Baw Baw Shire

One of the things I most remember as a student at Warragul Tech was playing kick-to-kick on the oval during morning and afternoon recess and at lunchtime during the winter months. It was literally a mass of kids, big and little, and footballs flying back and forth over most of the oval. One of the really great things about it was that practically any boy who dreamed of being footy champion could join in. Of course the better footballers and the bigger kids got most of the kicks. There was enough “dropped ball”, however, for the rest and even the shy ones who hung around on the fringes.

After I left Warragul Tech, however, and after I had played footy with the Dusties for a few years, a mystery loomed in my mind: I couldn’t recall any of those that took the most spectacular marks or kicked the longest kicks actually making their mark in league football or even local football. Of course, I played against many former Warragul Tech students in the Ellinbank League any several made it into League football. None of these, though, were the stars in kick-to-kick.

I came to the conclusion, as the years passed, that a key quality that you needed to progress in footy, and in life for that matter, was that you only valued something that you had earned. The kids that always found it easy to get the ball in kick-to-kick were never challenged, they never learned to do the hard work and so, when the hard yards had to be done to make their way in senior football, they found it too hard, they found something else to do. But those who had to work harder, had to wait patiently to get the ball in kick-to-kick, had learnt that, to succeed in any endeavour, you have to persist through the failures, through the pain, through the bad times.

The name or, rather, the nickname of a team can almost be more important than the players. The Blues, the Magpies, the Bombers are the names used when the fans blood is really pulsing. Hawthorn experienced much greater success after they stopped being the Mayblooms and became the Hawks. I, personally, am much happier to barrack for the Demons than the Fuschias. (Mind you the sanity of a person who says he is happy to barrack for the Demons must be questioned.) One of the key points of the “merging” of Brisbane and Fitzroy was the right for Brisbane to be called the Lions and to discard the label of the “teddy” Bears.

The most magical name for a football team for me, however, was the Wolves, the Neerim Wolves. This was the underage team representing Neerim-Neerim South in the Fifties. They were the Juniors of the Club but they wore different jumpers and their name was different. They wore a jumper that was light blue with a white yoke. The seniors were called the Cats, but they were the Wolves - they had to be better and meaner.

Besides, my big brother played for the Wolves: he wore number 32. My sisters called it “dirty-too”. Brother was none too pleased but I thought it was quite clever. The Wolves match was the one we really went to see. That was the game that Dad talked about. The senior match, later in day, was only a filler until it was time to go home and milk the cows.

My wife and I recently attended the celebration of the 125th Anniversary of the Neerim South Primary School. I was very glad I did. I’ll write more about that somewhere else, however.

My wife and I drove down from Sydney on the Friday and stayed with my brother in Drouin. We had to return to Sydney on the Sunday. We set off from Drouin early in the morning, in the light of day but in overcast. As we headed down the old Princes Highway towards Robin Hood, I glanced to the left, wondering if I would be able to see the Drouin Race Track where I had attended the stock car racing all those years ago. My memory was of a fence of galvanized iron, in need of repair, and of a gate hanging at an angle from its post.

Then, there it was. The fence was all spruced up, recently and brightly painted. The gate was closed and straight. The grounds outside the fence were well maintained. It was obvious that someone, a current committee or, perhaps, the Baw Baw Shire Council had put in some hard work. There was a sense that the track was once again being put to good use. I was tempted to stop and look to see what might be inside the fence…

But we drove on. The day would be long. We had to work next day. The trip down was taking it’s toll. We’d be down again some day, perhaps with more time, and we might take a closer look then.

Our family only ever went to the Stock Car racing at Drouin once, that I can recall. The races must have been held regularly because things seemed to be pretty organised and there were lots of people there, lots, at least a for seven or eight year old that lived way out in the bush. The stock car racing was held at the Drouin Race Course on the west side of the Princes Highway as it headed down from Drouin to Robin Hood. It didn’t seem that the race course was used for horse racing any more. The rails were still there but they were old and broken in places and the spectators for the car racing parked their cars on what appeared to have once been the track.

Dad and my older brother seemed to be pretty excited about the racing. They talked about how our Landrover would go if Dad took it onto the track. Mum suggested we would be in a bad way if they banged up our taxi and our tractor, meaning the Landrover. She said it a jovial way, though, and I could see that she knew that they were only joking. I could see though, that Dad, for a moment, was imagining himself out there on the track.

I enjoyed the day, too, but I enjoyed not so much the racing but watching people and the things that were happening. I was struck by how the cars, chevrolets and fords and plymouths, looked very much like some of the older cars that I used to see on the road. I made the connection that Stock Cars meant “old cars”. I was struck by the waste of good cars as they bashed and crashed their way around the track. Even now, whenever I see a car of that vintage, restored and rolling down the road with the owner, proud, elbow out the window, imaginging himself in a different, more romantic era, I think of the irony of seeing people deliberately smashing those cars up way back when.

An event which was particularly entertaining, both to me and the rest of crowd, was a caravan demolition derby. The object seemed to be to drive around every which way, smashing into other cars, and into the caravans, creating as much mayhem as possible. Cars who lost their vans drove off to the side and left the field to those that still had something to tow behind them. Cars whose engines stopped, or were mortally wounded, were left where they stopped. The competition soon came down to two racers. One was a big ford that towed a van that appeared to have little damage to it. The driver of this ford seemed have avoided any contact by driving at high speed around the outside of the milling throng and making the occasional charge at slower vehicles that emerged from the ruckus, finishing off the wounded vans. The other car was a slower but sturdy car that was towing a similarly sturdy van but which had one sidewall dragging along the ground. This car was smoking and seemed to be slowing, and there was a sense that it was not going to run for more than a few more seconds. Perhaps impatient, the driver of the ford made a dash to finish off the limping dragger which, by this time, was travelling so that slow that he was unable to take more than the feeblest avoidance action. So slow was he travelling, in fact, that the ford driver mistimed his run and, instead of heading towards the more fragile caravan, charged directly at the much more substantial towing vehicle. In an attempt to avoid a collision, the ford driver swung his wheel violently. The ford heeled over but avoided contact. Not so his caravan. It crashed over, its near side scraping the roof of the other vehicle before dropping down in front of the other caravan. There was a loud bang as the van broke free of its coupling with the ford and then duller banging and cracking as the other caravan rode up over the top of it, before crashing down again. The other van, somewhat more damaged but still having the essential shape of a caravan, remained attached to its towing vehicle. This vehicle rolled on for another 20 or so yards before stopping, giving the impression that it would never move again under its own power. The driver, delighted, sprang from his vehicle and leapt up on the bonnet, waving his arms in the air in triumph. By this time, the ford had driven over the outside of the track to lose itself in the line of other losers. My brother was scampering backwards and forwards in front of our car, thrilled by the crashing and bashing. Dad pushed his hat back and scratched his head. Mum, always interested but never demonstrative, said something about tortoises and hares.

That was the last event of the day. Soon we were moving off in a line cars out through the gates of the race track, in a line not unlike the lines that the stock cars formed before each of their races.

I have lots of memories of lots of times of driving home in the Landrover, always tired but happy, and Dad always saying that he hoped the dog had brought the cows home for milking.

Oh, and it was another one of those glorious sunny days that only Gippsland has.

I must have been pretty positive as a kid. All the things I remember happened on sunny days, glorious Gippsland sunny days.

Another memory concerning the Neerim Showground happened on a sunny day: the Annual Neerim District School Sports. These sports were probably held at a number of venues around the district each year but the one I remember was held at Neerim. It was probably my first experience in the finer nuances of mathematics.

I think Mr Gray was the Principal so the year would have been 1957 or 1958. Schools competing would have included Neerim South, the biggest, Noojee, Neerim North, Nayook, Neerim, Neerim East, Crosser and possibly Jindivick. While Neerim South had over 100 students, some of the other schools would only have had 15 or so. It was obvious that Neerim South had the best chance of winning the overall competition. Mr Gray explained that there would be a handicap system in place to make the contest more even. A student from a small school would win more points for winning a race than would a student from the larger schools. I could see that this was a very egalitarian system provided each school won races in proportion to the number of students they had. I had a tinge of doubt, however, because I could see, even at that age, that this was most unlikely to happen.

Most kids seemed to have a good day but by mid afternoon, the effects of tiredness and sunburn were starting to show. Most kids were happy to sit on the grass and ask if it was time to go home yet. Although I was used to hard work on our farm in the bush, I was no athlete. I took part in the tunnel ball and a relay but I had plenty of time to keep track of the score. I could see that Neerim South had more winners just because of more contestants but I could see a lot of seconds and thirds too. I could see that Neerim South was always close to the front on the scoreboard but never in the lead. I could also see that a School that had been at the bottom suddenly leaped to the front because one of their students won an event and I could see that it was a school without many students. My mathematics was not fantastic and my attention lapsed from time to time but I was pretty convinced, towards the end of the day, that Neerim South would get an honourable mention but would not win the day.

Even at that age, I was bit of a stoic. Winning wasn’t everything. Besides, the end the day was coming and, with it, more important things, getting home, getting the wood in, helping finish the milking, …more important things.

I learnt a couple of things from this day:

There are rules to life, you can apply mathematical rules to real life situations, that little people can win sometimes if they put in the effort.

Perhaps, most importantly, I learnt you can and should attempt to make a level playing field for everybody, but that life can’t be made perfectly just and fair, and there has to be losers, in fact, more losers than winners!

I have another interesting memory of the Neerim Showgrounds and cricket. My father belong to an association that held annual social cricket matches.

Ted Evans was a member of the same club. Although he lived in Melbourne, he would trip down to Neerim South two or three times a month to attend the affairs and activities of the club. He never missed a social cricket match for many a year. Ted was known as a fair slow bowler, certainly by comparison to the rest of the team.

Ted owned a black and shiny car, a Wolsley or similar, I think. Owners of such cars were considered to be comfortably off in the 50’s. On the day in question, I can recall Ted driving into the ground and parking along the fence that ran around the ground. I can picture, even now Ted’s car standing out amongst the Land Rovers with their canvas roofs, the Vanguards and older Fords and Chevs. Ted took a bit ribbing from his fellow club members about his “fancy” car but you could see that, beneath his embarrassed grin, was a deal of pride.

The visitors won the toss and batted. Pretty soon, they got the measure of the local bowling and even Ted’s slow bowling skills could not put a brake on the scoring. In fact, Ted’s bowling seemed to be a key factor in the acceleration of the scoring. In an attempt to vary his deliveries, Ted gave an extra tweak to a delivery. The result was not what he wished, a long hop down the leg side. The batsman leapt on it with relish and hooked the ball high behind square leg. The ball cleared the boundary fence by about six foot, in fact just the distance of the windscreen of Ted’s car, parked outside the fence. The ball crashed through the windscreen settling on the drivers seat, in a bed of broken glass. The chrome of Ted’s car shone in the bright morning sun and now, the car was strewn with broken glass, over the bonnet, roof and dashboard, sparkling like diamonds.

Players and crowd started to gather round the car. Ted, at first, was annoyed that he had been hit for six again. Slowly he started realized that he had parked his car in the vicinity of where the ball had been hit. Annoyance was displaced by concern and then dismay. He started to run towards the the crowd that was gathering. About 20 yards from the fence he stopped to a walk. His mouth was agape. Dismay had turned to horror. The crowd was laughing and a few wisecracks were cast at Ted as he made his way amongst them. Then the crowd quietened. Ted was a nice bloke and they wouldn’t really wish such misfortune on him… and they were coming to grips with the fact that it could easily have been their car.

Ted stood looking at his car for fully a minute. Then he rolled up his sleeves and said “Well, staring at it wont fix it.” He climbed through the boundary fence, retrieved the ball and headed back to take up his bowling mark. Visitors and locals, with nary a word, took up their positions and got on with the game.

The incident appeared to have some benefit in that the scoring rate became subdued, although the visitors were never bowled out within their alloted overs. The lunch break was a quiet affair with comments about “rotten luck” and “unbelievable”. The home team batted after lunch and, although, one or two batsmen threatened to make a reasonable score, the team was bowled out well within the number of overs and well below the score that the visitors had amassed.

Two things stick in my mind from that day. A bright summer day in Gippsland can be more glorious than a day anywhere else in the world and it appears a rule of nature that, if a bowler gets hit for six, the ball is likely to land on the bowler’s car… it happens too often to just be bad luck.

We all do it! Watching Ponting and Symonds taking these matter-of-fact catches reminds us all that we can - or least could - take catches like that.

Jack Robbie taught me to catch - or at least gave me the lesson that taught me never to drop a catch after my first.

My brother was playing cricket for Neerim South though we lived in Warragul at the time. I was about thirteen and tagged along as little brothers and nuisances do. The match was being played at the Neerim showgrounds. When we got to the ground, the match was about to start and Neerim South were fielding and a player short. I got a guernsey… or is it a jersey?

Jack was captain of Neerim South and bowling his leg-spinners. I guess he was trying to hide me by placing me at backward square leg and right on the boundary. He must have had confidence in his bowling or he wouldn’t have put a thirteen year old at backward square leg.

His confidence was misplaced at least once, because he was hooked high right in the direction where I was fielding. I hardly had to move. The ball went up and up and up! I had never seen a sky that was more blue, a sky that only West Gippsland can turn on in the summer, in between grey ones of course.

Then the ball came down, down, down… Should my fingers be up or down? By the time I had decided, it no longer mattered. The ball crash through my hands onto the lush grass below. I grabbed it up and hurled it in to the keeper. Then I started to hear it, a whole lot of words that are spelt with asterisks and hashes, the like of which I’d only heard when Dad was sooling the dog onto the cows. I pretty soon realized the words were directed at me. There and then, I learnt two things: firstly, Jack Robbie had a side to him that I’d never imagined before and, secondly, I would never drop another catch; I fumbled one or two but I never dropped one.

My brother gave a a bit of reinforcement too! He never said a word but the look of embarrassment on his face convinced me never to let that happen again.

On Australia Day, my wife and I had lunch with Jenny and Barry and Johnno and Lorraine at the Liverpool Catholic Worker’s Club. Over drinks, afterward, Johnno was telling us about their last visit back to Warragul. Johnno had a great time at the Warragul Golf Club. It seems that all his old friends and acquaintances were there on the same day. In fact, Johnno said he always had a great time whenever he went to the Golf Club.

Although I lived in Warragul for a total of about 15 years, I don’t remember ever having visited the Golf Club, at least not through the front gate.

As a teenager, playing for the Dusties Under 16’s, I often scrambled through the fence between Millers Oval and the Golf links to retrieve a footy. The grass on either side of the fence was usually pretty long - and wet, being Warragul. Quite often, as we fetched the football, we would find golf balls. My mates and I use to muse about the fact that the golfers seem not to value their golf balls enough to make any real attempt to find them. Most of my mates adhered to the theory that only rich people played golf and they had that much money that they could easily buy new balls to replace the lost ones. One or two thought that the golfers were afraid of snakes. This was not generally accepted, seeing as it was winter and there wouldn’t be any snakes about.

After we’d each collected a few golf balls, the novelty wore off. Most of us gave up on picking up any golf balls we saw. One kid, however, had heard about kids in Melbourne who searched for lost balls around gold courses and sold them back to the golfers. He religiously picked up all the balls he could find. We saw the number of golf balls in his kitbag growing, but we never heard if actually made his fortune.

Each of the grounds on which I played my beloved game of Aussie Rules in the Ellinbank and District Football League had its own particular charms for me. Of course charm, like beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

The Buln Buln ground, not the new one but the one down near the State School had its’ particular charms. One of the charms was that the grass was usually kept down by the grazing of sheep. It was fertilized by those same sheep and often the fertilizer hadn’t “dissipated” into the soil before a match was played. One of the purposes of the Junior and Reserves grade games appeared to be to spread the fertilizer more evenly in preparation for the Senior game. Another charm was was the row of tall pine trees that grew at the western end of the ground. In deep winter, this cast the ground in shade from at least quarter time onward.

A particularly interesting charm, one especially favouring the home team, was the elastic boundary line that stretched along the south side of the ground in front of the sheds. I describe it as elastic because it moved depending on the closeness of the game and whether possession of the ball was held or about to be held by the home team or the opposition. As a halfback flanker, I was often trapped by the elasticity of the boundary line. If I was behind my forward, the boundary line stretched back outward so that my opponent had plenty of space to gather the ball. If I was in front of my man, the boundary line would move inward, cramping me for room, perhaps gather the ball and forcing a throw-in. I often found that when I led into space to take a kick-in from our fullback, I was engulfed by the crowd who obviously moved in with the boundary line.

On one occassion, about the fifth time for the day that I had barrelled into the crowd that moved with the elastic boundary line, I crashed into my father. His explanation, when we discussed the incident later, was that he found he had to move in out with the crowd or he wouldn’t have seen any of the game.

I can’t remember a win for the Dusties on this ground when I played for them. I have to be honest, though, and admit that this had more to do with the ability of our team than with the elastic boundary line.

League Football boasts many great footballing dynasties - the Colliers, the Cordners, the Abletts: brothers, fathers, sons, in-laws and outlaws. Country football by its local nature can boast of many more and the Ellinbank and District Football league is no exception. In my time, Ellinbank had its Pratts and Rouses, Hallora Strez had its Wallaces, Neerim South its Prices and Rochfords and the Dusties had…

Well, I can remember the Linfords and the Goodwins to name to pair.

John Linford was the younger and played in the back pocket, and well too. Frank Linford played up the field, on the wing, in the centre and as ruck rover. I often and fondly recall his sweeping off the wing to deliver a drop-punt to some-one in the forward line. This was remarkable, firstly, because few players attempted a drop-punt in those days and, secondly, because, without his glasses, Ken couldn’t actually see who he was kicking too.

The Goodwins were both reaching the end of their careers when I played with them. Tommy, and Johnny: at some stage both had played with Neerim South and perhaps elsewhere as well. They were both a little bowed of leg and both did a hard days work before and after training and playing. And fair… good honest people who played for the love of the game. Winning was a bonus to them.

Great footballing families? Possibly not but still the finest of footballing families!

…Oh! Mrs Linford, mum. She was like a 19th player on the field,she and her walking stick. Any player who knocked her sons over knew about it. How her barracking must have spurred Ken and Johnny on and the rest of the Dusties, too.