Hope vs Despair in the One Game that Really Matters

I wasn’t on the streets of Rome in 1982 or 2006 when Italy won the World Cup in football but I suspect it was a little bit like what I experienced on Saturday night in Wurrumiyanga on the Tiwi Islands.  When Hawthorn made their way into this year’s  AFL grand final the tiny top end community in the Northern Territory exploded.  Car horns sounded throughout the night air as cars adorned with Hawthorn flags made triumphant circuits of the streets.   Fans shouted themselves hoarse with “Up the Mighty Hawks”.  A serene elderly lady who had led some Darling Downs students on a cultural outing earlier in the afternoon became a fervent and passionate part of the brown and gold army.  The fact that one of their own, Cyril (Junior Boy) Rioli is a key part of the Hawks outfit plays no small part in the fervour.

 

When Bishop Gsell established a mission on Bathurst Island just over a hundred years ago the Catholic faith took root amongst the Tiwi.  But when the late Brother Pye left Downlands College for the Tiwi Islands in 1941 he brought another faith with him – the love of Australian Rules football.  And even if you are an innocent bystander it is hard not to get swept up in the passion of it all.  Everybody has a team and with that team is a story.  I’m on the islands at the minute as part of an immersion trip with students from Roma and Toowoomba.

 

The boys are staying with local elder, Bernard Tipiloura.  Bernard is a Collingwood fan and is living with a little despair at the moment – with his team bundled out last Friday night.  The girls are staying with Sr Anne Gardiner a legendary woman who has spent over 50 years on the islands.  Her team is the Sydney Swans and right now she is living in hope.

 

And hope and despair pretty much sum up our visit to four remote Aboriginal communities.  There is the hope of young men starting mechanical apprenticeships.  There is the visible signs of new homes being constructed to address the chronic issue of inadequate and unsuitable housing.  There is the success of the Tiwi Islands own football team in the Northern Territory League – the Tiwi Bombers.  There is the inspiring educational project of Tiwi College with offshoots such as the Matthew Hayden Way promoting horticulture and hospitality amongst up and coming Tiwi.

 

Then there is the despair of young girls walking aimlessly around town with strollers containing their babies.  There are the lives of young men lost to suicide and substance abuse.  There is the break-down of respect for elders and the traditions which have largely stood the test of time.   There is the lack of dignity felt by many by the heavy handed approach of the Stronger Futures legislation.   I’ve been returning to the islands for five years now and each time seems like a quarter from a football game.  Sometimes despair seems to have the upper hand with hope struggling to get their hands on the ball.  Other times hope just keeps diving full body length at the ball – refusing to give in – believing that the training and the game plan will eventually all come together.

 

This weekend I think the Hawks might sneak home with a bit of Tiwi Island magic.  But in the bigger game of life – I’m still cheering for the mighty team called hope.

The faithful runner

Toowoomba's Ridgy Didge Runners

Father it has been a week since my last run – well almost.  When it comes to running I find myself with my favourite atheist Phillip Adams describing people of faith.   Instead of ridicule I have an admiration for some of them.  I see what it does for them.  I see the joy it brings them but I just can’t bring myself to take that step.  It doesn’t seem to make sense.  2012 has been my year of experimenting with the truth of running.  Late last year two incidents pushed me onto the road.  A close friend had a serious health scare and I had my own little brush with mortality.  A torn calf muscle robbed me of a promising come-back as thirteenth man in local D Grade cricket.  I took myself off to the physio for the first time and legendary local manipulator Aaron Salisbury put me on the path to righteousness (well almost).   He gave me a plan to see me back on the pitch by Summer’s end.  I didn’t read the fine print which mentioned elite athlete – but within two months I was running for half an hour without stopping.  I recall my D Grade team got to the finals without me.   I have two secret weapons in pounding the pavement.  The first is the family’s  12 year old black Labrador.  She has been my walking ally and cries like a two year old child when left behind.  For those who don’t believe in redemption – Chloe as a teenager was a serial chook killer.  She now lies down in the sun with our backyard brood.  She protects them from cats and takes the odd egg in return.   My second weapon is (and I find this harder to admit) an iphone.  I don’t use it to listen to music – but it has this magical application that records each of my efforts and almost  encourages me as I go.  The voice of Assumpta Fitzgerald, the Irish landlady from the television series Ballykissangel (well I reckon it’s her) tells me in her special lilt how many kilometres I’ve covered and my current pace.   My wife doesn’t mind sharing me with Assumpta when it’s below four degrees outside with a slight mist of rain blowing across my path.  Just once I wish she’d let me know how well I’ve really done (Assumpta that is).  The thing about running and religion is that it is something that can be very private but probably only makes sense when we do it as a community.  I still label myself a walker – and a bit like a struggling sinner don’t feel worthy yet to join a running community.  But my few times of running with others have been quite uplifting and inspiring.  This last weekend at the Gold Coast I was one of thousands who chose to run together.  There were some amazing efforts like Toowoomba’s Patrick and Jack Tiernan who ran their races with nobody in front of them – but most of us ran with the pack.  And there were more than 28000 stories about what had brought people to the starting line.  Some ran for charity.  Others ran for a family member no longer with them.  I read a father and son’s t-shirt.  “Life starts on the 30^th June 2011.  Triple heart by-pass.  I promised my son I would run 10km.  Only family matters.”   Another group from Melbourne was running for children with club feet.  A friend of mine and her son who had walked the extraordinary journey of being a child with club feet sat and spoke with parents and other children with club feet.   Then there were the Indigenous runners with legendary marathon champion Robert De Castella.  Grace Eather from the tiny community of Maningrida in the Northern Territory summed it up when she said, “The hardest step in training is the first one out of the door.”    As I discuss my efforts and the  latest battle in man vs knee with my wife she looks across the breakfast table with narrowing eyes and says, “You’ve become one of them haven’t you?”   I’m not there yet but I’m almost starting to believe.

The Long and Winding Road Over Summer

One of the themes of our family car disputes (and there have been a few) has been constant over the years.   Who controls the car radio and what is played on it.  There is an unwritten law that the driver has first preference on both counts – but just like the Arab spring democracy often flourishes led by a back seat uprising.  And just like global politics peace is the greater good and I often find myself doing necessary deals to enable constant checks of sporting results or news updates.  As far as I am concerned – there is only one radio network to tune into and that is our Aunty ABC.  Sadly it can be a minority view on a long summer drive. 

Once upon a time the clamour was for the Wiggles or ABC for Kids but we are now well and truly in the youth market and I feel so old.  Not necessarily because of the music – but because the stations I object to with the loud advertisements and inane commentary are the same ones that my parents found so objectionable. 

And then to my embarrassment I discover that there are radio stations devoted to my age and stage.  Radio stations based on the premise that all good popular music was created before 1988.  It all came home to me one day when I heard a lunch time competition pitting Bruce Springsteen against U2 and Cold Chisel against Midnight Oil.  I had promoted this little myth when my children’s musical minds were still malleable.  They weren’t able to choose for themselves  and so I filled the vacuum with some of my favourite tunes from the 70s and 80s.  One or two of them might stick.  It’s a generational thing.  I guess that’s why I still have the Seekers on my music playing implement.   It’s why I will forever be grateful to an Uncle for immersing me in the ocean of Dylan.

This  golden era of music delusion has been supported in recent times  by the never-ending superannuation tours of yesterday’s pop stars.  Exhibit A – John Farnham, Cyndi Lauper, Lionel Ritchie, Cold Chisel, Neil Young, Fleetwood Mack etc. etc.   Now don’t get me wrong some of these artist deserve their never-ending place in the sun and others like the Rolling Stones and Bob Dylan are part of a living museum of modern music.  But there are plenty who should have been put out to pasture long ago.

Once a year at Christmas time a brother of mine who is far more modern than me, provides a gift of a compact disk with hundreds of new and interesting tunes that have been created in the last few years.  It provides a great sound track to my slow and torturous attempts to paint tattered walls inside our family hut.  The smarter member of my marriage partnership has taken to venturing to the wonderful Woodford Folk Festival  where music to span all ages and stages can be found. 

But back to solving the fights in the car.  In recent times I have been delighted to discover that the kids are all right.  If I bite my tongue long enough and wade through some mediocre mind numbing noise there is still good music being  made.  In fact with the advent of YOUTUBE on the internet all sorts of gems can be discovered.    Just this week my twelve year old introduced me to an English artist named Ed Sheeran.  This twenty year old has been making up tunes since he was 14. If you have web access  check out “Small Bump” – a truly moving song about the beauty and fragility of life.  And while you are there go local and discover the magnificent Cocker Boys from Harristown.  Their original song “New Girl” has had over 17000 views and features some stunning Toowoomba  voices.  And the thing that delights me is that some of the young people I know don’t just listen to music – they make it as well.  A party (or gathering as it is currently termed) is never completely without a guitar or a ukulele.  So the road trip might be long this Summer but if we can find a few common songs it might just go all that much quicker!  

Thanks again for taking the time to read my ramblings this year.   Your words of encouragement are appreciated as are the voices of dissent!  Have a happy and Holy Christmas and if you are lucky enough to be near a beach make sure you swim between the flags! 

The Greatest Comebacks of all Time – Shane Warne and Me

Shane and I have had very different journeys – but nevertheless we share a special bond – we are both leg spin bowlers.   We take the greatest risks of any on the cricket field as we use loop, spin and guile to bewitch the batsman.  My task is much harder than Shane’s – as I suspect the ball rarely deviates when I can get it to hit the pitch.  I hold onto the belief that in my career if I had been allowed to bowl on turf pitches – something to which I was truly entitled – things might have been very different.  In the last few weeks Shane and my cricketing journeys have collided once again. 

Shane’s prodigious talent was spotted early in his career – I am still waiting for this to happen.   Unlike Shane – I can reel off my cricketing highlights in the next five lines. (OK I’ll spin it out to ten)   At the age of twelve I made it to the “Possibles” in a in a Possibles vs Probables  trial game for the mighty Darling Downs region.      Since that day on March 17^th 1980 in Stanthorpe  it has all probably been downhill.  In senior cricket at the age of 14  I debuted for the Yagaburne Cricket Club. My Dad was a vet  in the country and to my knowledge never played except in the backyard.  One of his work colleagues would don the whites every Saturday  and on one particular day (like all good teams) Yagaburne was short and I got to take the field.  I have been lucky enough to mainly play in places where there was no grading (I prefer to call it degrading) system. 

The towns only had one competition and they combined city based A Grade cricketers with others who didn’t know which end of the bat to hold.   In terms of leadership on the field – I spent a season as a Deputy Vice Captain of the Hospitals Cricket Club in Derby in the Kimberley region of Western Australia.  The fact that there were four other deputy vice captains (I tell the truth) – meant that I was part of the selection panel and was lucky enough to play every game over a four season period.    In terms of achievements on the field – I once opened the bowling for the Pils (Hospitals nickname) in the West Kimberley comp – not bad for a leg spinner – and I once miraculously made a half century in a tightly fought semi-final which my team went onto lose.  And that’s pretty much it.  I could recall my training trial with the University of Queensland cricket club when I spent most of my time in the bush near the Brisbane River bank trying to find a ball that some batsman hitting across the line had despatched – but that would be far too painful.

So when last week Shane decided to dust off the twenty twenty pyjamas and make a comeback for Eddie McGuire’s Melbourne team my ears pricked up.  Once again Shane and I were sharing a dream.  Mine was an accidental comeback – but it is a comeback nevertheless.    A team mate in the Kimberley named Dennis inspired me many years ago.  Dennis was a very good cricketer and had made a living coaching and playing in England for a while.  An accident on the farm had taken out one eye – so he came to the PILS side with a few challenges – but was good enough to open the bowling.  He was more regular in doing this than me.  OK so I only did it once – but the captain wouldn’t have known what would have happened if he didn’t throw me the ball.  A few years ago post 50 Dennis sent me an email boasting of his greatest moment in cricket – batting at one end while his son made fifty at the other.  Since then I have dreamt of that day.  The cricketing drought has only been punctuated by a game in England when I played with a mate as part of an Anglican Priests Team in the Fifth Division of the Bradford League.  For the record it was on turf and my last ball in England (there were only seven in total) was a wicket taker.

I then heard about Colts cricket here in Toowoomba and learnt that a few of the older guys could make up the numbers guiding and mentoring the young bucks.  I had already ahared all of my cricketing knowledge when my sons were in the Under 9s – so really this was an excuse to pull on the boots and play with one of my boys who had kept the faith and continued playing into his teens.  And then tragedy struck.  The week before we were due to take the field lad smashed his left foot in some neighbourhood basketball game.  So I dutifully went to training without son and then things on the home-front went really bad.   As my son’s foot healed it emerged that the thrill was gone – cricket was no longer for him and he would pursue a sporting career in other pursuits.

In the long dark night of the soul I decided to do what was right and true – I would play on anyway.  I won’t bore you with the details – but it has been magnificent.  Each week at the club nets there is great ceremony as the Club President reads the selections from his clip board.  There are whispers in the background and I secretly wonder who is hurting and who is happy.   But we need to focus as El Presidente shares some words of inspiration.  He mentions three things about being a Warrior – to stay together, to play tough – but I forget the third – because my name was read out as part of the C grade list and since then it has all been a blur!

There have only been two games in C Grade for me and I won’t bore you with the details – but it is all the same as it ever was.  A great bunch of team mates, banter, humour and even controversy.  For five hours every Saturday afternoon a very diverse bunch of men devote themselves to one of the noblest of causes – and that is the game of cricket.  I got through the first game OK but did a severe injury in the warm up stage of the second game.  Many in my team now battle two opponents each week.  The opposition and the real enemy for all of us  –  age and the tyranny of time.    Rehabilitation is going well and I hope to be at training some time in the next fortnight. 

So I don’t know what motivated Shane to make this latest move.    It might be for the media attention.  It could be for the money or it might be to show off to his latest flame.   If any of it is because when he got to training he couldn’t help himself then I wish him well.   Shane says he is playing again to “give something back to the game”.  Right now I am more of a taker than a giver – and I am not even sure if my gift to the game of cricket would be accepted.  This Summer I will have a passing interest in the pursuits of the Earl of Twirl and all of the other cricket on offer on the TV.  But most of all I will be hoping to get back on the park and be a part of the C Grade Warriors conjuring up another win.