The Albatross Rules:
An Australian football odyssey
by Richard Holt
Published by Richard Holt at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 Richard Holt
ISBN: 978-0-646-56775-4
* * *
Smashwords Edition, License notes
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Contents (or taking it one week at a time)
3. The Kid
5. A Pleasant Sunday Afternoon
6. Round 1. Dwights Mill-Barcaroo Demons (away): Gone Fishin’
8. Round 2. Nambool Ravens (home): The Rumble in the Jungle
9. Rosie
10. Round 3. Hellenswood Saints (away): Old School
11. Round 4. Mt Desperate Desperados (away): A Hiding to Nothing
12. Round 5. Gunundurra–Heathvale Roosters (home): Shut the Gate
13. Tiger
14. Round 6. Mt Logan Cobras (away): Faith
15. Round 7. Bye: Holding the Man
16. Running Hot
17. Round 8. Dwights Mill-Barcaroo Demons (home): Brothers in Arms
19. Redemption
20. Round 9. Nambool Ravens (away): Old Habits and Die Hards
21. The Professor in the Wilderness
22. Round 10. Hellenswood Saints (home): Spirit
23. Round 11. Mt Desperate Desperados (home): Whatever it Takes
24. Round 12. Gunundurra–Heathvale Roosters (away): A Victory for the Ages
25. Round 13. Mt Logan Cobras (home): Good and Evil
26. Round 14. (Bye): The Sour Cream Defense
27. First Semi Final. Albertville v Gunundurra-Heathvale (at Mt Logan): Destiny
28. Preliminary Final. Albertville v Nambool (at Hellenswood): Jimmy’s Gone A Fishin’
29. Grand Final. Albertville v Mt Logan (at Heathvale): A Note of Caution
* * *
1. Barry’s Dream
Boof McKenzie was cleaning glasses as usual, wondering if anyone would be in for lunch. For the moment he was his only customer. He wandered over to the jukebox with coins from the till. A doleful cowgirl voice crackled from the speakers, singing about the perils of love as he collected the last of the previous night’s glasses and put fresh coasters out on the bar and the tables.
With a sudden bang the heavy door from the street burst open. Peter Potter rushed in. “The Professor, Boof—he’s disappeared!”
“What d’ya mean, disappeared?”
“Disappeared! Gone! Vanished! Into thin air!”
“Don’t bullshit me Potter. What’re you up to?”
“He’s gone, Boof. I dunno. I was just muckin’ around—had him trapped in the lane. But something’s happened.”
Boof rolled his eyes. “Anyone would think there was nothin’ to do around ‘ere.” He followed Potter outside, grumbling.
Caz Temple was wandering past. “What’ve you done with The Prof, Potter?”
“It was just a joke…but he’s gone. He can’t have got out, there’s no room.” Potter was right. The ‘lane’ wasn’t a lane at all, just a narrow strip of land where Boof stored his bins and his empties. The Humber was squeezed in tight.
Sue-Anne poked her head out of the general-store door to see what the fuss was. This sort of distraction counted for excitement in Albertville these days. It had been different once. Long ago.
In the 1850s and 60s Albertville had been the centre of a gold-fuelled boom, with all the trappings that wealth and speculation bestow. Now it boasted just one hotel, a general store, a butchers shop, a mechanics institute hall, rows of boarded up shop fronts, three churches (one operating and two neglected), one mechanic and a population, including those on the small farms round about, of perhaps three hundred and fifty. There was a cricket team in summer and in the winter months a netball team and the struggling football team celebrated for its past glory by the pennants on the walls above the bar at the Grand. The town’s teams were all known, by tradition, as the ‘Albertville Albatrosses’. It was an alliteration the townsfolk bore with pride.
What should be said of this cumbersome nickname is that the Albatross is a noble bird. There are even those who will tell you that it can sleep on-the-wing as it crosses the world’s oceans. The truth is that its long hours of flying are punctuated by periods adrift on the waves. It must not rest too long. Lurking beneath the surface are unseen predators. Even if it avoids these it may find that the seas around about become so turbulent that it is swallowed by the waves themselves. But, most of all, it must guard against simply spending too long idly afloat, lest it can no longer raise the effort to return to the sky. The Albertville Football Club had been down for a long, long time.
In fact the struggle to remain afloat had nearly defeated it, which was why club president, Barry Massey—known to the townsfolk as ‘The Professor’—had been losing sleep. His search for the team’s salvation had consumed him. That morning it had brought him to Sue-Anne’s store to collect a book that had just come in for him.
Barry threw his new paperback—Dare to Dream—onto the passenger seat. Somewhere in its pages he hoped to find inspiration. He swung the old car deftly back into the narrow, dead-end lane next to the pub to turn for home. But curiosity intervened. When an image on the cover caught his eye he edged the Humber back off the footpath then turned the engine off again so that he could investigate.
He’d been flicking through for some time when the fatigue of his restless hours overwhelmed him. As he scanned the index the print began swimming on the pages before him. Hard and ugly American words like ‘Positivity’ and ‘up-skill’ turned soft and spongy. ‘Visioning’ blurred until it disappeared. As his weary eyelids drooped ‘Touch-down’ and ‘Closure’ jumbled into each other.
‘Touché: Close down!’ The Prof’s exhausted body slumped back and sideways onto the passenger seat. The book fell open across his face. Barry Massey began to dream.
So lucid were his dreams that when he woke, an hour later, the Prof felt suddenly as if he knew exactly what was required to save his beloved club, and nothing would get in his way—nothing, not even Potter’s ute, strategically positioned to imprison him, just for a cheap laugh.
Almost without thinking the Prof, who was nimble in spite of his years, scrambled over the front seat, removed the back-rest from the rear seat, (he’d done this many times to fashion a bed during his fishing trips in the nearby hills) and crawled into the car’s boot-space. Moments later the former rover had sprung the lock from the inside, clambered over the low wall at the end of the cul-de-sac using the closed boot as a step ladder, and headed home via the track along the creek. Just about the only sign that he’d been in the car at all was Dare to Dream splayed open on the driver’s seat next the old binoculars he used for watching birds and football matches.
“That book, Boof, there!! I’m telling ya, he had it on him. Heh, this is creepy.”
Boof thought for a moment then started to laugh heartily. “Nice one Potter. How’d you get it in there? You had me goin’ for a minute.”
“I’m tellin’ you Boof. I didn’t put it there!”
Boof, shrugged and returned to the bar.
Caz was unimpressed. “You’ve lost me, Potter—as usual.” She slunk off leaving him staring, in bewilderment, at the scene.
Potter’s confusion was absolute. In the whole town his was the sharpest tongue and, aside from the Prof himself he was the one most likely to be around whenever tomfoolery was at hand. But now, somehow, his mischief had backfired. Mystified, he slouched against the wall and stared at the silent sedan with the American self-help book open on the seat. Comprehension failed him. Potter climbed back into the cabin of his beaten up ute and moved it into a more appropriate parking spot before returning, on foot, to the abandoned Humber.
Meanwhile the Professor, back home, leaning back in his most comfortable chair, scribbled frantically in an old exercise book. Not since his playing days, back in the seventies, could he recall feeling so ready for a challenge. Nothing could distract him—neither his rumbling stomach nor the phone running hot could divert him from his task.
The ideas spilled forth onto the pages. On the first he’d written, ‘new team, new jumper, new structure, new attitude,’ and (underlined) ‘new coach’. Nugget had resigned and Barry saw that the coaching appointment could be a key to changing the way things were done at the club. In the ensuing pages were numerous lists—possible sponsors on one page, potential ground improvements on another, and others with headings like ‘recruitment’, ‘supporters’ and ‘winning a premiership???’.
…and ‘committee’. For the most part the administrative arm of the club was a rabble. The old players who filled its positions had long ago succumbed to despair as the club lurched towards oblivion. Only the Prof and Edie McKenzie, who ran the Social Club, had remained positive. The Prof had never seen himself as a natural leader. In his playing days he’d happily played second-fiddle—vice-captain to the great Jimmy Hyde. But his moment had come. At the last committee meeting he’d put it all on the line for the club.
“This town’ll just fade away if the footy club goes, and I’m not going to let that happen without a fight.”
“We’ve seen you fight before, Baz,” Bert Ironside had sneered, “that weed Henderson knocked you out with a love tap—nearly cost us a premiership.”
“Well any fight is better than just giving up. If you don’t want to help the club out of the mess it’s in, why are you here?”
“Alright, Baz,” Bert countered, “I’ll tell you what. You fix it. We’re goin’ bust anyway. If you want to steer the sinkin’ ship on the way down you can. And you can take the blame, too, when we do sink.”
“You’re on,” shouted the Prof, “only don’t get in the way. If I’m in charge, I’m in charge and I don’t want to be squabbling about details.”
That was it. By the end of the meeting, Baz had been handed the reins. He could do what he liked to try to save the Albatrosses. But failure would be on his head.
That had been the beginning of long hours of lonely pondering. But now, waking from his unscheduled nap, he could see a future for the club. And if the football team had a future then maybe there really was a future for the town he loved. It would all start with changing the team’s performance. ‘Bugger it,’ Barry muttered to himself, ‘we’ll win a flag or die trying.’ It seemed like a dream but Barry wanted to chase it. He wanted to run it down the way he’d once run down opponents so hard they didn’t known what hit them.
Having, at last, got down, in notes and sketches and diagrams, all the ideas that had come to him, he pulled out his bulging address book and an old typewriter and began a letter
‘TO: Con Filipou,
17 Ocean Crt,
Parktown,
RE: Senior Coaching Appointment, Albertville Football Club
Dear Con…’
All this time intrigue regarding the Prof’s marooned Humber was increasing around town. Most speculation revolved around just how long he and Potter could keep the act up. Many had come to the conclusion that they were in it together. But after a time Potter managed to convince a few of his townsfolk that something more sinister was afoot.
Boof, was not one of them. “I don’t know how you got it in there, and I don’t care. I’m trying Baz’s number again. And I want that car out of my lane.”
“Bu…”
“No buts, Potter. This has gone far enough.” He dialled the Prof’s number and waited. And waited. “He’s not there.”
“He’s disappeared I tell ya.”
“Disappeared! Get outta here.”
“I’m calling Plod, Boof. Give us the phone.”
Just at that moment Constable Peter ‘Plod’ Clarke marched through the door. “I heard there was a bit of a disturbance up here. Everything alright, Boof?”
It took some minutes for the story to be told with Boof and Potter trading different versions of events. Meanwhile the Prof, who had returned by the creek track to post his letter slipped back over the wall, opened his boot, scrambled back through into the front seat, tossed the now redundant book aside and quietly motored home.
“Right then,” said Plod, at last, “let’s go and take a look at the scene of this, err, mystery…”
* * *
2. Duck the Fish
“Albertville. Where the bloody hell is Albertville?” Maureen eyed her husband through the steam of her coffee.
“Buggered if I know? They want a coach, Love. I mean they want me to coach.”
“Albertville? You sure one of your mates isn’t having a go at you?”
Con checked the postmark. Mount Logan, a mountain timber town. He’d done a sportman’s night there a few years ago. Had a vague recollection of a turn-off just before the town. Albertville? He didn’t reckon there could be much there.
Perce Nightingale lived in the Valley up that way. Con had dropped in on him on the way back from Mt Logan. Maybe, he thought. But this wasn’t Perce’s style. The big man was too lazy to put together anything so elaborate.
“Well,” said Maur, “you might as well check it out.”
“What. You, move to the country! Remember our one and only camping trip. Weeks of planning. That tent was like the Taj Mahal. You lasted one night. Spent the rest of the week at that spa retreat place. You’d hate it. Nobody has thirty seven pairs of shoes in the bush…”
“Thirty nine,” she smiled guiltily.
“Any gumboots among that lot?”
“Gumboots!”
“See what I…”
“No really, Con. I reckon you may as well check it out. We need a break.”
“Really?” Things had sure changed. It wasn’t so surprising. Con and Maur had had a rotten couple of years. Maur had been on the wrong end of a company restructure. Then there’d been the fire. It had gutted the back of the house. But those were small matters. Just as they were getting back on their feet, thinking their fortunes had brightened, Maur lost the baby she’d longed for.
A bloke could really learn a lot about himself at times like that. It got Con thinking. Who was he? Con Filipou, ex-footballer. Footy had been good enough to him but he felt like he was welded to the lead weight of his once ‘promising’ career. He’d done all the old player things since his knee went—part owned a pub that went OK for a while, shares in a horse that ate faster than it ran, lots of hours wasted around the fringes of the game and now he was coaching a bunch of rich kids. It was good PR for the school, which threw his name around like confetti. Con was starting to really want to be an ex-ex-footballer.
But footy was what he knew. He thought about something Perce had said. At least in the country the bullshit’s on the ground where you can see it.
Maureen, bless her, had been practical and stoic throughout their troubles. But then the specialist told her that that was it for her. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I guess you just weren’t meant to be a mum.’ Nothing could have been further from the truth. After that Con was just about ready to do whatever she wanted.
But Albertville!
“It might be good, Con. Really. Something different.” He searched her face for signs of irony. All he got was a soft sort of hopefulness. Albertville.
Decisiveness wasn’t always Con’s strong suit. He liked to procrastinate over things at times. It used to drive coaches crazy. ‘You’re a defender, Filipou. Don’t stand around debating in your head. Just move it out of trouble, long and quick. First option.’ That’s where Maur came in handy.
“I mean it, Con. It’d be good. Truly.”
“Righto, I’ll talk to them then, eh?”
Two days later, his much-travelled Torana struggled with the gradients as it lurched into the foothills. Barry Massey had asked him to come up to meet the boys and talk to the townsfolk.
With the turn-off sign obscured Con picked up the side road just in time, sending gravel into the roadside bracken as the car slid, back end wide, rally style, round the bend. Five kilometres further and the thick forest parted to reveal Albertville; a few shabby houses, a general store and servo’, the inappropriately named Grand Hotel and a welcoming sign, “Albertville: Home of the mighty Albatrosses.” Albatrosses! It might be a long night.
It was quiet in town—disturbingly quiet. Con parked outside a boarded up bakery, grabbed his sports bag and headed across the dusty main street to the pub. From inside he could hear a jukebox—Acca Dacca, Long Way to the Top. A sign on the public bar door warned ‘beware of the fish’. It was the sort of rye humour he’d come to expect in these isolated towns where B-list past footballers like him picked up beer money for cheap gags and reminiscence. A mangy heeler looked at him cock-eyed. Con pushed the door and stepped through slowly, letting his senses adjust to the familiar stale ale odour, the noise, the gloom, the smoke, and…
…thwack!! …the fish. A good size brown trout swung from the rafters collecting him clean across the nose. Then, before he could regather his thoughts, he was accosted by something just as shocking; a high-pitched natter that he would come to know well. “Heh, Heh, that’s why they call me the Professor, son. Welcome to Albertville. Can’t you read son? I don’t think you’ll do. Won’t do at all. We need someone who’s quick on his feet. Barry Massey mate, club president, we talked on the phone.” My eyes adjusted to a spritely old bloke with sharp eyes and, behind him, a room full of roughheads and beanpoles gleeful at my expense. Even the mangy mutt, who had come inside to sniff the fish, stopped to grin.
“No harm done mate. No harm done. Ladies and gentlemen, Con Filipou, though after that entrance I think we should call him Duck. Duck mate, duck. You gotta duck. Eighty five games and two goals off half-back for the mighty Panthers before his knees packed it in. Prodigious kick, strong mark, good footy brain and as slow as a brick. Conny, I saw Billy the Walrus run you down at the G one day, and Billy couldn’t catch a cold. He got such a shock he pushed you square in the back. But you still missed the shot for goal.”
Con remembered the day. Forced back on with concussion and the worst corky he ever had, propped in the pocket for nuisance value and an easy target for fat lugs like Bill Walls and smartarses like the Professor. He’d lined up for the free-kick seeing eight sticks and with his head ringing like St Pauls at night. Still he had no comeback. “Whadda ya want from me, Prof?”
“Whadda we want? Whadda we want? That’s what we want—another one of those.” He swung his arm in a great sweep that finished high behind his right shoulder. Con followed the gesture to the wall above the bar, aware that all the other eyes had followed it too, coming to rest on the group of battered old flags each emblazoned with the words ‘UDFL Premiers’. They suggested prouder times in the football club’s history. “Get us one of those and you’ll save this club. If not we’re stuffed I reckon. It’s up to you Conny. Hallelujah mate; you are the chosen one.”
“Wait on Barry,” Con protested. “This isn’t exactly the promised land. So far all you’ve done is insult me and whack me with a fish.”
“Country hospitality.”
Con groaned.
“Sorry, mate. No hard feelin’s, as I said. Albertville’s a small town. It seems to get a little smaller every year. We’ve invited you up here because we want to save our club. We want to save the club because without it this town’s a gonner. We’ve got a lot of pride up here, mate—you’d be surprised. But we need a change of luck.”
“I could do with one m’self, Prof,” mused Con, “Why don’t I tell you what I think I can do for you and then let’s hear what you’ve got for me.”
He talked for a while about his playing days and the coaching he’d done—overseeing the school sides. He’d taken them to five grand finals. Five for zip—the big one had eluded him. He’d assisted sometimes when the Panthers wanted to work on defensive structures. It wasn’t the most impressive resume and, in all his time in the game, the thing that had eluded him was exactly what this club wanted most—a premiership. Still he had a reputation, albeit a modest one, as a good tactical thinker and a reasonable communicator.
“So that’s about it, for me,” He concluded. “Suffice to say I wouldn’t have come up here tonight if I wasn’t interested in what you’ve got to offer. It’s over to you I guess—I’m happy to talk to anyone here tonight. The last thing I’ll say is that if I end up taking the job, I will give it my best shot.”
As Con stepped aside the Prof shook his hand. “Righto, everyone,” he shouted above a smattering of applause and rising chatter, “we don’t want to scare ‘im off so not all at once, eh. I’ll make sure you all get a chance.”
A group of current players was gathered around the bar. The Prof introduced them—’Tex’, ‘Potter’, ‘Straussy’, ‘Archie’, ‘Cotto’. They seemed like solid blokes. “They’ll be the back-bone of your side.”
Behind the bar was a thick-set man of perhaps thirty-six tough years.
“Con, Boof McKenzie. Boof’s your general in defence. He may be a hard man on the ground but he’s got a soft heart.”
“Soft head, too.” Boof pointed over his shoulder to a sign that read ‘Grand Hotel—proud sponsors of the Albertville Football Club.’
“Boof was vice captain last year. His family have lived round here for donkeys.” A big man with the wide round shoulders of his rural stock, Boof offered Con a firm hand.
“Hope you can join us. This team’s not short on talent, you know. With a couple more players and a bit of luck—and a steady hand at the wheel—we can do OK.”
The players chatted about where the side was at until the Prof returned. “Have a rest, you blokes and let him meet someone who really matters.” He dragged me aside to introduce Boof’s mother, Edith. “Ede really runs the joint. She’s on the committee—my strongest ally. And she runs the social side of things.”
“Pleased to meet you Con.” Ede was a stocky woman with a no-nonsense, big-jawed face full of experience. She was well on the setting side of sixty but there was strength about the way she carried herself—upright and spreading, altogether formidable. “Now tell us about your missus.”
“Wha?..” Con gawked back at her blankly.
“I already know you can coach. I’ve read your CV. I saw you play. But you’ll be no good to us if you’re not happy up here. And you won’t be happy if Maureen…” She looked to him for confirmation.
“Maur’, yeah. That’s right.”
“…you won’t be happy unless Maureen is.”
“Truth is Edie, we’re after a change of pace and Maureen reckons this might be just the ticket.”
“Good, good. It seems like a sleepy place but there’s really plenty going on. Is she interested in baking, at all?”
“A little,” Con lied.
“Never mind,” smiled Edie.
Maree White, the local historian, gave him the club’s potted history. The glory days in the 1970’s when the great Jimmy Hyde led the Albatrosses to a string of finals. The rivalry with Mt Logan and the current perilous position in which the club found itself. There was no lily to gild. Albertville was deep in debt and on the brink. The Upper Downs League had put the club on notice and fear of the consequences of another wasted season ran deep. But they weren’t giving up without a fight. It was “heritage,” Maree said, “and you can’t just throw that away. It stays with you. You’ll really be part of something, Con, if you come up to help us out.”
By 11:30 the crowd began to disperse. He’d had enough for one night. Tomorrow he’d be able to talk to more of the townsfolk, have a look around and call Maureen. He knew he had nothing to lose now and the significance of the coming season to the town appealed to him.
“Right fellas, I’m gonna call it a day. I’m dead tired. The Prof said you’d put me up tonight, Boof.”
“Sure, Con. Bring your car round the back, mate. I’ll get the room key. Good to have you on board.” Boof slapped the coach hard on the back.
As Con opened the door, The Professor called his attention. “Heh, Duck.”
Con paused, mid step, to respond, “What Ba…?”
He’d been had for a dill…again. He just had time to become momentarily aware of many eyes, again, in his direction.
As he braced for a second impact the only thing that broke the silence was the Prof’s gleeful proclamation. “The fish, mate! Duck the bloody fish!”
So it was, with the room dissolving in mirth and Barry Massey gleefully proclaiming his downfall, that Con Filipou became known to the players and townsfolk of Albertville as Duck-the-Fish (‘Duck’ for short). And to the whole of the Upper Downs League and in time to the entire football world until people imagined—remembered even—that he had always answered to it. And so it was, also, that he took the first tentative step on a remarkable football quest: the resurrection of a once proud club in a town that’s pride was feeling the strain. The quest to save the Albatross.
* * *
3. The Kid
The Prof was in a more diffident mood at the ground the next morning as he and Con raked over the coals of the club’s demise.
“Truth is we took our eyes of the ball. We missed the boat on a few things—should ‘ve amalgamated with the netballers when everyone was doin’ it. Now the footy club’s got no money and we’d only drag ‘em down. We haven’t worked hard enough—thought we could get by with just the pub to sponsor us—that was a mistake. Boof’s got enough trouble making ends meet. I’ve gotta take some of the blame m’self, but at least I haven’t just given up. I want to make things right again.”
One question had been troubling Con. “So tell me this. Why did you pick me? I know I come cheap but still, there are plenty of blokes…”
“I’ll tell ya later,” was all the Prof would say, “I liked the way you played and I’ve got a theory about you, Duck. But I’ll tell ya later.”
Whatever his theory, Con was already pondering how best to sell the pleasures of Albertville to Maur.
He need not have worried. Though Albertville’s picturesque isolation tested the limits of his mobile phone he managed to get a tenuous connection through to home.
“When do we leave?” Maur asked, and from her voice he knew that his fate had been written the moment the Professor’s letter arrived.
“Don’t you want to know about the place?”
“Love, I don’t care if there’s nothing there. I don’t care if the locals all have club-feet and horns. I’m not staying here and getting depressed.”
Con told her about the Professor and the fish. “Don’t worry about him love, We’ll sort him out. When do you start?”
“Now, I guess. Start packing. I’ll let them know.”
Con told the Prof, and they shook on it while dust from the newly filled wicket area spiralled up on a hidden eddy and danced across to the far wing.
The new coach’s first task would be to attract a few players. The absence, for the early rounds, of those serving suspensions from the previous year would exacerbate the need to recruit.
The Prof had left two video tapes at the pub, marked best game and worst game with team lists for each. Con had watched them while tucking into an enormous breakfast of bacon and eggs, fried tomatoes and sausages, with Boof, in between tidying up, providing illuminating commentary. On the positive side he’d seen willingness to work hard on game day and some good individual skills. On the negative was an apparent lack of willingness to work hard on the track, an erratic game plan and some major skill deficiencies. In particular the team needed a good tall, some pace in the middle and a key forward (but what team didn’t?). That seemed like a tall order but he’d seen some evidence, on the tapes, of younger players who might be ready to step up to key roles. He set his sights instead on trying to locate a running defender, a small forward or, basically, anyone else who was available.
Anyone else turned out to be one Robby Formosa. A developing half forward with natural skills on both sides, the kid from the leafy outer suburbs was barely out of short pants and a little on the dim side. Con knew that his gormless optimism could work in a number of ways so he played it up a bit.
“OK, Professor, let’s talk players. I watched your tapes this morning and there’s a bit of work to do.”
“You’re telling me, mate. It’s hard getting guys to come up here. If you’ve got anyone, we can put them up at the pub, give ’em some bar work or Cotto can put them on a road crew. Can’t pay ’em much though.”
“I think I’ve got one. He’s a raw talent. Just a kid. Natural skills. Could fill a gap at half forward—he’s a definite goal scorer. Not the smartest kid though.”
“Not too bright, eh?” The Professor’s wicked eyes lit up. “We’re not after Rhodes Scholars, just good honest footballers.” Anyone who could dream up the fish stunt and have the audacity to play it twice would relish the idea of a dim-witted youngster in his midst.
“Let’s talk to him. Anyone else?”
Con ran through some other ideas and they talked about a couple of players who might be induced to switch from other Upper Downs League clubs. In dealings such as these a few years at the top level can make a big difference. Ken Formosa had played a handful of reserves games with Con. The coach remembered him as a crazy Islander whose stocky build seemed far better suited to one of the ball tossing codes. He called him when he got back to the pub. Not an hour later Formosa rang back.
“I talked to young Robby. You know what kids are like. He’ll come up there, no worries. I told him how beautiful the countryside was, how the streams run with fat trout, the beer is sweet and the girls are sweeter. I said the city recruiters always keep an eye on the talent up there. I made it sound like Shangri La. So he said he’d come if you could meet a few ‘demands’. I think he’s starting to believe someone else’s publicity. Anyway he says he’ll need a new Play Station thingy. For god’s sake, Con, give the kid something to do!”
“How about a job shovelling gravel, a room at the pub, some modest match payments and we’ll throw in his new gizmo. Talk to him and get him to call me. He might be able to come up with Maur.”
Con stayed on in Albertville, busying himself getting to know the place while Maur made arrangements for the move. A week later she rolled into town with the new recruit. As she stepped from the car the coach could tell it had been a long drive. Robby stayed set in the passenger seat, motionless apart from his dexterous thumbs flicking away at an electronic gadget. “Con, love, I just hope he can play football—I really do.” She rolled her eyes then drew a long, slow, deep breath of the moist air. She looked, more than her husband could remember for a long time, like the bright-eyed girl he’d pursued as a boy not much older than Robby Formosa.
The beer garden of the Grand Hotel is a shabby courtyard falling away to the bank of Logan Creek, a cold swift stream in which you can catch a decent trout if you’re lucky. A few treated-pine tables and benches and some plastic chairs provide the seating. Torn shade-cloth hangs loosely over a roughly constructed pergola. The bar is reached through a grimy passage that also serves as access to the hotel’s toilets.
Collected in the beer garden on a warm autumn Saturday, along with Maureen and Con, were Barry Massey and a throng of local players, a few with wives and girlfriends in tow. The group included Robby Formosa, the dim-witted raw recruit. He sat sullenly off to the side peeling the printed layer from a cardboard beer coaster.
“Come on, Kid,” huffed The Professor, “lighten up.” He plonked a beer down onto the table.
“Thanks, Mister Massey.” the Kid responded dumbly. The Prof rolled his eyes. Maureen, who the kid had taken a wordless shine to during their drive from town, patted the boy on the back. “Pull that chair over here, son, where you can join in.”
Around the table players were reminiscing about the past season. Under Nugget O’Laughlin’s tutelage they’d kept just in touch with the finals race before being ingloriously ousted in the last round. Talk rotated between observations of a general nature—lack of scoring power, inexperience and the like—to yarns recollecting the highlights of the season. Not all of the stories focussed on match details and, as rounds of ale were consumed in the balmy sunshine, the tales became, both in their content and their telling, more and more outlandish.
“Hellenswood, mate. That was a good day,” announced Peter Potter, nudging the Professor knowingly. At just 165 centimetres tall Potter had the cheek that went with his reputation as a goal sneak. His old style, sharpy haircut, complete with rat-tails was complemented by elaborate tattoos of strictly traditional design—a dragon and a rose on one arm and a hand of cards, five aces fanning across the other bicep. He lived in the valley and worked in the timber mill at Mt Logan, but chose to play for Albertville, where his family had come from, because he liked the simplicity of the place.
Con knew that Hellenswood had defeated Albertville on both meetings the previous year and doubted that what was to follow would have much to do with football. Still he was learning a lot about the culture of the club and coaching orthodoxy said that was just as important. He sat back to listen.
The Hellenswood story told of Cotto, who had been working nearby, arriving at the ground in his low loader. It involved an elaborate ruse to extract the keys from him and finished with the Professor’s much-travelled Humber mounted on top of the Hellenswood change rooms. The Prof nodded grudging acknowledgment.
As the stories became more outlandish the kid’s jaw, which always hung loosely, slackened even further. His eyes widened and, lost in the wonder of it all, he carelessly downed mouthfuls of ale as he listened. He was not an experienced drinker.
Clearly the effect on the youngster had caught the eyes of the other players. Exaggeration and embellishment gave way to preposterous fantasy. Sam Murfett led the way with the elaborate tale of ‘big red’ the killer kangaroo of Nambool. His teammates nudged and giggled. Phil Hartley talked rapturously about the ghost of Mrs Foot, a filmy presence, he insisted, which had been captured on video during Mt Logan’s grand final win, leaning over the fence with her umbrella to trip up Roosters’ star, Hawkins, as he gathered in the pocket. Mrs Foot, Hartley said, had been killed by an errant stab pass at the Roosters’ home ground and her curse was responsible for their string of near misses.
By 5:30 the kid was plastered. All these things seemed beyond his comprehension. The only thing that surprised Con about the afternoon was that the Professor, who he knew from his own experience enjoyed the pleasure of a joke at someone else’s expense, had remained largely silent. As Paul Kippling launched into another story that began with a tornado on the wing at Barcaroo Con noticed the Prof rise and head towards the bar. He returned moments later stopping at the ‘gents’ along the way.
“So there I was,” Kippling was saying, “clinging to the nob at the top of the goal post…”
The Prof’s mobile rang. “Massey here … Yep … “ He motioned to the collected players. “shhhh, a bit of quiet boys” then returned to the call “… Bernie—how are ya? … yep … yep … the kid? … Yeah, yeah, right here with me now … yeah … yeah … NO?!” His voice cracked with excitement and he pointed in an animated manner towards the mouthpiece, his eyes wide in disbelief. “… no worries, mate … NO WORRIES!!… see ya mate.” Clearly affected by the call he clapped the phone shut and rounded on the kid.
“Jeeze, Robby. Do you know who that was? Bernie bloody McGrath mate!”
Bernie McGrath was a legend. A 200 gamer. A very big name. “Blernie Mglarr?!”
“Bernie McGrath, lad; he heard you were in town. He’s recruiting for the Panthers, son. He wants to talk to you.”
“Brernie Mgah! Shi… iii…iii…” the kid started hyperventilating.
“Mate, he’s on his way here now—pull yourself together.”
The kid stood, wobbled and fell back, horror stricken. He began sweating like a hack racehorse. “Oh, sheeeez. Missa-Mashy, No’now. Oh SHEEEZZZ!”
“Bloody Hell, kid! How Pull y’self together!”
“I shink I trunk too mush, Misha Mash… Oh shiiii…”
“Snap out of it, lad. Go and give yourself a good splash with water, quick.”
Though his legs wobbled like jelly and his feet moved as if weighted by concrete blocks the kid struggled up to the toilets. He collected three straggly pot plants on the way and nearly came down over the mop bucket.
As the onlookers cheered he drove on. His audience, being more worldly, each knew the urgent voice that would be repeating inside his head, demanding the impossible—’shober up, shober up, shober up…’ They’d heard it before. He swung like a zombie into the wrong toilet, became momentarily disorientated then swung back out and wheeled into the adjacent door. He re-emerged, some moments later, ashen faced. “No worder, There’s no bluddy worder!!”
Thinking quickly (of course) the Prof pointed down the hill. “The creek, boy, quick, QUICK! The creek”
Now a coach’s responsibility is to his players. Most of Con’s were having a fine old time. The kid was going to learn sooner or later anyway. Con looked across to Maureen for counsel but she was doubled up with laughter and could barely raise her hand to give a wave. It was a feeble gesture that said, at once, ‘let it go, darling’ and ‘oh, help’. The Prof sat back silently admiring his handiwork.
As he stumbled towards the icy water the kid struggled to remove his tatty old school windcheater. For a horrifying moment he looked like a thing from the deep, flailing about with long tentacle arms and no discernible head. A constant lamenting wail only added to the impression. Finally divest of the garment he presented a no less terrifying sight. He rolled on down the hill, hopelessly moaning. As he neared the water’s edge he tried in vain to remove his track pants but they tangled around his ankles. In the setting sun, condemned by raw gullibility, and stripped and shackled for his crime he danced the macabre jig of a convicted man sent mad by the gallows walk. Compounding the scene’s inevitable, tragic climax Maureen howled like the widow witness.
There at the water’s edge he skipped and swayed and spun. His eyes spoke pure confusion and terror and his pimply face reddened like a blown camp-fire ember. (‘…Shober up…shober up…SHOBER UP…’)
Con looked across at Maur’ but she was now beyond composure. The boy’s skinny white bottom glowed as it bobbled in the late afternoon sun. As he hopped and hollered tears streamed down her face. She looked at Con desperately, hopelessly but he could do nothing. In vain she tried, through her tears to say something that might break the spell that had been cast upon her by the boy’s spectral dance. But the simple words, ‘poor, kid’ just could not come. The effort to deliver them finished her off. As she collapsed under the table screaming for mercy the kid finally released himself from his troublesome pants and leapt like a deranged cat into the chill waters.
All was silent apart from the distant call of a bell-bird and Maureen whimpering pathetically from the concrete. All was peaceful for seconds that hung long with brittle anticipation. Then, just as Con was about to experience the first faint sense of concern for his young charge, a blood-curdling scream rose above the town. The kid from the city had apparently never seen a blackberry bush. He made land at a place that poorly suited his nakedness. At this signal of agony the Professor, the players and the girls around the table dissolved into fits of juvenile laughter. Seconds later the kid re-emerged in a froth of frantic splashing at the bank below the beer garden. He stumbled up onto the lawn and collapsed in a panting, shaking heap. The Professor went straight-away to comfort him. “Sorry, kid. Bernie just rang. He got caught up in Dwights Mill and won’t be able to make it. Pull your strides back on. There’s a mixed grill, on me, tonight.
* * *
4. Team Building
The league had been pressing hard for a merger with Mt Logan. Getting Con up to Albertville was part of a bigger scheme to keep the club alive. “Mt Logan! That bunch o’ pricks;” spat the Prof, “I’ll be singin’ at the opera before they take us over.”
His ‘masterplan’, it turned out, had been cobbled together from various sources—his years in football, his reading of articles about successful clubs and teams and success in general, pop psychology, business theory and gut instinct. “If we’re going to be a good team we need to look like a good team,” he said. The team’s guernsey, black and white hoops, though worn with pride was plain and unflattering. “I don’t want to change it mate… just jazz it up a bit.”
So, while Con concentrated on patching together a decent list, the president turned his hand to fashion design. He organised a get-together at the pub on Saturday evening to reveal his new creations.
Con held training on Tuesday and Thursday nights—just basic drills for starters and some fitness work. It gave him a chance to get to know the players. He had the bare bones of a team. The Professor had persuaded the Rivera brothers to switch from the lowly Dwights Mill-Barcaroo combine. They were an unassuming pair but good footballers, both, and they had family ties to Albertville. Massey talked up his big plans and Con’s coaching credentials to convince them to come over. The Formosa kid’s raw talent showed on the track too. Though he had put his unscheduled dip into the creek behind him, he remained disappointed that Bernie McGrath hadn’t made it to Albertville. What could you say to a kid like that? He’d trained hard ever since, convinced, as he confided one night, when Con asked him why he insisted on running extra laps after training, that Bernie might be back up that way any time.
There was genuine talent amongst the locals. Boof McKenzie was a valuable enforcer in defence. Potter was a ball magnet capable of making an impact as a small forward. A couple of the youngsters who’d looked promising on last year’s tapes had matured physically so Con would be looking closely at them. But the team was still a player or two short. Without a bit more firepower they’d be competitive but might lack the depth to mount a genuine challenge.
Maureen’s arrival had excited the women of the town, especially the netballers. When they saw Maur’s height and athletic build, they pressed her to join them. There regular ‘goal attack’, Caz, was pregnant and there’d been complications. On doctor’s advice she’d be sitting the season out. “You gotta join us,” pleaded Jen, the local mechanic and a tough defender in spite of her diminutive size. “With Caz gone, we’ll be short of players, and none of us are tall enough to be much good in the circle.”
There’d been a netball team in Albertville for forty years. But as young women left the town for work or study or a taste of a faster life in the city, fielding a team had become difficult. “I’d be happy to help out,” Maur smiled, “but I’m a bit rusty.”
When the Prof popped by Con’s house, a few evenings later, just to see how the new arrivals were settling in, Maur had been having a cup of tea with her goal-attack predecessor. “Heh, Caz girl,” the president grinned, “how’s it all goin?”
“Good, Baz—now. All quiet on the western front,” the sidelined goal-shooter pointed down towards her tummy.
“Ah, good onya girl. That’s the way?” The Prof turned to me. “Caz is a one-woman cheer-squad. You can fair dinkum hear her screaming over all the car horns. When things get tight she’s real good to have around.”
“Yeah, but Doctor Don reckons I’ve gotta keep a lid on it this season—we’ll see,” she laughed.
Maureen emerged from the bathroom wearing the netball uniform that Caz had brought round.
“Perfect fit,” Caz whistled her approval.
Maur mimed a little catwalk turn. “You’re a lucky man, Con,” the Prof smiled. “You know,” he went on, “the footy club shoulda merged with you netballers long ago.”
“What makes you think we’d want you.” Caz laughed. “Your lot can’t run a chook raffle.”
“Fact is it’d make good sense—economies of scale and stuff, share our resources.”
“You sound like a bloody talk show, Baz.”
“Yeah, sorry, girl. Been reading too many books. Anyway we missed the boat. We’ve gotta get our house in order first.”
“You will, Baz. You and Con. It’s going to be a great year.” Caz patted a hand on her ever so slightly expanded waste and turned to me pointedly. “The Prof’s just the man to get this club a premiership. Honestly between his fishing an’ his crazy birds he’s always tryin’ to get your hands on something that’s outta reach. And he won’t rest til he’s got it.”
Con and Barry, the Duck and the professor—a team. Con recognised a strange appeal in the relationship. He could feed off the little bloke’s passion.
“Spot on, Caz,” the Prof chirped. “We’ll give it a bloody good crack, won’t we Con?”
Maur became Con’s eyes and ears around the town. While the coach concentrated on football matters she was learning, from Caz and others, all about the social intricacies of the place. There were old families who had roots in these hills going back a hundred years or more. They were the backbone of the area. The McKenzies and Pierces (Caz’s ‘mob’) were the largest of these local clans. There were farmers—mainly dairy—who for the most part did it hard on small sloping plots. With jobs and money scarce a lot of families relied on the timber mill in Mt Logan or on the bigger mill down in the valley for income. There was a bit of seasonal work, too, in the snowfields and picking fruit in the valley. Apart from the ‘locals’ there was a smattering of die-hard hippies scattered through the hills.
Maur had learned plenty from the women of the town. She knew of festering feuds and of reputations, fair or otherwise—from ‘best scone-maker’ and ‘a shoulder to cry on’ to ‘best avoided’ and ‘a bit of a cow’.
Along with all these social and cultural titbits Maur was alert for any information that might be of use to the club. “I think there might be a bit of a surprise in store for you on Saturday,” she intimated as she and Con stood on the bridge at the end of the main street one evening, thinking how things had changed for them. Con was intrigued but knew not to press her.
Boof had decorated the bar with black and white balloons and set a roaring fire to combat the cold that descended each evening now as the winter chill approached. As the players and girlfriends and wives entered he greeted them all heartily. Apart from the football crowd the only people in the bar were a group of German tourists, who seemed to have taken a wrong turn and were making a bit of a din, and some of the local ferals who tended to do their drinking early, decamping before local passions began to boil. No-one paid them much attention.
Maureen and Con settled down against a raised bar built across between two pillars. Some of the side’s youngsters had gathered there and they were soon in deep conversation about hopes for the coming season. Word had got around about the Prof’s new jumper and the young blokes were keen to see what he’d come up with.
Not being such a wiz on the computer, the Prof had left it to his grandchildren to find some albatross pictures on the internet. He had them printed up big and his daughter had tacked them onto a couple of old Albertville guernseys. He wanted to get everyone’s opinion that night. He called the throng to order and, after addressing a few general matters, came to the one that mattered most to him.
“Now we all love our jumper. Our dads played in it, and their dads. But it’s new times for this club and I think it’s time we jazzed it up. I’ve got a couple of examples. I’m not set on them,” he went on disingenuously, “but they’ll give you an idea of what we could do.”
With this he reached into a shopping bag behind his chair and pulled out version one. He hung it on a coat hanger suspended from the glass rack above the bar. “I’ve been thinking that we should make more of the albatross theme. It’s all about ‘branding’. So this is the first one.”
In spite of its crude manufacture it actually looked pretty good. The bird was drawn in a dramatic fashion and looked fine flying across the stripes. There were a few gasps followed by a swelling of approval.
“Looks pretty good, Prof”
“Not bad”
“Yeah.”
Then, from the back of the room, came a new voice. One of the ferals had risen. He was a strapping lad with rastafarian locks. “You can’t use that!”
“Who are you, hippy?” the Prof returned.
“You’re not a man of letters are you mate? Not big on poetry?”
“Huh?”
“The drawing’s by Gustave Dore. It’s an illustration of Coleridge: The Ancient Mariner.”
“Eh?!”
“ Ah! well a-day! what evil looks had I from old and young! Instead of the cross, the Albatross About my neck was hung. Might be the most potent symbol of impending doom in English Literature.”
“Shit….Really?”
“Really mate.”
“Nice one, Baz, you wacker.” Peter Potter smirked.
“Oooohhh…. shit…. we don’t want that do we?”
“Hardly appropriate… Let’s see the other one.”
I thought the next one looked promising. It had real presence. Again ripples of approval spread through the room.
“It’s not an albatross.”
The room fell quiet again and the Prof fixed his unlikely informant, the same big hippy, with wicked beady eyes.
“Who are you?”
“Eagle.”
“Who?!”
“Name’s Eagle. That’s not an albatross…”
“Eagle, eh. Listen bird-boy…”
“…it’s a red-footed gannet, a ‘booby’.”
“A what?”
“A booby.”
“Who …”
“Heh, you can run around with boobies on your jumpers all season if you want, it’s up to you.”
The tree-loving interjector had a point.
“Good stuff, Baz. You’ve just killed two birds with one stoner, mate.” Potter jeered. “You’ve been stumped by a greenie.” Derisive cheers and whistles circled the room.
“Stick to farming, Baz,” yelled Tex. The Professor looked dejected.
Maureen nudged Con and gestured towards the big outspoken lad. “Remember the surprise I promised you?”
“Sure love. What’s he got to do with it?” Con glanced towards the dreadlocked youngster. A flicker of recognition stunned him. “Heh, don’t I know you?”
“Henderson, Sir,” he replied, grinning broadly and feigning a plummy accent, “Burton house-captain.”
Tony Henderson! Con had coached him for two years at Grammar. “Geeze. What’ve you done to yourself, boy. I remember you. You were good. You were a handy ruckman.”
That should have been enough surprises for one night—but no.
Quite without warning, from the adjacent table, the burliest of the rowdy tourists suddenly rose. “Ha, ha. You are ‘andy ruckman.” He slapped the feral lad on his candy coloured shoulder. “I too am Andy Rachmann. Ha ha.”
“You’ve got it wrong, mate. I’m Eagle.”
“Ja, ja. I too am Eagle. I too am Andy Rachmann.”
“What a circus, Baz.” Potter drained his glass. “Wake me up for the elephants, will ya?” The rest of the bar went silent as stunned anticipation spread.
“What’s goin’ on?” The Professor’s look changed from bewilderment to hope. “Handy Ruckman, eh?”
“Ja, ja. Andy Rachmann. I play on ving. You have jumper mit boobies. Ja?”
“No!…” The Professor looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. “Versatile, eh? Ruck and wing—two positions.”
“Nein.”
“Nine!”
“Nein…”
“Bloody hell.”
“—I’m Andy Rachmann…”
“Very handy.”
“I play on ving.”
“You play all over, eh?”
“Nein, nein, nein. I play on ving.”
“Wingman?!”
“RACHmann, RACHmann, RACHmann!! Gott im himmel.” He lurched forward. Though his intention was only to make himself clear, Boof and Archie Pierce, thought it best to restrain him. They each grabbed an arm. The visitor looked startled. “I show you. I am Hamburger Eagle.”
“You’re kidding me!”
“I am Eagle. I play on ving. I am Rachmann”
“You’re crazy.”
“I am crazy—you have booby jumper!”
“You’re nuts. That’s what you are!”
“Nein, nein, nein. Please. I show you. I am eagle. I am Andy Rachmann. I play on ving. I am Hamburger footy.”
“Nut-case.”
“Look, bitte. I am Rachmann. I play on ving. I show you, in back pocket!”
“Ruckman, wingman, back pocket…bah!!”
As the room dissolved into mirthful disbelief the visitor furiously shook an arm free and reached round into the back of his jeans. “Here, here, here,” he pleaded pulling out a crumpled newspaper cutting, flicking it open and holding it up for the room to see.
It featured a large picture of the German in full footy kit in the classic scoop-on-the-run pose favoured by bubble gum footy cards.
With the decorum of the night extinguished and the townsfolk roaring approval at their club president’s confusion the German handed the paper over. As the Prof slowly read the caption below it the colour drained from his ruddy face. ‘Andy Rachmann, wingman for the Hamburg Eagles in the fledgling German Australian Football Association was welcomed this week as the first foreign player to benefit from the Southern League’s new player exchange program…’
The Prof was rarely without a comeback. But the proceedings had left him spent. He slumped back in his chair mumbling quietly to himself, “Andy Rachmann… handy ruckman…” while the doomed booby jumper, unveiled so proudly just minutes before, hung forlornly above him.
Once again it was the big hippy who brought much needed decorum to the situation. “You need a tall,” he said. “Well I can play a bit. Ask your coach. And I can fix your jumper too. I’m a graphic artist by trade. Not hippy shit. Good stuff.”
Con decided to seize the moment. “What about you, Rachmann?”
“Sure. I play.”
Football casts a strange magic sometimes. By Eleven, tables had been pushed together. The Professor, being a keen bird watcher, in spite of his ignorance of coastal species, had a few questions for Eagle—the boy obviously knew his stuff. But Eagle and Rachmann were too busy talking footy. Some of the local boys had thrown off long held prejudices and summoned the courage to join them.
Maureen and Con slipped quietly out into the cold, clear air.
* * *
5. A Pleasant Sunday Afternoon
The boys had been training hard and the recruiting effort, though at times unconventional, had gone extremely well. The Rivera boys, Juan and Bobby, would fit in nicely. They were as tough as nuts and fast. Eagle the ruckman and Rachmann the wingman were both, it turns out, more than handy. The German’s infectious confidence was a bonus for a side short on success. And the Kid, Robby Formosa, could easily fill a key attacking role. Con would have taken one or two more but he was happy with the balance. There were no real injury problems and, even with five players suspended for a couple of rounds the depth and spread looked good on paper. Con might even be able to rest the older blokes like Cotto and Archie, or use them off the interchange to keep them fit and fresh, for a tilt at the finals.
Signs went up all round town. ‘A Pleasant Sunday Afternoon. Fun for all. Proceeds to the Albertville Football Club’.
Organisation for the day fell to the indomitable matrons of the social committee. They wielded power and demanded respect in equal measure. Most formidable amongst them was Edith McKenzie.