the-map town being mentioned that gave me the spark to write something.

 

1988 we had just relocated from Melbourne to a place called Dixie, six ks south of Terang, south-western Victoria. With a name like Dixie, it had to be way down south of somewhere. Me transferring to Warrnambool to work in the Education Department office. My wife with her newly minted Diploma of Education which she would use later to work at Camperdown High School. One of her star pupils was Almanacker Luke Reynolds, whom she says, managed to incorporate cricket stories into all facets of the curriculum.

 

After our boxes, crates and suitcases were unloaded at the school-house we were renting, we went into Terang in search of a counter- tea.  The first pub was like something out of the wild- west. It was a Monday night but it was beyond quiet. Dark and gloomy with four drinkers at the bar and no lounge open for meals. If there was a honky-tonk piano that suddenly stopped playing as we walked through those swing-doors, it would not have surprised me. If the bar-keep wiping the glasses looked up and asked, “ Where you from stranger?” I would have expected it.

 

We were eventually directed to what was called the middle-pub where they might be serving meals, although it is Monday you know.

 

One month later and I was calling in at the Ecklin general-store which would have been the replacement store after the Ash-Wednesday fires had destroyed the original  five years earlier. Whenever we spoke to locals, they talked about the fires as if they only occurred the previous year.

 

The store owner famous for his hospitality was different to the publican in Terang. A welcome smile and a friendly greeting. His name was Bill McKinnon and he and his family are mentioned in the story by Brendan Ryan in Footy Town.

 

The three other customers were a lot more taciturn, obviously sizing up the city-fella that was livin’ in the Dixie school-house. Bill introduced me to Harry, Jack and Cliff who were on the Ecklin Football Club Committee. The Football-ground was just across the road.

 

It turned out these Ecklin footy-club scouts were eyeing me off a possible recruit for at least their reserve team. They had spotted a bloke that was about 40, six-feet tall, upright and breathing and they were ready with their Form Fours. I should have laughed and explained that I hadn’t played for quite a while. But I didn’t. I was flattered. Memories of being picked for the school-team came flooding back. Polishing the boots and whitening the laces the night before the match. I probably blurted out something like, “ So you need some new recruits do you?”. “ I should be available”.

 

The idea was to turn up at training after work on Tuesday, have a run and see how you go. It all sounded good to me. I was excited. What could possibly go wrong. Although I did hope the farm-boys we would play against in the reserves weren’t as big and tough as the seniors. But those negative thoughts were soon forgotten as I wondered where I could buy a pair of footy-boots.  My last pair I owned probably had nail-in-stops. The other fantasy going through my head was what number jumper would I wear. I hoped number three was available because I had worn that one since primary school days in Footscray. I was floating on air as I drove back home thinking of how I was going to be accepted by the locals after word got around that, the new bloke from Dixie, he goes alright!

 

There was one final hurdle before I ran out for my first match. Apart from no footy-boots, jock-strap, being slightly overweight, too old and unfit. It was telling my wife that the current bread-winner of the family was about to play a game of footy. Well, she didn’t laugh but she did prick my fantasy bubble and put a huge dent in my confidence.

 

“ What! They’ll kill you!” It was only then that I started to think like a grown-up and consider that maybe she was right. So thoughts of racing along the wing and kicking goals for Ecklin suddenly disappeared. I just wondered what they would have thought when their star recruit didn’t turn up for training on Tuesday.

 

Six months later I joined the Laang Tennis Club which was a lot safer and I even managed to get a few kudos when we won the B-grade grand-final. Middle age acceptance of my sporting career being over was put on hold for just a bit longer.

 

 

 

 

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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