Weekends like the one just gone don't come around too often. And no matter how much you try to savour them, soak up every experience, they tend to positively fly by. So much that when they come(down) to a halt on Monday morning, there's a sickly emptiness there. A void.
Hence why it's important to push through the lung-scorching, liver-punching hangover and get it all down. For prosperity's stake...
Thursday, March 17 (St Patrick's Day), 2011.
Did St Patrick really drive the snakes out of Ireland? Are leprechauns real? Guinness out of a bottle or can? Room temperature or chilled? These questions – and many, many more – were among the more memorable posed during an often tedious eight hours spent monitoring news and talkback radio from Broken Hill and Wagga Wagga. (Heck, a local darts tournament led the sporting bulletin on one of the stations.) But it was my last shift for the week, and when I walked out of the office at 3pm and into a warm, sun-drenched afternoon, I had it all ahead of me. Sure, I had a couple of small things to finish up, but essentially I was done for the week.
Perhaps it was all that talk about stout (and reflections on the three-gulp-theory, executed with seasoned effortlessness by my Irish ex's old man; he always reached the bottom of his pint glass first, no matter how quickly I tried to neck the stuff) but I had that jittery Friday afternoon feeling, even though it was only Thursday. (The jitters, luckily, have been progressively doused over the years by my girlfriend and now baby daughter, but even though my alter-ego – Dagger – hasn't been sighted for a good three years, and my days as a chaotic early-twenties backpacker now sit, somewhat cloudily, in another dimension of time, they still rear themselves in a mild form every so often.) Friday night I was off to see Glenn Richards at Northcote Social Club with my little brother Josh, down from Cobram for one night only, and then on Saturday, a cricket grand final. It would be my fourth 'big dance'. I was aiming for a third flag, and my first at Emerald Hill Cricket Club. The butterflies were already circling in my gut: this grand final meant something. My first flag, at Powerhouse in Mercantile A-Grade, barely registers in the memory – despite having a good season personally, and despite the grand final being among the better games, standard-wise, that I've been involved in. It's because I hadn't become all that matey with my teammates that year, and I don't stay in touch with them now.
Most displeasing for my body was that I'd been given a leave pass stamped for not only Saturday night, but the Sunday, too. I had visions of being bleary-eyed and hoarse, with a medal around my neck while supporting the two-day team under brilliant sunshine on Sunday afternoon.
I got through my final training session for the year, considered Dicko's offer of a quick beer at the Bowler but decided against it; I wouldn't be home much over the proceeding three days. But after seeing the Quiet Man swamped with an ever-enthusiastic Paddy's Day crowd on my way home, I decided to have one Guinness to celebrate my Irishness – or lack thereof – when I got home. When I got home I realised I didn't have any Guinness, so I had a solitary glass of red instead, while eating Edie's casserole leftovers. “No superfood for the grand finalist,” I ventured to Tash, who was in the next room. Luckily, there was no reply: she hadn't heard.
Later, I endured one of Footy Show Sam's out-of-touch rants and called it a night at around 10pm. I quickly drifted off into a deep sleep where dreams of exotic islands with exotic princesses with exotic... then Edie's wails from the adjacent room pinged my ears like a lyrebird in the deep-night darkness.
Friday, March 18.
Whilst I bemoan modern society's reliance on technology just as much as the next grumpy old man, I felt a little twitchy this morning with our internet down. The hankering for a quick fix of the world's misdemeanours. To check my emails (had the grand final teams been finalised?) A quick spot of Stick Cricket, perhaps. Oh, and I had a little work to do.
With our IT man not coming until midday, and with my wedding column due at high noon, I retreated to the local library. Although the thing was basically written, I had some fact-checking and general polishing to do, and only had a 30-minute block (“please stick to your quota,” the bearded – aren't they all? – librarian asked) in which to do it. Meaning my Yahoo account had to take a backseat while I toggled between google, dictionary.com and my word document. In the end, after ensuring the lovely couple's photo was attached, I emailed it off with only seconds to go, My Kitchen Rules-style. Then, with the Bearded One nowhere to be seen, I spent a good 15 minutes sending a nonsensical email to Dicko describing my favourite ever night at the Bowler, as per his request. Oh, how easy it is to piss away time on a computer. So easy, in fact, that I forgot, through all the sniggering (and the anticipation of more sniggering from my old mate once my email it hit his inbox) that I still had around an hour's work to do. I wanted to spend the afternoon hanging with Edie rather than working, so I obtained another half-hour slot (“because you stuck to your quota,” the Bearded One quipped) and got into it.
Later on, after meeting Tash for lunch and then playing dad in the late afternoon, I headed with Josh to the gig. We had two quick beers before hailing the Joe Baxi. Things were as uppish as a Virenda Sehwag cut shot but I told myself it would be a quiet night. I even said as much out loud as we sat down at an Italian restaurant on High Street. Then I ordered a bottle of wine for us to share. Being 13 years my junior, Josh and I had rarely caught up like this, but as we downed the last of the bottle and sauntered up the street to the gig we were talking as one mellow whole. Glenn Richards, Dan Kelly and co. were, of course, beguiling, tight, melodic and masterful. I'd seen Richards perform through Augie March several times but this was Josh's first time. Even though he hadn't heard anything from Glimjack, Richards' first solo album, he was mightily impressed. We downed a few beers – is there anything better than knocking a few back while watching a quality band play? – but kept under control. Just. Josh certainly had more willpower than me at the same age. Had I been in the same boat – essentially in a foreign city at a gig that had me pumped – I'd have been hunched over and befriended the porcelain bowl (like I was after checking out a Doors tribute band in Brighton, England, when I was 20, the same age as Josh now). Instead we were home by midnight. It took a while for the adrenaline to subside, but once it did I joined my purring partner in a deep sleep and visions of cricketing grandeur swam around my happy head.
Saturday, March 19.
Red wine. Half a bottle each equates to two, two-and-half, maybe three glasses, surely not enough for a hangover right? Well, mixed with half a dozen beers it's enough for a head nip. For me, anyway.
I started out all respectable, staving away the nip as I got up early and took Edie out for breakfast and to the park. It was later in the morning, on the way to Caulfield Park, that things went a little haywire. I still hadn't quite shrugged off the nip. I got lost after reading the Melways backwards. I cursed the restaurant's cheap wine (even though it was $35). I cursed my willpower. I cursed Josh for accepting my offer of one last beer, “for the road”, after the show. Radiohead's wonky masterpiece, The King of Limbs, linked up with the cacophony of noise caused by my two girls in the backseat (did our parents do the same? Did our mothers sit in the back with the baby? What about the bloke on his lonesome in the front?): one crying uncontrollably, the other unleashing upon me a battery of curses in relation to my ineptness. “You're the man, you're supposed to be able to read maps!”
We finally got to the ground in Caulfield North after taking in much of Caulfield South. I grabbed my cricket bag out and, things still harmoniously discordant in the car, said “see you later”. In that moment I either didn't shut the boot hard enough or didn't shut it all (hmmm... perhaps it was the latter), and Mez, standing next to Farmer, yelled out to me as Tash planted the foot out of the carpark. Shit. I chased the car out of the carpark, testing my naggingly tight left hamstring out (now that would have been the currant atop the cake) but just as I reached for the boot handle Tash turned the corner. I watched on helplessly as Edie's pram nearly fell out, (yes, could have been much worse) feeling like a cross between Frank Spencer and Charles Bukowski. I got on the Dog n' Bone, knowing I'd – rightfully – get my head bitten off. Which I did. Rightfully.
I gingerly walked over to my teammates who were warming up, trying to balance thoughts of bad omens and self-crucifixion with such ones as “no harm done” and “things can only get better”. Then I lit a cigarette.
SDCCL Brown Shield Grand Final: Mt Waverley Catholics vs Emerald Hill.
Farmer lost the toss and we were fielding first. Not that this was a surprise; had the coin landed Farmer's way he'd have bowled. Much to Browny's chagrin. When informed on Thursday night of his captain's intentions, he quipped in his laconic, no-bullshit drawl, “Ya might as fuckin' well just fuckin' tell 'em they can bat first; don't fuckin' worry about fuckin' tossin'”
Back in the rooms on Saturday morning, he had, it seems, changed his mind about the toss. “At least Farmer didn't fuckin' win it; I feel better that the decision's out of our hands. Dunno if I could have that hangin' over my fuckin' head”
Pre-game photo out of the way, we took the field. My earlier misdemeanours were now almost forgotten as I focused on doing my job in the field and with the ball. Commie Carl and the evergreen man of guile Raph opened proceedings and bowled well without getting a breakthrough. I came on and bowled a maiden first up, feeling rather sprightly and at ease regarding my hammie and calf tightness, and then Raph snared Perera, caught by Beastie, and we were on our way. But I couldn't break through from the other end, despite regularly beating the bat. Things were looking grim at drinks with Cavs 1 for about 100.
But as is often the case in 35-over cricket, things can change quickly. Particularly when the opposition's tale is as fragile as Cavs is. Browny fired himself and the team up with a couple of wickets, then Farmer came on with immediate impact as he's done so often in the past. His two wicket-taking balls were, it has to be said, pies, but another dipping leg-break in the first over that beat bat was a deadset ripper. There's never a dull moment when Farmer's at the bowling crease, and pretty soon he lost his radar altogether. “One too many,” I could Brownie saying behind me as Farmer's third went for 16 runs.
In the end to dismiss them for 178 in the 35th over was a great effort. Brownie was the pick of the bowlers with 3/28 off seven, while yours truly 0/25 (seven overs), Farmer 2/27 (3) and Raph 1/37 (7) all contributed. And Bero hit back hard after a few lean weeks to take 2/8 off three.
We needed five an over to win on a smallish ground; with Beastie, Brownie, Raph and Carl in form, and Syd surely ready to score big, we gave ourselves a big chance.
My cheer squad arrived just as Syd and Razor took the field. Razor was unlucky to be dismissed early, bringing Beastie to the crease. I was soon pretty relaxed among loved ones as the big fella threw the kitchen sink at each ball from the get-go. His innings was almost as entertaining as the show Edie was putting on from the sidelines until he got a very dodgy – seriously, when aren't they at this level? – LBW decision at 38. Syd and Brownie both looked good, as did Carl, but Cavs showed why they've been the best team all year by taking regular wickets and snuffing out each flame of a chance that we created. Yours truly (28*) had the misfortune of seeing the last six dismissals of the innings from the non-striker's end (apart from a run-out that was partly my fault; sorry, Bero) and we fell 30 runs short. If only I batted more like Gilly than Chris Tavare, we'd have won. I was devastated, sunstricken and a little knackered.
I gave my little girl a kiss goodbye, then watched with envy as the Cavs players got their medals. Now I was jealous; my thoughts immature. I was all over the shop. I thought it to myself, but I'm pretty sure I said the following words out loud to Raph at one stage: “waste of time them winning a flag; they don't even drink”.
The lads at Emerald Hill, however, do. Jugs, it seems are the new pots. And with the firsts back, in a perilous position at the halfway point of their game, there were plenty of them being downed. Hours went by and many of us didn't see the bottoms of our pot glasses as we drank deeply, taking hits from Kermit the Frog, pontificating on where it all went wrong. Fatigued, I looked after myself with several waters and the odd light beer. Many others didn't. Only a couple made it past midnight, and they were gone before 1am. I was in the middle; home by 12.30am.
Sunday, March 20.
I awoke a little hard of head but full of gratitude that my behaviour the previous night was better than I'd anticipated. I knew, however, that a Mad Sunday was on the cards when I read the invitation to our friends' little girl's first birthday: bring a stubbie holder!
Two got me started as I chatted with a level of normalcy that belied the rest of the weekend, then I got a lift to Romanis Reserve to watch the conclusion to the firsts' grand final. Overnight they had the opposition 2 for 16 in response to their 95, so it was game on, but they needed early wickets. When I arrived at 2.15pm, only 45 minutes after the start of the day's play, I was shocked to see the scoreboard: 7/31. Confirmation that it'd soon be all over came when I stood behind Geth for one ball: fluent in his run-up, fluid in his action, the ball swinging and his pace up, he looked on top of his game. With excellent support from Chewy, they bundled out their opposition for 50 and had one hand on the cup. While those on the sidelines assumed there'd be more cricket to play, with our boys only leading by 45 runs behind on the first innings and with a good 50 overs left in the day, the opposition meekly surrendered. What happened to the seventh commandment of grand finals: “leave no stone unturned”?
“Meek,” I wanted to yell, but I filled my mouth with beer instead. Then I watched on, green with envy, as the boys embraced each other, then sang the club song in rabid voice.
Carl and I went back to the Bowler to get a few games of pool in before the winning tribe arrived. At one stage a regular patron with a penchant for F-bombs strolled in and unleashed, to no one in particular, his best impersonation of The Big Lebowski's Walt in full flight.“You see what happens, Larry? You see what happens when you f**k a stranger in the ass?” The vitriol was delivered minus a baseball bat, and no sports cars copped it, but it was as close to John Goodman's crazed ex-'Nam vet character as I'd seen. I laughed like a madman. I'd forgotten about that immortal scene, and it rung in my head for the next few hours, and would have stayed longer had the triple swell of Mr Draught, Pol Pot and Charles drowned it out. The two-day team, as expected, celebrated with gusto, with several of our losing team joining in. Chewy backed up his on-field efforts with a stunning three-vote effort in the celebrations – a drowned, dribbling rat by the end of the night – while the apron-clad Haynesy was another prominent figure, carving it up, literally, throughout the night, whether it be in the kitchen, or on stage with backing band. “We were marching as one, on the road to the holy grail...”
While in many ways it was just another night where no one did anything by halves (and to halve that again: there was no quarter asked, and none given), I won't forget the abiding sense of disappointment etched on the faces of the unsuccessful (hidden pretty well at times, particularly as things became universally euphoric in the kitchen). The present disappointment – that one-off chance to play in a flag with 10 other blokes (no matter how hard we try, we'll never field that same side in a grand final again); the brave finals campaign that didn't quite have the fairytale ending it teased us with – is, for me anyway, offset by a new-found love for a game I've played on and off since I was seven, when my dad drove me and several other grotty-nosed mates to junior games, back when the West Indies' fearsome pace quartet and hard-hitting batsmen used to run through us regardless of whether the players wore white or fluorescent.
It's also rekindled a fondness I have for a cricket club that is young, proud and understated in its desire for success. Clubs rarely rebound from rock bottom with such panache. Three flags, one grand final and one semi final since almost folding at the start of the 2009-10 season. Other clubs may belittle the fact we've been playing lower grades but given we had to start again, we had to start from somewhere. And flags, regardless of the standard, still have to be won. Grand finals throw up all sorts of quirks.
It's why I continue to cross the Bolte Bridge (and spend countless dollars getting cabs home late on Saturday nights, and getting cabs back on Sunday morning to collect my car – that's when I don't sleep in it).
Where the club's good-time culture once camouflaged a summer of broken-hearted destructiveness on my part, it seems we've grown up a little together. Messrs Hill, Adams, Checkley, Dickson and others, take a bow.
