A Sweet and Juicy Story

Last year a friend challenged me to a game of “force ‘em backs”. For those unacquainted with this marvellous game, it essentially involves a “kicking duel”, with a standard rugby ball. You play on a regular rugby field and attempt to “out kick” your opponent with superior punting force and strategic nous.

My friend had been undertaking regular skirmishes with the ol’ pig skin and was provocative in his challenge. Whilst I did not have too much Intel on this chap’s ability, I did suspect he would be a willing competitor. But I was quietly amused at his gusto; and quietly assured in my own chances. Back in my “heyday” I could get around 70 meters of in-air mileage and had once, at age fourteen, out-punted a professional AFL player (speaking modestly of course…) Admittedly, my heyday was a little while ago and I had not put boot to ball for many moons – but I was confident I would make short work of this pretender. So I gleefully accepted.

And so, a date was set for the showdown, with the rendez vous confirmed to take place at New Farm Park – at the crack of dawn, no less (or at least, close enough to – 7am).

The night before the standoff I tossed and turned with turgid restlessness (more at agreeing to lace up a boot at 7am than at the prospect of getting my pride dented) as a steady rain poured down throughout the night…

Morning arrived with the shrill alarm of my phone, as though the previous day had never left and I fumbled around in the dark for a few layers of clothing to protect myself from the rainy European conditions outside – which had finally descended on Brisbane after months of drought. Hence, with cobwebbed boots in hand, I made my way to the car and to the weary drone of wiper blades, drove towards the battleground - yawning with enthusiasm…

Arriving at the crime scene, it was as though a scene from the film, Vanilla Sky had materialised. There was not a soul around. Not even the hard core joggers had subjected themselves to the blustery, cold and unpleasant conditions. But here I was. Standing car side with eyelids at half mast, rugby socks pulled up tight, beneath tracky dacks. Ready to do battle.

Off in the distance, through the rain haze, I saw a lanky, beaney clad figure, ambulating in a confused pattern. Surely this couldn’t be my competitor? He resembled one of New Farm’s less fortunate, rather than a willing contender for the crown of “golden boot” (Who wears a beaney to a fight, anyway?).

As I got closer, my suspicions were confirmed and we shook hands in a jovial manner – quickly diverting our attentions to the unfortunate weather and joking that “this will be fun”. In truth, there was nothing fun about it. This was business.

It was at this point that my sparring partner threw a healthy handful of spice into the mix, by producing his weapon of choice. An elongated prune of a thing… A league ball. Wearing a broad grin, he stood there expectantly as if nothing were out of order. I’m sure he’d had this trick planned for weeks…

Some ignoramuses out there may guffaw at this – but make no mistake – there are a number of telling differences between a league ball and a rugby (union) ball that can substantially influence proceedings. For any female readers out there (hopefully one or two), it is like comparing a finely cut diamond with a hacked up cubic zirconia. The best jewellers simply don’t deal with such cheap imitations…

When it comes to footballs, the weight is different, the material is different (inferior quality) and most importantly, the shape is different. Hundreds of thousands of repetitions kicking a rugby ball as a developing child had seen my foot evolve a curvature perfectly mated to the arc of the only true football. Under these changed conditions, no longer were my instincts sufficient – I had to conscientiously consider how I attacked this deformed pill.

To add insult to injury, it had a filthy league logo bruised onto its flank.

Sensing my displeasure, my friend asked me whether I was happy to continue. Knowing that a good craftsman never blames his tools, I let rip a composed grin and may have even asked whether he wanted me to use my left boot… And thus, the stage was set.

As a further act of dismissal of this chump’s sneaky manoeuvre, I additionally volunteered to kick “into the wind”, first (replace “wind” with “gale” - it had to have been teetering around the 40 knot mark). The drizzle was now blowing in sideways, stinging me awake as a wet perch would, being slapped about your chops. I looked down at the awkward shaped object in my hands and contemplated how best to open the exchange…

I decided to go in guns blazing - and skied a towering torpedo - then watched… mournfully… as the ball shot ahead 25 meters like a bat out of hell, twirled upright on its vertical axis and simply floated; as if in a state of suspended animation… before softly descending, like a downy feather and landing sweetly in my challenger’s “bread basket”. The moment my disappointing effort had been served up on a silver platter, my rival exploded off the mark like a stunned deer – no, a rabid springbok - bounding with giant steps to take his free meters (awarded for taking a clean catch) and in the one movement, rifled a low trajectory bullet of a kick into the corner - sending me clamouring backwards in shock and powering through puddles in a desperate bid to stop its destined journey towards the goal line.

It was in that moment of squelching at pace across a deserted New Farm Park, chasing a runaway league ball, at 7.15 on a cold, rainy morning, that I realised: it really had been a while since I’d played this… My colleague was more hip to the strategy than I was – and I was “under the pump”, from the get go.

And so I spent the first half hour of our “game” on the back foot and defending. Sneaking a good kick here and there, but otherwise torridly scrapping for my own respectability, battling the elements, pinned in my goal area. He was no slouch - and finally, the breakthrough came, as a well timed strike whistled past my defences. 1 nil to the Leaguey.

Exhausted, I made my way back to half way to change ends and attempt to redeem myself. I was looking down the barrel of a humiliation. All my old memories of force 'em backs were of a few well placed “torps” and a gentle trot back to halfway in preparation for my next goal. This was a different ball game… However, the forces of nature were with me now. Thankfully, I regained some respect. 1 all and another end change.

What ensued over the remainder of the hour we were out there was like something out of the crusades – ruthless and bloody. For what seemed like an eternity we exchanged blows. New Farm Park echoed with a series of pained grunts and guttural groans befitting a colosseum. Both of us threw everything we had at it. Adroit chips, touch finders, rangy bananas, “puddle skimmers”, drop punts etc etc - all the while sprinting around the sopping wet park like madmen, putting our bodies on the line to take a “clean catch”. Frustration boiled over once or twice. I cursed a bit – I’d always been coached that this was a sign of weakness, revealed to your opposition- but I couldn’t help it. I cursed some more. And ultimately, I succumbed again. 2 – 1, against.

It was at this point that my “friend” hobbled over clutching at his ribcage. I was hunched over in a foetal position nursing a back injury. He dropped the crappy ball by my aching body and mouthed two words : “Your reply.” We then looked at each other with bloodshot eyes through mud-laced lashes and, without saying a word, made the mutual decision to adjourn the battle. Declining a breakfast invitation, I rolled my weary bag of bones into my car and shot away for the sanctuary of a warm shower…

The true violence of the contest came to its full realisation on a physio’s bench a few days later…
I had a bulging disc in my vertebrae and would not be able to do anything for about six weeks. Indeed I walked about like the hunchback of Notre Dame for the three weeks following, unable to straighten up, nor even walk, without considerable pain.

The only consolation was that my opponent had not fared much better… He had ruptured the cartilage in his rib cage and sternum during the ferocious bout and would be incapacitated for the same period of time.

So in summary, the title to this blog is a misnomer. Clearly, there is nothing particularly sweet, nor juicy, about this story. It’s simply a charming tale about a pair of crippled force ‘em backs adversaries.

Your maths would indicate that my opponent presently holds a 2-1 lead. But this is far from a victory, folks. Indeed, it is far from over. It is merely half-time. It may even be quarter time… I have simply been waiting for my spinal injury to heal sufficiently so as to continue.

However, my foe, sensing imminent threat, has in the interim (like a cowardly dog senses danger), cowered off to Adelaide – presumably hoping to quit while he is ahead. I’m guessing he believes no-one would wish to follow him there. But he is sorely mistaken… If I need to get on a plane to settle this, I will. Not even the city of churches will throw me. And this time, I am bringing the ball…

Another Day

Today was another day. Another day of being alive and young and possessed of my physical strength, my mental faculties and my health. And so, it was a great day.

I attended the memorial service of a friend, Scott, today. Scott tragically went missing in a Japanese ski resort in late February. He has still not been located; indeed, no evidence has been turned up, whatsoever. Scott's disappearance at age 27 is a great loss for those close to him but also to the world. Scott served his dreams with an inspiringly impressive vigour and energy. He was an accomplished fellow. I particularly admired the way he was "intense to live" - the way he really gripped on to every minute and pushed himself - driven by an inner tenacity and love for life. And so, despite the very premature and saddening loss, Scott's was a life well lived. His life and passing reminds all of us young, capable people, that we must savour every moment and "live them out", with passionate immediacy.

This is my first formal blog. I started one on myspace when I was working in music and the format was hot, a few years ago. But this one I intend to commit to. I hope to write about a range of things and keep it interesting. Writing has been a lifelong passion but now it is a career as well - which is very exciting.

I have titled this blog "the Lake District" - for now. I want to start a website with this same moniker, which may serve as a melting pot / online collaboration place for writers and artists. It borrows from the so called "Lake District" in England - a beautiful area which was home to the "lake poets" for several years - Wordsworth, Coleridge and Southey - who were connected to the Romantic Movement at the turn of the 19th Century. Incidentally, they are among my favourites... I hope to one day visit the Lake District and regard its splendour over a drink with my old mucker, Professor Darryl E. Frame...

Thank you for reading.