A Story for Alan 🥳

My old mate Alan Watson had a birthday recently... 🎂🎈🎉🥳

For me, this was a chance to do what I like doing best...

Going WAYBACK to the days when I was the 'big dopey ruckman' in Dimboola's Under 16's Football Club... (Thanks, Alan!)

Of course, at the birthday party in Ballarat, it didn't take me long before I was telling stories...

Stop It, Alan

‘Alan, stop it! Poor Gerard.’ Mrs Watson is shaking her head and raising her eyes at her husband.

‘Ha ha ha – he can take it, Edna – our big dopey ruckman has to learn to take it, don’t you, Gerard?’ I hurriedly agree with Mr Watson. After all, he is the President of the Dimboola Football Club, and I want to play in the Under 16s on Saturday. But then I smile at Mrs Watson. She is very kind to me.

It’s a Thursday night, and Mrs Watson has invited me to stay for tea with my schoolmate Mark. I slacked off in high school last year, so the teachers kept me down in Year 11 for an extra year. This was the best thing they ever did – I’ve got a heap of good mates now, including my mate Watto!

We just got back from footy training, and as I walk in, Mark’s brothers Larry, Tim, Ricky and sister Sharon are hanging around the kitchen and putting their opinions on the table. It’s good fun at the Watson's because Mark and Larry are always arguing with their dad about all sorts of stuff, mostly footy and teachers and scandals in the town.

Mr Watson seems to love arguing with his kids. He laughs, then tells them off, and then laughs again. It’s different at home - Dad’s word is law, so there is no room for any argument from me or Joe.

On Saturday morning, I front up at the Watson’s with my footy gear. I am getting a ride to the match against Warracknabeal. Mr Watson is a big boss on the Country Roads Board and drives a new Holden Kingswood with a 253 cubic inch V8 engine under the bonnet.

We leave - Mr Watson drives while Mark sits in the front and Larry, Hoody and I pile in the back seat, and we head off across the

Wimmera plain to do battle with our arch-rivals. According to Mr Watson, everyone is our arch-rival – especially Jeparit and Nhill.

On the way, the discussion centres on last week’s match against Rupanyup, the big footy in Melbourne and what Hoody and I have been up to. It is very different to going with farmers, where the conversation goes a bit like this:

- Oihhh, it’s looking dry – we need a drop of rain soon.

- Oihhh, that paddock won’t go more than 5 bags an acre.

- Oihhh, those wethers over in Bill’s place look a bit crook.

- Oihhh, the government’s got to help out the man on the land, that’s for sure.

But wheat and sheep and rain aren’t mentioned as the big V8 purrs along Warracknabeal Road. Instead, Mr Watson is now telling his sons about their Warracknabeal opponent’s strengths and weaknesses and how to play them. Hoody and I sit in silence as Mark and Larry roll their eyes and tell their dad he wouldn’t have a clue.

The fact is that Mark, Larry, Hoody and Merv Neagle are the stars of our team. Mark is our hard man at centre half back, and Hoody and Larry are on the ball. Mr Watson also gives Hoody and me some advice for good measure. I play ruck and hear Hoody and our rovers, Dennis Norton and Wayne Elliot, yell at me to tap the ball to them at ball-ups and boundary throw-ins.

A week or so later, I join Mark after training again and walk into the Watsons’ kitchen. Mrs Watson is at the kitchen sink when Mr Watson spies me, laughs and then asks me a question.

‘Gerard, how tall are you?’

‘Aahmmm, I’m 6’4, Mr Watson.’

‘That’s amazing, Gerard, I didn’t realise they could stack pelican shit that high.’

Mrs Watson shakes her head and raises her eyes at her husband.

‘Stop it, Alan!’

Did you enjoy this story? Read more like it in Wayback by Gerard Dean