When old footballers make bad decisions – short story long
These days, he is a fairly conservative, quietly-spoken man – tall, well-built, stern faced. He is not generally given to rash decisions or taking on insane dares.
It was at one of the plethora of pre-Christmas gatherings around Granite Glen that the seed of one such decision was sown. A group of locals, including a number of 30-something ex-footballers, gathered around a rough-hewn bar in the backyard of the local vet’s house, downing a few heart-warming beverages.
I blame it on the cocktails frankly. That and the sort of peer pressure only old footy players, in the presence of a number of brothers, brother-in-law and mates, can apparently feel. One mate, imbued with plenty of Yuletide sentiment and carrying close to 30kg more than in his footy days, declared that all the men present should do their bit for charity and take part in a charity rugby league match.
“The Golden Oldies versus the Young Guns” was the preferred title for the envisaged match. All were commandeered (and apparently keen) for the gents present to make their Big Return to the field.
Now it’s important to note that some of those at the shindig boasted fairly impressive credentials. My own SSB had played rugby union in the GPS while at school in Brisbane and A-grade league in the city for a couple of years. Another two had played union at state level, with one even being a dual schoolboy international (read: talented, fast lad!). All had been “handy” in their day, and in the dim light of that backyard, after a few dozen beers (and a number of questionable cocktails), they were all certain that they could more than cope with an hour running around a field with some young upstarts.
And to prevent any moaning from the concerned womenfolk, came the ‘can’t-argue’ kicker: it would be a fundraiser for the local hospital.
Any concern about this foreshadowed event was forgotten in the chaos of Christmas and work. Scheduled “training sessions” at touch footy matches in town were effectively ignored by most candidates, especially one SSB. I think he was hoping if he ignored it hard enough, it might just go away, or the “organizing committee” might forget his name.
Then the local newspaper arrived. The “centrefolds” of the week were the “Young Guns” and the “Golden Oldies”. And there, in the middle of the illustrious list of mug shots and witty descriptions, was SSB.
“1st start back from a long time off. Hard-running back rower/centre.”
Other pearlers on the paper’s preview included:
“Bustling Bill: Set to reignite his career. Not played since a junior. Deceptively quick.”
“Muzza”: Former Qld Reds rep. Played union in Japan. Star Back rower. Very fit.” Unfortunately this sterling summation sat beside a headshot of the said Muzza in full party mode, sporting a sparkly plastic bowler hat.
“Pig: tough as steak.”
And for the giant (6’7”) local gravel haulage operator with a missing front tooth…
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
SSB decided to stand behind Big Balls for as much of the game as possible.
So we went. SSB drove into town – the Prado started off at the normal pace but got curiously slower as we got closer to our destination. His reluctance was definitely showing. We called at another player’s house to borrow some short and socks – they smelled like mothballs. The boys decided that rather that get to the grounds ahead of time and warm up, they would instead get their hearts started with a couple of beers. As you do.
We arrived at the picturesque footy ground with just 10 minutes til scheduled kick-off. SSB headed for the change rooms. A large crowd had gathered from near and far – inspired either by the worthy charity or the sort of curiosity the Romans used to feel at the Christians v Lions events.
The Golden Oldies managed to squeeze into the donated jerseys and (after introducing themselves to each other) jogged onto the field. The Young Guns burst onto the ground looking young, fresh and fast. The event organizer noted that they were in fact very nervous, mostly of Big Balls. None of it boded well.
As I had never seen SSB play (and most of the town was watching) I tried to watch with some semblance of confidence. He looked fit, having lost 25kg since arriving in the bush from his sedentary city job. He looked fierce and inscrutable. He looked like he knew what he was doing. God I hoped he didn’t get hurt.
Part of me had hoped this would be a fun game – a bit “tongue-in-cheek” with silly moves and fake tackles. I had forgotten about testosterone. After the first crunching tackle (inspired, I found out later, by pre-match gee-ing up around town from both Oldies and Young Guns) it became apparent that the game was to be Serious.
All the Guns targeted Big Balls (and whoever was nearby) desperately proving that they could handle these old farts. I was busy taking photos to distract myself from the crunching sound effects from the field. Kids were running wild along the sidelines blissfully unaware of the potential carnage taking place metres away.
And then came a hush. I moved the lens to the right and into focus came SSB. Head down. Walking off the field. Then he looked up. His face was red. Not “Geez I’m puffed and need a break” red. Blood red. I admit I took a photo (out of focus with a suddenly unsteady hand). It’s the news photographer in me.
With The Little Woman on my hip, I ventured to the bench to check out the damage. It wasn’t pretty. Blood streamed from a cut above the eye, over his eyeball and down over the bottom lid over his cheek.
“Eeeewwwww” declared the Little Woman. I agreed. She investigated a bit more closely (pulling Dad’s eyebrow north to check out the damage and planting a juicy kiss. I’m not sure it helped.)
SSB decided he was fine of course. A bit of claret. It would stop soon and he’d be fine. He brushed away the St John ambulance attendant’s suggestion that he get some stitches. It was only 5 minutes into the game. He’d be needed.
The game crunched on in the background – Oldies using their superior weight and wiles and the Guns side-stepping and darting and piling in on their older opponents. It was epic. It was testosterone at its worst. The score line was decidedly one-sided to the Guns – those darting runs around slower wingers were taking their toll. The Oldies bench was rotating like the turnstile at Lang Park. The commentator announced that the scoring system would be tweaked to help the oldies out. Inspired by the crowd’s cheers, they started scoring.
Every time SSB stood up to run back onto the field, blood started pouring from his wound again. I convinced him to let the St John’s man put butterfly tape across the cut. It slowed the flow.
With just 5 minutes to go, SSB ran back onto the field. Oldies limped and gasped for oxygen around him. He was pretty fresh (except for having 20% less blood in his veins). He managed to crunch someone into the ground who had annoyed him earlier in the game. After 2 minutes he came off again, smiling and blood pouring onto his white jersey. I shook my head.
The final whistle blew and the crowd applauded loud and long – the scores were tied (with lots of creative permutations of the scoring system by the commentator.) All turned to the bar to celebrate (and simply by drinking, raise important funds for the hospital). After five beers, SSB conceded that the continuing loss of blood from his eye may indeed require stitches. So while everyone else raised more funds for the hospital, we visited it.
Two hours and three stitches over a purpling eye later, we left. A wake was being held at the same place from which we had earlier borrowed socks and shorts. Undone knee reconstructions were being evaluated, tries and tackles relived, and Guns renounced for not being able to beat them better (how are they ever going to make it in the league if they can’t trounce a mob of old buggars?).
Just before midnight, we peeled kids away from their little mates and climbed in the Prado for the 35 minute drive home to Granite Glen. In the knowledge that the following day required at 5am start and 12 hours of work for SSB and preparations for school for me, we groaned.
SSB declared he would NEVER AGAIN play football. Regardless of how many cocktails he had imbibed.
Tomorrow I’ll show you (long story short) why.
5 Comments
jeanie
Ouch! I had that giggly OMG reaction reading that – and am very glad that 200km, dodgy knees and a background of ice hockey and baseball (plus an aversion to beverages leading to rash decisions) meant that it was not a WHOLLY family affair.
So – are they going to take on the really old blokes next year?
Bush Babe (of Granite Glen)
I certainly hope not… they will live off the glory of that tie for many years, I am sure!
Pencil Writer
Bush Babe, I just got here from PW’s blog. You must be professional. Your story and pictures were great! Thanks for sharing. Testosterone is a very volatile ingriedient now, isn’t it! But I can see how those “eyes” of SSB would still make you swoon. They are gorgeous! I’m kind of a sucker for the large, dark brown ones of my dearly beloved, but I always notice eyes. They communicate so much! I’ll be back to see how things are going.
debby
You ‘FORGOT’ testosterone??!!! Too funny. As the mother of two ‘young guns’, and the wife of a ‘golden oldie’, you don’t much forget testosterone around here. It’s always oozing from one of them. And the messes that stuff makes……!
Bush Babe (of Granite Glen)
Thanks pencil writer and Debby… I am usually lucky in that the testosterone gets used up fairly well out in the paddock… I seem to have lots of alpha males around however. No doubt they will provide more blog material to come!
🙂