damianplaying for australia
August 19th 2008 07:25
As a kid, it was always my dream to play for Australia. Cricket, Footy, Soccer, Table Tennis, Greco-Roman Wrestling… I didn’t care which sport it was, I just wanted to don the green and gold to represent my country. There was only one problem with this plan: I was crap at everything!
To his credit, my dad was very supportive at first. After I bowled an entire over of wides in my first game with the Emu Plains under 12’s, he consoled me with the fact that even Shane Warne got smashed around on debut.
The following winter my big chance for redemption came whilst playing in the grand final for the Emu Plains Junior Football Club U/13 1st XVIII (my dad told me the fact that there was no second side shouldn’t diminish my pride in making the firsts). I had played in the forward pocket all day and hadn’t touched the ball, yet somehow, just moments before the final siren, I had won a free kick in the goalsquare. As I lined up to take my kick, with the siren ringing in my ears, I paused for a moment to soak up the atmosphere. Only three points stood between the Emu Plains Junior Football Club U/13 1st XVIII and their first premiership in 51 years. Three points, that is, and me…
Yet, despite the pressure, I could sense the barely restrained excitement amongst my teammates. Five metres out, directly in front; they knew even I couldn’t miss!
I missed.
In light of this monumental failure, my dad could have been excused for wanting to disown me. Instead he simply said “even Matthew Richardson made the AFL.”
My father’s resilience in the face of my continued sporting failure was reassuring, but all men have their price. For my dad, the final straw came when I was fifteen and he decided to take me out for a round of golf. As a fairly handy golfer himself, my dad was reasonably comfortable in the assumption that I must have inherited at least some modest amount of golfing ability. Nonetheless, he was not one to take chances.
Shallow Beaver, the course we would play at boasted only one water hazard of any note, and no more than a handful of bunkers. In short, it was not rocket surgery to find the hole. In an attempt to put me at ease, my dad had spent the entire car trip relating his best golfing stories, for example, the one about the boy whose coach told him to “address the ball”. The boy promptly picked up the ball and wrote his home address on it, remarking that it was a great idea as now he would always recognise his ball around the course.
As I stepped up to the first tee, my father’s words of wisdom were ringing in my ears.
“Don’t think too much son, just get up there and whack the bloody thing!” With this in mind, I marched up to the ball, settled myself and swung lustily. With the club still resting over my front shoulder, I scanned the fairway for some evidence of my ball. Upon failing to locate it in the expected position of about 200 yards away, slap-bang in the middle of the fairway, I started to turn my head towards my dad for some indication. No sooner had my gaze begun to lower than I realised that my ball, far from being 200 yards away, had actually not even been grazed by my shot and was still arrogantly perched on top of the tee. I stood there for a moment in studied silence. There was, after all, nothing to say in light of this ultimate failure. Almost as if in slow motion, my father turned around and trudged disconsolately towards the carpark as I waited for the earth to suddenly open and swallow me up, or a bolt of lightning to stretch out from the sky and strike me down.
Of course, my dad was nothing if not reasonable, and by the time I walked home he had calmed down enough to give me 24 hours to pack my things and leave the house. As I packed, my dad sat in his chair, staring straight ahead. I waited for the inevitable moment when he would crack and suddenly rush to embrace me; a moment where all my sporting failures would be forgiven. It didn’t come.
I walked up to the front door and opened it, and as I did so, I noticed his head tilt slightly towards me. I hesitated for a moment as I met his gaze, expecting a sudden outpouring of emotion, but his face remained ashen. I turned away again and had just stepped out the door when his voice rang out behind me: “You’ll never play for Australia”
To be continued...
| 59 |
| Vote |
Shared on
Subscribe to this blog
Comment by Norm
Consumption Malfunction
Equal and Opposite
Arses and Elbows
Footy Power