Word has it that Father Kierce did not believe in school camps; accordingly, they were kept to a minimum during our time at Whitefriars. Excursions aside, there were three exceptions to the rule: the famous Year 7 Camp to Harrietville in February 1978; the HSC Camp at Somerville in February 1983, and for those who were enrolled in Year 12 Physics, a week out in the bush to encompass the heavens.
Mentioned has been made of the Year 7 Camp elsewhere in the Secret History: namely, the stupendous dam we collectively built across an alpine stream on the last day of the camp as we waited for the buses to materialise - 'look upon our works, ye mighty, and despair'. Chunkles, an advocate of parsimony, also ensured that whatever pocket-money we brought with us remained largely unspent. Other details come to mind. The camp occured not long after our first day at school, so we were strangers to one another. Expectancy was in the air as our parents dropped us off at the car-park. All up, there were eighty of us or so. Buses took us to our destination. We stopped at Beechworth to examine the Chinese cemetery which lay in a state of dormition. The journey took us four hours or so. There was a score of us to a room (with bunks) and I remember sleeping in the same room as Tony Weeks and Bernie Rohan. We ate like horses - and even then we were still famished. The three days (from memory) were spent playing sport (mainly cricket) under the watchful eyes of Chunkles, Claire Healy, her cigarettes and Father Barry. For the unwary, an optional trip was on offer: an excursion to the Kiewa Hydro-Electric plant - not the most scintillating destination in the world, the alternative being another game of cricket with the spirit of WSC in the air (I chose the latter whereas Nanny - to his everlasting shame - headed out to inspect the dam). There was a milk-bar up the road where RC Cola (which was cool in 1978) Choc Wedges and Redskins were on offer. A visit was paid to the Mt Buffalo Chalet. Bright lay nearby and somewhere in the township there was a gym that had an enormous trampoline: it did much to sort out the pecking order - physically at least - for those who were game enough. As the weather was warm, not a few of us went for a swim at Bright where a tarzan-rope overhung the river. I also recall some sort of 'walk of death' plank where Father Barry challenged us to push him into the river (or vice versa); being all muscle and sinew, he prevailed against all. With energy to burn, we plotted to conduct a massive pillow-fight in the middle of the night. Sean Butler was the leader of the cabal but his own cupidity undermined the affair: he cornered the market by snatching up our pillows in a daytime raid and then offered to rent them out for the night at a princely sum. Sad to say, this event did not come to fruition. One night, we hiked up 'Mt Hotham'. Upon reaching an indeterminate point in the darkness, we mirrored the soldiers of the Grand Old Duke of York and marched back to base, singing 'My Sharona' all the way. Nanny adds: "I remember the night trek up and down that forsaken mountain. On the way up, Pat Bridge contracted asthma and could not breathe. Against every desire of my being I decided to stay with him until a teacher caught up - I think it was Fr Barry, on the way back down, and I happily nicked off and joined the other lads in a scramble down the hill."
The Year 12 Camp was a team-building exercise at the commencement of HSC. Prior to our departure, an enclave assembled in the Senior Common Room to elect a School Captain and his deputy. From memory, some six or seven guys stood for these offices. Somewhat iconoclastically, I voted for Matt Price. The ballot-papers allowed for preferences. What with some sixty guys or so voting in such a fashion, one would've thought that it'd take a day to determine the outcome - but no: Father Kierce and Joey Jordan collected the votes, stepped out of the room and returned some two minutes later to announce that Mark Healy and Geoff Guggenheimer were our leaders henceforth. One can only marvel at such dexterity !
Back to the camp. Joey Jordan, as the Year 12 co-ordinator, presided over the affair. Gloom was in the air: we had lost key people at the end of Year 11 such as Steff, Russ Lane, Santa and Andy Picken (and elsewhere, Steve Boysen had already departed Whitefriars, courtesy of an Economics test-paper that he had acquired and sought to commercialise). Father Shane was also in attendance and he authored the syrupy 'spiritual sessions' that dominated the daylight hours. Nights were another matter: I've never enjoyed poker but the exception was an all-night marathon, organised by Peter Bennett (sans cigar), where half of the pack were wild cards - what fun we had. For whatever reason, we watched The Elephant Man as a group. Returning to our huts, we donned pillow cases to screech out into the darkness: I am not an animal - I'm a human being! or variants to that effect. We were also yelling out to, and at, one another, the aim being to madden Joey who was attempting to enforce curfew. No sooner had Joey strode over to one of the huts to stifle the insurrection when another 'hotspot' would arise on the other side of the camp, summoning his attention. Those among us who were more adventurous (not me, sadly) slipped away into the darkness to partake of the nocturnal treats of nearby Point Leo. All in all, Sommerville was a less enjoyable affair than the Harrietville camp. HSC loomed ahead of us like the Second Step on Everest and the 'Kumbaya' sessions were dreary. A desultory attempt was made to swim at the beach but the weather was inclement. I remember walking listlessly along the Point Leo beach with Trenny. Both of us were bored shitless and waiting for the next instalment of life - namely girls and cars - to galvanise our existence; but they lay months into the future.
Which bring us to the third major outing. Eddie de Jong was (or should I say is) an archetypical physics teacher with a bushy beard, bullet-proof glasses and enough brown jumpers to invade Russia. Word has it that as of 2010, he's still teaching at Whitefriars, meaning that he has been there for the better part of forty years (I don't know if that makes him an institution or institutionalised). Eddie was a fine teacher with an acute sense of humour. He liked a flutter on the nags, and on not a few occasions could be seen at Tunstall Square's TAB. The Physics Room at Whitefriars had an attractive ambience to it (and out the back was an early computer that contained a few science-orientated games; Paul Dietze routinely blew up one of the nuclear power stations by blocking off their coolants). With a maniacal laugh, Eddie inducted us into the terror of electricity (making us all hold hands while he wickedly turned a dynamo). As I was abysmal at maths, I dumped physics at the end of Year 11 but those who were more intrepid pushed on. One of the main attractions of undertaking Physics in HSC was camping under the stars for a week. Here is a recollection of the event:
The Year 12 Astrophysics camp of 1983 took place in May at Cathedral Mountain state park, on the other side of the Great Dividing Range from Melbourne so as to get away from the light and air pollution of the city. The campsite was very basic. We slept in tents and cooked over open camp fires. There were toilets but no showers and most of us wore the same cloths for a week. With the accumulation of smoke and dirt and teenage boy gunk, I had never been as filthy in my life before as I was at the end of that week. It was cold and wet. On one night the temperature dropped to 1 degree. On at least one day, it rained all day long and we were confined to our tents. I didn’t bring a fly for my tent and it let in water. All my stuff became damp. Somehow, these “hardships” weren’t negatives. We revelled in them and had an absolute ball. Like true physicists, we experimented with the effects of temperature and pressure and projectile motion. What would happen, we hypothesised, if a can of baked beans was placed in a campfire? How long would it take for the pressure inside the can to exceed the resisting force of the steel can? What path would the beans take after being ejected from the can? The answers came from many repeat experiments. Maggot discovered that the time taken for a can to reach explosive temperatures is not very long at all when he wandered (unaware) near a campfire and was told in no uncertain terms by the lead scientist to move away with all haste. I discovered that the path taken by a body of beans can intersect with ones tent. The observational astrophysics was more problematic. It was cloudy for most of the week. We had some dinky little 3 inch refractor telescope through which I saw not a single heavenly body. There was a 6 inch Celestron Schmidt-Cassegrain telescope borrowed from another school, but I couldn’t bring the thing to focus. Tim Magill had brought his own Newtonian Reflector, but the worm gears were so slow that by the time you got it pointing at a star, the sun was coming up. There were so many of us and so few scopes that our shifts at the eyepiece were very short. In other words, we stayed up all night every night for a week but saw nothing though a telescope. We did learn about constellations and the brighter stars during the breaks in the cloud while standing around between shifts. Who attended the camp? The 'Baked Bean Team' consisted of Adrian Hill, Glenn Guest, Matt Thomas, Mal Pinkerton, Frank Horacek et al. Ernie Krakouer, Andy McClure, Copsey, Sokker etc were probably scouring the area for hidden crops of wacky tobaccy. Dietze, Vass and I were in a shift with Terry Dunn and, yes, probably Steve Wynd as well. On the final night, some port was smuggled into camp and passed around the campfire. Eddie de Jong and Mark Miller were either unaware or turned a blind eye. Well in to the wee hours of the morning there were boisterous choruses of The Old Bark Hut ("In the Old Bark Hut, in the Old Bark Hut, you might die of constipation in the Old Bark Hut"), punctuated at intervals by explosions of the last of the baked beans. I think I slept for 14 hours straight when I got home and Mum gave up trying to clean my clothes and threw them out instead. But that week is my fondest memory of Whitefriars."
Elsewhere, there were two day-excursions that warrant attention. The year 1979 was the 1900th anniversary of the eruption of Vesuvius. With Caecilius, Metella, Quintus and the famous Grumio fresh in our minds, Chunkles and Father Barry took us to the Victorian Art Centre where an exhibition was being held. Later that day, we toured the nearby State Theatre where a tour-guide informed us that such was the pressure of the water-table under the structure, the obelisk above our heads would take off like a rocket and land in Williamstown if it were not for engineering measures in play; we were impressed.
At the commencement of HSC, Shirley Fung accompanied the Biology Students to the Zoo. It was a mundane affair with one exception. In those days, the Indian elephants were confined to a narrow pen. They were noisy buggers, perhaps out of frustration. We had brought a long a tape-recorder and we recorded their trumpeting, spiced up with some commentary on our part (perhaps we used one Paul Dietze's Chrome TDK tapes as he had cornered the market in our year - even Metal tapes, astoundingly, were on offer). Anyway, for whatever reason we played the recording back to the elephants at full volume and much to our surprise, they went berko. They lined up as if another herd of elephants was about to charge their position. Their leader, a big tusker, was agitated in particular. Once we understood the causality, we replayed the recording a second and third time for a laugh. A crowd gathered around. At this point, Shirley materialised and promptly ended the show. Unceremoniously, we were marched back to the buses. Once we were on the road, Shirley gruffly told us that we were a disgrace to the uniform. We mused raucously on this thought as we journeyed homewards.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Chapter 8 - Sparks from the Bonfire
Many of us were despatched to Whitefriars because it was a Catholic school and the Carmelites were well regarded – quite rightly - as an Order. Religion as a subject featured on the syllabus. It warrants a chapter in its own right.
While I write this chapter as a liberal Catholic, to this day I do not understand what it means “to be taught religion.” One either has an experience of the numinous - and interprets it in a certain way - or not.
The Catholicism that we encountered at Whitefriars was a reflection of its time. In the wake of Vatican II, the triumphalism and tribalism of past generations were in retreat and the rigidity of John Paul II had yet to exert itself. All in all, it made for uncertain times, and the attempts to instil religiosity into the student-mass defaulted to a 'Kumbaya' dynamic which invited neither introspection nor transcendence: derision and apathy were harvest. Upon our arrival in 1978, for instance, there was no chapel at the school; makeshift liturgies were held in the so-called Religion Centre, a bunker-like classroom that sat under the Chemistry Lab. Towards the end of our stay, the Senior Common Room behind the canteen was transformed into a chapel of sorts but even that had a transitory feel to it. In 2010, the College opened a new chapel on the site of the old quadrangle (which necessitated the removal of the portable classrooms 14 -16 which was no great loss). Its opening was accompanied by pomp and splendour. The Federal Member for Menzies, Kevin Andrew, who was shortly to undertake his quixotic campaign to become Opposition Leader, irridated proceedings with his piety, wit and bonhomme. Two reservations surface: the statue of Elijah at the entranceway borders on a caricature, whereas Jesus, as depicted above the altar, looks like he's about to take a jezza on the Main Oval. Such an enormous expenditure of money prompts one to ask: what will be the return on investment be? If any sort of spirituality is to take root, it requires silence, introspection and stillness above all. I like the new chapel but it remains to be seen if it'll shift the dynamic among the students whose lives are so filled with noise and entertainment. To my mind, the real chapel at Whitefriars is still the Bush, ever beckoning.
There were many Carmelites at Whitefriars during our time: Fathers Noel Kierce, Robert McCormack (who taught us Religion from Years 9 til 11), Wayne Stanhope (Religion in Year 8), Maurice Barry (Latin), Peter Slattery, Adrian Jones (Science in Year 7) and Shane O’Connor (the Chaplain during most of our stay), and Brothers Leo Richmond (Indonesia in Year 8), Anthony Moresco (as per Slattery) & Anthony Moffat (Religion in Year 7). They warranted respect. During our tenure, one of the Carmelites who had inaugurated the school - Brother Thomas Butler - was murdered in shadowy circumstances all round. He's buried with Father Shane and Brother Anthony in the cemetery at the Monastery.
Mystics use the phrase 'the Cloud of Unknowing' to articulate their immersion into the One and such a cloud has descended upon our collective memory of Religion as a subject; more earthily, bugger all comes to mind. For instance, I cannot recall a single detail of the year that we spent with Father Stanhope in 1979. A few details are extant. For the better part of the six years, our textbook in Religion was The Way –a publication that attempted to hip-up the Bible. Unlike parallel textbooks in Indonesia and American History, its many photographs were left unsullied as it generated so little enthusiasm.
The late Brother Anthony Moffat O. Carm was our religious teacher in Year 7. He was also the cricket coach. Brother A, as we called him, was a kindly man. Much of his time was spent mowing the lawns. He was, however, unable to control a class and collectively we ran riot. "(I remember) religion classes with Brother Anthony descending into utter chaos. Our detention time was written up on the board - 5 mins. Then Brother Anthony rubbed it out and replaced it with 10 mins and then 15 mins as the chaos worsened. By the end of the class Brother Anthony erased it entirely and told us not to bother about detention."
Father Robert McCormack taught us religion (again, what a ludicrous phrase that is) for three years. Much to his credit, Robert was non-doctrinaire and had mojo. I was not surprised when he later left the Order – presumably to marry: priests invariably attract the attention of ‘Black-Trackers’ – women who are besotted by clerics, and being the good looking man that he was, Robert would've been targeted incessantly. Adrian Jones, a friend of our family, similarly left the Carmelites to settle in the township of Foster. He was a fine man.
Every so often, manfully in a way, a cohort of middle-aged Catholic housewives would undertake a sex-education course with us (my mother, God bless her, regularly participated in such courses elsewhere and I was terrified that one day she'd lob up at our class). They reeked of earnestness. The merits of the Rhythm Method (otherwise known as Vatican Roulette) featured prominently in their discourse. Likewise, the virtues of abstinence and the sanctity of marriage were trumpeted. The response was venomous. The likes of Matt Thomas and Ian Krakeour - no mean adversaries - revelled in their absurdities. Such engagements were entertaining in themselves - much like watching an aerial dogfight, but the seeds, in every way, 'fell on stony ground'. But for all their marksmanship, would it not have been better to respond with the poem that is a neutron-bomb to Moral Theology: Catullus 5?
Let us live, my Lesbia, and let us love,
and let us value all the tales of the old (wo)men
to be worth less than a farthing!
Suns rise and fall again.
When our brief light has been extinguished
we must sleep a never ending night.
Give me a thousand kisses, then another hundred,
then another thousand, then a second hundred,
then yet another thousand more, then another hundred.
Then, when we have kissed a thousandfold,
we will mix them all up so that we've lost count
and so that no one can be jealous of us when he finds out
how many kisses we have shared.
But alas we lacked the education, and doubly so.
In 1980, we were sitting in the Religion Centre waiting for Father McCormack to show up. There was an altercation between Johnny Wilkins and Tony di Pietro (evidently, the former used the W-bomb on the latter, who was very conscious of his Mediterranean origins). In response, Tony seized Johnny and threw him over his shoulder, karate-style. Sitting nearby, I heard a god-awful crack – and that was JW’s humerus being snapped in two. John was left in agony(and in speaking with him recently, the discomfort lingers). Tony was frogmarched out of the room and that was the last we saw of him in our livery.
In retrospect, Whitefriars afforded me only two experiences that could be vaguely classified as spiritual. They occurred at the beginning and end of our tenure.
A few weeks after we commenced Year 7, Brother Anthony took us on a tour of the Monastery. It's an imposing edifice. It was constructed in 1937 presumably from donations. We all walked up the hill and were led through the complex (no laggards hid in the change-rooms on this occasion). I remember being impressed by the silence and cavernous acoustic (and to this day, one of my minor ambitions is to gain access to the tower). Time was a different beast in its confines. We came across the occasional Carmelite during our visitation but for all I know, they were ghosts – that’s how ethereal they were, gliding silently through the monastic half-light.
The Monastery also featured in the second experience: I attended Midnight Mass in its spartan chapel and it left one transfigured - "my face close to the points of a star". Walking back to the car, the constellations above were diamond-like, causing one to look momentarily for the Star hovering above the stable. You know - the old story.
For all the investiture of energy, it would be interesting to understand how many of the Class of 1983 would nowadays describe themselves as Catholics. To quote from The Wasteland:
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water.
Some of my best schoolmates are avowed atheists (with a smile). Others, fewer in number, are dedicated Catholics. Most are inbetwixt and inbetween, and if their religious education has left an imprint, it's evident in their come se, come sa attitude. Such a state can immunise one against horrors: I cannot imagine anyone from our Year, for instance, becoming a fire-breathing Pentecostalist. Mundane though it be, I daresay the divorce-rate among us is much lower than the national average. If, as Hamlet judged, the rest is silence, let us end on that sonorous note and befittingly so.
While I write this chapter as a liberal Catholic, to this day I do not understand what it means “to be taught religion.” One either has an experience of the numinous - and interprets it in a certain way - or not.
The Catholicism that we encountered at Whitefriars was a reflection of its time. In the wake of Vatican II, the triumphalism and tribalism of past generations were in retreat and the rigidity of John Paul II had yet to exert itself. All in all, it made for uncertain times, and the attempts to instil religiosity into the student-mass defaulted to a 'Kumbaya' dynamic which invited neither introspection nor transcendence: derision and apathy were harvest. Upon our arrival in 1978, for instance, there was no chapel at the school; makeshift liturgies were held in the so-called Religion Centre, a bunker-like classroom that sat under the Chemistry Lab. Towards the end of our stay, the Senior Common Room behind the canteen was transformed into a chapel of sorts but even that had a transitory feel to it. In 2010, the College opened a new chapel on the site of the old quadrangle (which necessitated the removal of the portable classrooms 14 -16 which was no great loss). Its opening was accompanied by pomp and splendour. The Federal Member for Menzies, Kevin Andrew, who was shortly to undertake his quixotic campaign to become Opposition Leader, irridated proceedings with his piety, wit and bonhomme. Two reservations surface: the statue of Elijah at the entranceway borders on a caricature, whereas Jesus, as depicted above the altar, looks like he's about to take a jezza on the Main Oval. Such an enormous expenditure of money prompts one to ask: what will be the return on investment be? If any sort of spirituality is to take root, it requires silence, introspection and stillness above all. I like the new chapel but it remains to be seen if it'll shift the dynamic among the students whose lives are so filled with noise and entertainment. To my mind, the real chapel at Whitefriars is still the Bush, ever beckoning.
There were many Carmelites at Whitefriars during our time: Fathers Noel Kierce, Robert McCormack (who taught us Religion from Years 9 til 11), Wayne Stanhope (Religion in Year 8), Maurice Barry (Latin), Peter Slattery, Adrian Jones (Science in Year 7) and Shane O’Connor (the Chaplain during most of our stay), and Brothers Leo Richmond (Indonesia in Year 8), Anthony Moresco (as per Slattery) & Anthony Moffat (Religion in Year 7). They warranted respect. During our tenure, one of the Carmelites who had inaugurated the school - Brother Thomas Butler - was murdered in shadowy circumstances all round. He's buried with Father Shane and Brother Anthony in the cemetery at the Monastery.
Mystics use the phrase 'the Cloud of Unknowing' to articulate their immersion into the One and such a cloud has descended upon our collective memory of Religion as a subject; more earthily, bugger all comes to mind. For instance, I cannot recall a single detail of the year that we spent with Father Stanhope in 1979. A few details are extant. For the better part of the six years, our textbook in Religion was The Way –a publication that attempted to hip-up the Bible. Unlike parallel textbooks in Indonesia and American History, its many photographs were left unsullied as it generated so little enthusiasm.
The late Brother Anthony Moffat O. Carm was our religious teacher in Year 7. He was also the cricket coach. Brother A, as we called him, was a kindly man. Much of his time was spent mowing the lawns. He was, however, unable to control a class and collectively we ran riot. "(I remember) religion classes with Brother Anthony descending into utter chaos. Our detention time was written up on the board - 5 mins. Then Brother Anthony rubbed it out and replaced it with 10 mins and then 15 mins as the chaos worsened. By the end of the class Brother Anthony erased it entirely and told us not to bother about detention."
Father Robert McCormack taught us religion (again, what a ludicrous phrase that is) for three years. Much to his credit, Robert was non-doctrinaire and had mojo. I was not surprised when he later left the Order – presumably to marry: priests invariably attract the attention of ‘Black-Trackers’ – women who are besotted by clerics, and being the good looking man that he was, Robert would've been targeted incessantly. Adrian Jones, a friend of our family, similarly left the Carmelites to settle in the township of Foster. He was a fine man.
Every so often, manfully in a way, a cohort of middle-aged Catholic housewives would undertake a sex-education course with us (my mother, God bless her, regularly participated in such courses elsewhere and I was terrified that one day she'd lob up at our class). They reeked of earnestness. The merits of the Rhythm Method (otherwise known as Vatican Roulette) featured prominently in their discourse. Likewise, the virtues of abstinence and the sanctity of marriage were trumpeted. The response was venomous. The likes of Matt Thomas and Ian Krakeour - no mean adversaries - revelled in their absurdities. Such engagements were entertaining in themselves - much like watching an aerial dogfight, but the seeds, in every way, 'fell on stony ground'. But for all their marksmanship, would it not have been better to respond with the poem that is a neutron-bomb to Moral Theology: Catullus 5?
Let us live, my Lesbia, and let us love,
and let us value all the tales of the old (wo)men
to be worth less than a farthing!
Suns rise and fall again.
When our brief light has been extinguished
we must sleep a never ending night.
Give me a thousand kisses, then another hundred,
then another thousand, then a second hundred,
then yet another thousand more, then another hundred.
Then, when we have kissed a thousandfold,
we will mix them all up so that we've lost count
and so that no one can be jealous of us when he finds out
how many kisses we have shared.
But alas we lacked the education, and doubly so.
In 1980, we were sitting in the Religion Centre waiting for Father McCormack to show up. There was an altercation between Johnny Wilkins and Tony di Pietro (evidently, the former used the W-bomb on the latter, who was very conscious of his Mediterranean origins). In response, Tony seized Johnny and threw him over his shoulder, karate-style. Sitting nearby, I heard a god-awful crack – and that was JW’s humerus being snapped in two. John was left in agony(and in speaking with him recently, the discomfort lingers). Tony was frogmarched out of the room and that was the last we saw of him in our livery.
In retrospect, Whitefriars afforded me only two experiences that could be vaguely classified as spiritual. They occurred at the beginning and end of our tenure.
A few weeks after we commenced Year 7, Brother Anthony took us on a tour of the Monastery. It's an imposing edifice. It was constructed in 1937 presumably from donations. We all walked up the hill and were led through the complex (no laggards hid in the change-rooms on this occasion). I remember being impressed by the silence and cavernous acoustic (and to this day, one of my minor ambitions is to gain access to the tower). Time was a different beast in its confines. We came across the occasional Carmelite during our visitation but for all I know, they were ghosts – that’s how ethereal they were, gliding silently through the monastic half-light.
The Monastery also featured in the second experience: I attended Midnight Mass in its spartan chapel and it left one transfigured - "my face close to the points of a star". Walking back to the car, the constellations above were diamond-like, causing one to look momentarily for the Star hovering above the stable. You know - the old story.
For all the investiture of energy, it would be interesting to understand how many of the Class of 1983 would nowadays describe themselves as Catholics. To quote from The Wasteland:
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water.
Some of my best schoolmates are avowed atheists (with a smile). Others, fewer in number, are dedicated Catholics. Most are inbetwixt and inbetween, and if their religious education has left an imprint, it's evident in their come se, come sa attitude. Such a state can immunise one against horrors: I cannot imagine anyone from our Year, for instance, becoming a fire-breathing Pentecostalist. Mundane though it be, I daresay the divorce-rate among us is much lower than the national average. If, as Hamlet judged, the rest is silence, let us end on that sonorous note and befittingly so.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Chapter 7 - The Ocean & the Sea
Whilst in class, the pecking order tyrannised all. But come the 12.15 bell, a bigger game was in play – and bigger guys.
Recently when the Forgotten Year was trying to organise another reunion (which was a flop), someone piped up, “Do you reckon that the guys in the year above us had a reunion last year?” to which Maggot replied, immortally, “Yes they did: in Ararat Jail.”
For five of the six years, the Class of 1982 was Mordor to our Middle Earth. Names such as Matty Feutrill, Matt McClelland, John Bonnyman, Corm, Paul Brennan, Big Lexy, Brad Woodman (whom the Devil avoided on a stormy night), Lawrence Mooney and Greg Day still resonate down to this day. Pat Cash, a chivalrous figure, also featured prominently in our survival guides. They were bigger, stronger and more unruly than us. Indeed, by any measure our Year was feeble. We were the broom, not the broom handle. Two altercations warrant commemoration. Big Wayne Doherty was with us for no more than two years. Wayne was obese. I do not know if his surliness preceded this condition or was a by-product of it but he was unsettled as a person; the taunts in the school-yard did little to brighten his countenance. Over to Steff:
"The Big Doughie fight started as most school yard tussles do, with lots of bullshit and bravado. It took place in the middle courtyard and we were in year 8. A group of us were playing handball alongside some of the year 9 punks, the inevitable loose balls into each other’s courts led to a confrontation between Big Doughie and a year 9 boy whose name I cannot remember but he was blonde and a good footballer. Doughie outweighed him significantly and used that weight to advantage in the early pushing stage of the bout, then out of nowhere this kid unleashed so many vicious punches in such a quick burst one could not help but feel sorry for Doughie (not big Doughie anymore) and I urged him to throw in the towel to end the slaughter. I vividly remember making a mental note to stay clear of that kid in a scuffle, way out of my league. That's all my limited memory permits me to retell."
Steff himself features in the next story. To this day, it was the best fight I've witnessed. The year was 1982. Steff’s protagonist was David Toll (again, Class of 82). Toll was no bully – just someone not to be antagonised. Steff cannot recall its genesis but what a fight it was. It occurred in the locker-room adjacent to the canteen. It erupted like a volcano – with little or no forewarning. The pyro-technics were astounding and I had a front-row seat. Within seconds, the protagonists were swinging wildly at each other and a crowd congregated. Steff and Toll, both six footers, were a good match for one another. Summoning all of his strength, the latter unleashed a haymaker; if it had landed, Steff would have been the first Australian on the moon. Steff ducked, allowing Toll’s fist to smash into the semi-glass cabinet on the wall that housed the fire-extinguisher. Blood resulted. Emboldened, Steff stepped back and unerringly jabbed away: nose, chin, nose, eye. A teacher arrived at that moment and separated the pugilists. Biased though I was, the points belonged to Steff. Again, Whitefriars being what it was at the time, there were few if any consequences for the participants and Steff’s accomplishments made us walk a little bit taller.
When one actually assesses how much damage the Class of 82 inflicted upon us, it was more psychological than physical. Sure, Pat Cash – one of the great humanitarians of our time - randomly punched guys as we passed each other between classes (and this practice was killed off by Steff, who threatened to retaliate, evoking laughter from the future Wimbledon champion); and at the behest of his inner daemon, Pat also practised his forearm on one of our inner circle with no provocation whatsoever. But these were rarities. More often than not, the likes of Martin Keogh, Goody and Turtle - wow - were smart-arses towards us and left it at that (and indeed, John Bonnyman, much to his credit, on one occasion ordered Keogh - who was a pipsqueak himself - to stop taunting a guy from the Class of 84). With a glitter in his eyes, Matt Feutrill mischievously asking us to join him on the trampoline was the mean. They had our measure - but not now.
Here's a tale. One day Maggot and I were strolling past the Canteen area, walking towards the Bio Lab. We both had a Big M in hand – presumably chocolate - and life was good. In doing so we attracted the attention of Greg Day (Class of 82). He trotted over, piglike, and gruffly told us to hand over one of the trophies; behind him, his bigger mates were looking on and ready to lend assistance if required. Jon and I took one look at each other and bolted – Day was never going to catch us with his stumpy little legs and thankfully not one drop of the Big Ms was lost as we made good our escape. Post school, I encountered the bugger at the Melbourne University Book Shop: bereft of the ‘heavy artillery’, he looked like Little Bo Peep. Mirroring St Peter, I knew him not. Past infelicities aside, Greg has been transmuted into an urbane writer who lives the Sea-Change dream in a sleepy coastal town. Bejewelled in a knitted vest, he piously offers up a Te Deum for being educated "by the Carmelite priests and brothers in a bush setting." One can only hope for the mandatory cook-book to materialise, resplendent with fresh, non-supermarket ingredients from cover to cover. Chapter 1, the Cheese Platter . . . . . .
Welshy was another little shit. He was one of the few non Anglo-Saxons, Celts or Italians at the school (he must have been of Indian or Sri Lankan extraction). Credit where credit is due: Welshy knew he was a runt and adjusted his methods accordingly. For instance, if we were playing tennis, he would brazenly walk on with a mate and commandeer the court. If we kicked up a fuss or called him a cunt (accompanied by a colourful adjective or two), he'd threaten to summon a B-52 strike: Feutrill or McClelland. Normally he prevailed under such circumstances. May the god Nemesis revisit his petty crimes and malfeasance.
The wheel turns full circle. Coin-slot buffoon, Lawrence Mooney, was a lesser thug from the Class of 82. Since time immemorial, there's been a smirk on his face: it invites panel-beating. Alas, we were weighed in the balance and found wanting. Even so, there were guys in the upper years who had the wherewithal to undertake this task. As witnessed on many occasions, a gang of them would unceremoniously pluck Moons from the canteen area. Oinking all the way, Moons was then dragged to the toilets where the brown baptism awaited him, skid marks and all. This immersion did little to impart wisdom to Moons, either then or now. Even so, at such moments one was prepared to believe, however falteringly, in justice. Whoever these heroes were, may their bones lie in peace.
Big Matt McClelland was the most fearsome of them all – but again, I cannot remember any specific transgressions on his part. He was just so damned big and gnarly, surely he was the Beast of the Apocalypse – or so we whispered fearfully to one another. In retrospect, he ignored us. He features in one famous yarn . In Year 12 the smokers (of the Class of '82) had got lazy and decided that the lengthy trek down the bush was too far to make and started smoking just outside the canteen, where the deliveries were made. One day the Herbert Adams truck rolled in and a muscular Italian bloke jumped in and headed in to talk to Marie. I can’t remember who it was but someone jumped in and grabbed a couple of donuts. When the driver returned he grabbed the nearest student by the throat, which just happened to be Paul Harte who was a completely innocent bystander. Matt took umbrage at this and told the bloke to let him go as he was innocent. Words were exchanged and challenges made. Matt took up the challenge and dropped the guy with a lovely combination of punches. The driver picked up what was left of his dignity and sped away up the hill. The rumour went around the school in a matter of minutes. “McLelland has hit the Donut Man!” .
Many a lunchtime we were not pestered and therefore left to our own devices.
As one drives into Whitefriars, the slope on the left hand side, where the Wilson-Healy building now resides, was a grassy knoll in our time. There were olive-coloured water tanks at the top too. With nothing to do, particularly in Years 9 – 11, most lunch-times were spent playing ‘Brandy on the Hill.’ No mercy was sought or granted. Be it at close range or far away, the ball was hurled around at one hundred miles per hour – and sting it did! The rules were simple: use a tennis ball to hunt down those who were ‘not it’. At the commencement of the game, we formed a circle and soccer-style, attempted to force the tennis-ball through someone’s legs – whoever failed to keep the ball out was ‘it’. Those who were subsequently hit by the ball joined the hunter(s) and the effort became more coordinated. If a throw was made unsuccessfully and the ball ran free, it could be picked up by the hunted with their wrists alone – if successful, the obligation was to keep it out of the hands of the hunter(s) for as long as possible. I do not think that any of us have ever been so aerobically fit as those days – running up and down for the better part of an hour conditioned us like a month of training at Fort Bragg. Quite often, the last person to be rounded up would be corralled into a circle and thumped at close range. Some trees had been staked at the bottom of the hill. One day, madly attempting to avoid capture, Vass ran into them with devastating consequences for his wanger. Deny it though he will – Peter Nanscawen, a dedicated participant – often hid in the bushes above the old tennis courts. For those hunters in the know, not irregularly he was easy meat.
What with the additions to the school, our successors cannot partake of this activity.
Retrospectively, on my part at least, those hours galloping up and down the hill were a great ‘blaze of being’ – a moment when all things converged. Our veins pulsed with life - and unstoppable as we were, everything lay ahead of us and would be conquered in due course. We could not have been any happier or more fulfilled (except if Mrs Woolf had driven past in her Celica and bestowed a wink upon us). But impermanency rules all. No man steps twice into the same river, Heraclitus proclaims, as the waters of change are always flowing upon one. Whenever I visit the College and drive past what is left of this nondescript slope, I pause and remember – but to what avail? What is the terminus of such happiness? Why are we called upon to experience such intensity if it is all so ephemeral? An outsider would be hard-pressed to say that anything of import had ever happened on that patch of earth. Perhaps, to paraphrase Graham Green, that is why mankind has the need for a god: someone who is eternally remembering - and reliving - the euphoria of his short-lived creations lest it all pass into oblivion.
The other lunchtime activity in our mid-years was brawl ball. Big Gav, from memory, regularly brought a near-indestructible plastic football, yellow in colour, to school and amazingly it revelled in trauma. The Rules of Brawl Ball, as codified by consensus, were simple: there were no rules. Mauling, whacking, kicking-in-danger and decapitations were all promoted. It was played on one of the two basketball courts, which were usually wet from drizzle. Pretty much the entire class joined in. Bernie Rohan was always in defence as the dour CHB. Nanny was usually to be found at the bottom of the pack as the nuggety 'inside midfielder.' While Maggot was the Raging Bull (he was stronger than most of us), he was not invulnerable:
I remember one game of brawl ball where the ‘Raging Bull’ as you so put it, came a cropper. My undoing on this particular occasion was the old clark school shoes with a tread pattern that would put the Ferrari F1 to shame. To say I had zero traction that day was an understatement. Add in a light sprinkling of rain and my attempt to avoid the raging pack with a ball tucked under my arm was doomed from the start. With no arms to break my fall my head took the full impact on the concrete basketball court. I knew I was in a spot of bother when, with severely blurred vision, I asked OE (both of him as I recall) if he could help me find my glasses. His reply of “Your wearing them , mate” suggested to me that the impact had done more than wounded my reputation. I remember wandering up the office and being sat down in front of Ray Keane who after asking my name rank and serial number, concluded that I had concussion and suggested i go home. Thinking back I often wonder about the duty of care back then, given that it was well known that I walked to school. I recall walking home and spending the next 2 days in bed with a raging headache. I look at the well published incidents around head injuries today and shudder at how easily it could have come undone for me back then. Interestingly my parents didn’t seem to be that concerned at the time – maybe i just need to harden the fuck up.........
Water-fights featured prominently in Year 12, and all the more so as the HSC exams bore down upon us. Milk cartons were the preferred weapons, though on not a few occasions, plastic bags were used like slingshots to devastating effect. Greg Santamaria was an incorrigible water-bomber. One morning I lay in wait for Gav Cleary in the Common Room. The window was open. The day was warm. Below me was the stairs that led into the Canteen area. I had brought a two litre Pura Milk carton from home and filled it to the brim. Big Gav arrived with the Mitcham boys. Unsuspectingly, he trudged down the stairs. I shouted his name. With his mouth wide open, he looked up. There must have been something miraculous in the air that morning, as every drop of the payload was funnelled into his mouth. Quite understandably, Gav went berko - "Die Dog ! Die dog!" and set off in hot pursuit. From memory, my action sparked a wider war that morning. Water made its way into the canteen and some punk from a year below us slipped and nearly cracked his skull on the cement. Breathing fire, Father Kierce and Joey summoned us all to the Common Room. Sheepishly, Gav stood in the front row, as wet as a fish. Noel said that he would not hesitate to send any further exponents of the sport to the Exhibition Buildings where they could sit their HSC exams. That ended the practice.
Earlier in our stay, a Golf Club of sorts was formed. The membership comprised of the Balwyn guys, as I so labelled them (Paul Dietze, Peter Bennett, Dan Burgoine [though he was from Park Orchards], Andy Balkin and Michael Date - Boysen might have been involved as well). Various courses were improvised but they mostly centred around the main oval. As golf clubs were banned, suitable sticks were conscripted. I tried to participate once with my infamous club - the bog-slogger - but I was told to piss off pronto. As I understand it, the 'Golf Club' had wider interests than the sport itself, and on not a few occasions they had tussles with the guys from the Class of 82 . . . . .
As the days lengthened, many of us took to the cricket nets that were located where the library now stands. As both the run-up and the surface itself was uneven, they were treacherous to bowler and batsman alike. Batting-wise, they both faced the road, so a six could clear Park Road itself. One day Tim Magill was being bombarded by an array of full tosses, short-balls and grubbers. A pie-chucker sent a half-volley his way; in response, he promptly danced down the pitch and slogged it into the air; the ball did not quite clear Park Road - it landed on the bonnet of a passing Mercedes.
As mentioned, the Bush exerted a mystical, Siren-like attraction on the student body. There were few who did not venture into its domain. It was ALWAYS there, much like the Urwald in the German collective memory. Who could resist its summons during lunchtime? Other than roaming around, trekking to the bridge on Heads Road and having a fag, what else did one do in the Bush? Well, throwing rocks into Mullum Mullum creek itself was a favourite pastime. Tony Weeks’ house lay nearby; for friends, lunch was on offer.
For those wanting to avoid detection, there were two ingress points: the bottom oval nearer to the gym (where one simply disappeared over the lip into the pine trees) and behind the goals on the main oval where one had clear line-of-sight to any teacher in the vicinity. There were various tracks in the Bush; some of them attracted names like Bourke Street on Mt Buller. It was an imperative to carry a map in one’s head lest teachers be in the vicinity. Marauders from different years were to be avoided, particularly the guys from the year above us: it was no skin off their nose if we were nabbed. Tarzan-like noises or comments on Mal Parris’ diction could be heard through the foliage, causing Chunkles – an inveterate hunter - to zero in like an Exocet. In retrospect, I'm sure John Wilson enjoyed the pursuit. It was no mean challenge to round up such miscreants, particularly as they bolted for cover with jumpers over their heads if he came into view. John was no fool. Many a time he waited on the bottom oval for the dim-witted – the wildebeests among us - to emerge thoughtlessly from the Bush. Denials, quite rightly, were useless. Brendan remembers: "A good lunchtime sport was to sit high on the hill above the two lower ovals and watch Chunkles and Parris disappear down the bush behind the old Nissan hut gym. Five minutes later, we would see the procession of bodies with jumpers over their heads emerging from all other available exits . . . . (one year) Dietze, Boysen and myself had setup camp down the bush way upstream underneath the Heads Rd bridge. We would visit there most lunchtimes but I remember coming back early one day but couldn't find anyone in the outdoor areas of the schoolyard. Father Barry was walking past and told us there had been a bomb scare twenty minutes earlier and everyone had assembled on the basketball courts. Needless to say, we were busted."
And on one occasion, Chunkles himself caught the uncatchable: Peter 'Alby Mangals' Nanscawen (alas, sans Judy Green).
Upon being questioned by Pontius Pilate, Jesus replied at one point: "My Kingdom is not of this world." Similarly, Nanny's domain was not the classrooms but the Bush itself where he was sovereign. He clocked more hours in those damned trees, shrubs and undergrowth than the rest of us combined. He knew every track (and Chunkles' ambush-points) like the back of his hand. Yes, Chunkles caught him once but it was never going to happen a second time (Parris, haughtily despised, was no threat to a bushman of Nanny's calibre). Even today, during half time at an Old Boys' match, Nanny is sure-footed in his former realm!
For those gallivanting through the bush, the three sewage ponds provided compass. Needlessly, they were ringed by a fence – no-one was ever going to dive into their murky waters with so many Mars Bars afloat on the surface. Many a large rock was lobbed into their middle, and we watched on in horror as various monsters surfaced in their wake.
Update 2020. Times have changed. My school-mates mates have vividly reminded me of a herculean feat that is worthy of commemoration: Santa and Nanny commandeering an upside-down classroom table as a sled to hammer down the hill to the oval closer to the gym. This is no mean incline. In my mind, I can still see these dare-devils as they undertook this feat; both of them crouched down for the duration of the journey and then leapt for their lives as the table came to grief at the bottom of the slope. In this current age of liability and insurance, this heroic act would be banned by the Administration - but back then, no-one gave a shit. Reader, next time you stand at the top of the hill overlooking the first oval, remember these heroes of yesteryear!
Recently when the Forgotten Year was trying to organise another reunion (which was a flop), someone piped up, “Do you reckon that the guys in the year above us had a reunion last year?” to which Maggot replied, immortally, “Yes they did: in Ararat Jail.”
For five of the six years, the Class of 1982 was Mordor to our Middle Earth. Names such as Matty Feutrill, Matt McClelland, John Bonnyman, Corm, Paul Brennan, Big Lexy, Brad Woodman (whom the Devil avoided on a stormy night), Lawrence Mooney and Greg Day still resonate down to this day. Pat Cash, a chivalrous figure, also featured prominently in our survival guides. They were bigger, stronger and more unruly than us. Indeed, by any measure our Year was feeble. We were the broom, not the broom handle. Two altercations warrant commemoration. Big Wayne Doherty was with us for no more than two years. Wayne was obese. I do not know if his surliness preceded this condition or was a by-product of it but he was unsettled as a person; the taunts in the school-yard did little to brighten his countenance. Over to Steff:
"The Big Doughie fight started as most school yard tussles do, with lots of bullshit and bravado. It took place in the middle courtyard and we were in year 8. A group of us were playing handball alongside some of the year 9 punks, the inevitable loose balls into each other’s courts led to a confrontation between Big Doughie and a year 9 boy whose name I cannot remember but he was blonde and a good footballer. Doughie outweighed him significantly and used that weight to advantage in the early pushing stage of the bout, then out of nowhere this kid unleashed so many vicious punches in such a quick burst one could not help but feel sorry for Doughie (not big Doughie anymore) and I urged him to throw in the towel to end the slaughter. I vividly remember making a mental note to stay clear of that kid in a scuffle, way out of my league. That's all my limited memory permits me to retell."
Steff himself features in the next story. To this day, it was the best fight I've witnessed. The year was 1982. Steff’s protagonist was David Toll (again, Class of 82). Toll was no bully – just someone not to be antagonised. Steff cannot recall its genesis but what a fight it was. It occurred in the locker-room adjacent to the canteen. It erupted like a volcano – with little or no forewarning. The pyro-technics were astounding and I had a front-row seat. Within seconds, the protagonists were swinging wildly at each other and a crowd congregated. Steff and Toll, both six footers, were a good match for one another. Summoning all of his strength, the latter unleashed a haymaker; if it had landed, Steff would have been the first Australian on the moon. Steff ducked, allowing Toll’s fist to smash into the semi-glass cabinet on the wall that housed the fire-extinguisher. Blood resulted. Emboldened, Steff stepped back and unerringly jabbed away: nose, chin, nose, eye. A teacher arrived at that moment and separated the pugilists. Biased though I was, the points belonged to Steff. Again, Whitefriars being what it was at the time, there were few if any consequences for the participants and Steff’s accomplishments made us walk a little bit taller.
When one actually assesses how much damage the Class of 82 inflicted upon us, it was more psychological than physical. Sure, Pat Cash – one of the great humanitarians of our time - randomly punched guys as we passed each other between classes (and this practice was killed off by Steff, who threatened to retaliate, evoking laughter from the future Wimbledon champion); and at the behest of his inner daemon, Pat also practised his forearm on one of our inner circle with no provocation whatsoever. But these were rarities. More often than not, the likes of Martin Keogh, Goody and Turtle - wow - were smart-arses towards us and left it at that (and indeed, John Bonnyman, much to his credit, on one occasion ordered Keogh - who was a pipsqueak himself - to stop taunting a guy from the Class of 84). With a glitter in his eyes, Matt Feutrill mischievously asking us to join him on the trampoline was the mean. They had our measure - but not now.
Here's a tale. One day Maggot and I were strolling past the Canteen area, walking towards the Bio Lab. We both had a Big M in hand – presumably chocolate - and life was good. In doing so we attracted the attention of Greg Day (Class of 82). He trotted over, piglike, and gruffly told us to hand over one of the trophies; behind him, his bigger mates were looking on and ready to lend assistance if required. Jon and I took one look at each other and bolted – Day was never going to catch us with his stumpy little legs and thankfully not one drop of the Big Ms was lost as we made good our escape. Post school, I encountered the bugger at the Melbourne University Book Shop: bereft of the ‘heavy artillery’, he looked like Little Bo Peep. Mirroring St Peter, I knew him not. Past infelicities aside, Greg has been transmuted into an urbane writer who lives the Sea-Change dream in a sleepy coastal town. Bejewelled in a knitted vest, he piously offers up a Te Deum for being educated "by the Carmelite priests and brothers in a bush setting." One can only hope for the mandatory cook-book to materialise, resplendent with fresh, non-supermarket ingredients from cover to cover. Chapter 1, the Cheese Platter . . . . . .
Welshy was another little shit. He was one of the few non Anglo-Saxons, Celts or Italians at the school (he must have been of Indian or Sri Lankan extraction). Credit where credit is due: Welshy knew he was a runt and adjusted his methods accordingly. For instance, if we were playing tennis, he would brazenly walk on with a mate and commandeer the court. If we kicked up a fuss or called him a cunt (accompanied by a colourful adjective or two), he'd threaten to summon a B-52 strike: Feutrill or McClelland. Normally he prevailed under such circumstances. May the god Nemesis revisit his petty crimes and malfeasance.
The wheel turns full circle. Coin-slot buffoon, Lawrence Mooney, was a lesser thug from the Class of 82. Since time immemorial, there's been a smirk on his face: it invites panel-beating. Alas, we were weighed in the balance and found wanting. Even so, there were guys in the upper years who had the wherewithal to undertake this task. As witnessed on many occasions, a gang of them would unceremoniously pluck Moons from the canteen area. Oinking all the way, Moons was then dragged to the toilets where the brown baptism awaited him, skid marks and all. This immersion did little to impart wisdom to Moons, either then or now. Even so, at such moments one was prepared to believe, however falteringly, in justice. Whoever these heroes were, may their bones lie in peace.
Big Matt McClelland was the most fearsome of them all – but again, I cannot remember any specific transgressions on his part. He was just so damned big and gnarly, surely he was the Beast of the Apocalypse – or so we whispered fearfully to one another. In retrospect, he ignored us. He features in one famous yarn . In Year 12 the smokers (of the Class of '82) had got lazy and decided that the lengthy trek down the bush was too far to make and started smoking just outside the canteen, where the deliveries were made. One day the Herbert Adams truck rolled in and a muscular Italian bloke jumped in and headed in to talk to Marie. I can’t remember who it was but someone jumped in and grabbed a couple of donuts. When the driver returned he grabbed the nearest student by the throat, which just happened to be Paul Harte who was a completely innocent bystander. Matt took umbrage at this and told the bloke to let him go as he was innocent. Words were exchanged and challenges made. Matt took up the challenge and dropped the guy with a lovely combination of punches. The driver picked up what was left of his dignity and sped away up the hill. The rumour went around the school in a matter of minutes. “McLelland has hit the Donut Man!” .
Many a lunchtime we were not pestered and therefore left to our own devices.
As one drives into Whitefriars, the slope on the left hand side, where the Wilson-Healy building now resides, was a grassy knoll in our time. There were olive-coloured water tanks at the top too. With nothing to do, particularly in Years 9 – 11, most lunch-times were spent playing ‘Brandy on the Hill.’ No mercy was sought or granted. Be it at close range or far away, the ball was hurled around at one hundred miles per hour – and sting it did! The rules were simple: use a tennis ball to hunt down those who were ‘not it’. At the commencement of the game, we formed a circle and soccer-style, attempted to force the tennis-ball through someone’s legs – whoever failed to keep the ball out was ‘it’. Those who were subsequently hit by the ball joined the hunter(s) and the effort became more coordinated. If a throw was made unsuccessfully and the ball ran free, it could be picked up by the hunted with their wrists alone – if successful, the obligation was to keep it out of the hands of the hunter(s) for as long as possible. I do not think that any of us have ever been so aerobically fit as those days – running up and down for the better part of an hour conditioned us like a month of training at Fort Bragg. Quite often, the last person to be rounded up would be corralled into a circle and thumped at close range. Some trees had been staked at the bottom of the hill. One day, madly attempting to avoid capture, Vass ran into them with devastating consequences for his wanger. Deny it though he will – Peter Nanscawen, a dedicated participant – often hid in the bushes above the old tennis courts. For those hunters in the know, not irregularly he was easy meat.
What with the additions to the school, our successors cannot partake of this activity.
Retrospectively, on my part at least, those hours galloping up and down the hill were a great ‘blaze of being’ – a moment when all things converged. Our veins pulsed with life - and unstoppable as we were, everything lay ahead of us and would be conquered in due course. We could not have been any happier or more fulfilled (except if Mrs Woolf had driven past in her Celica and bestowed a wink upon us). But impermanency rules all. No man steps twice into the same river, Heraclitus proclaims, as the waters of change are always flowing upon one. Whenever I visit the College and drive past what is left of this nondescript slope, I pause and remember – but to what avail? What is the terminus of such happiness? Why are we called upon to experience such intensity if it is all so ephemeral? An outsider would be hard-pressed to say that anything of import had ever happened on that patch of earth. Perhaps, to paraphrase Graham Green, that is why mankind has the need for a god: someone who is eternally remembering - and reliving - the euphoria of his short-lived creations lest it all pass into oblivion.
The other lunchtime activity in our mid-years was brawl ball. Big Gav, from memory, regularly brought a near-indestructible plastic football, yellow in colour, to school and amazingly it revelled in trauma. The Rules of Brawl Ball, as codified by consensus, were simple: there were no rules. Mauling, whacking, kicking-in-danger and decapitations were all promoted. It was played on one of the two basketball courts, which were usually wet from drizzle. Pretty much the entire class joined in. Bernie Rohan was always in defence as the dour CHB. Nanny was usually to be found at the bottom of the pack as the nuggety 'inside midfielder.' While Maggot was the Raging Bull (he was stronger than most of us), he was not invulnerable:
I remember one game of brawl ball where the ‘Raging Bull’ as you so put it, came a cropper. My undoing on this particular occasion was the old clark school shoes with a tread pattern that would put the Ferrari F1 to shame. To say I had zero traction that day was an understatement. Add in a light sprinkling of rain and my attempt to avoid the raging pack with a ball tucked under my arm was doomed from the start. With no arms to break my fall my head took the full impact on the concrete basketball court. I knew I was in a spot of bother when, with severely blurred vision, I asked OE (both of him as I recall) if he could help me find my glasses. His reply of “Your wearing them , mate” suggested to me that the impact had done more than wounded my reputation. I remember wandering up the office and being sat down in front of Ray Keane who after asking my name rank and serial number, concluded that I had concussion and suggested i go home. Thinking back I often wonder about the duty of care back then, given that it was well known that I walked to school. I recall walking home and spending the next 2 days in bed with a raging headache. I look at the well published incidents around head injuries today and shudder at how easily it could have come undone for me back then. Interestingly my parents didn’t seem to be that concerned at the time – maybe i just need to harden the fuck up.........
Water-fights featured prominently in Year 12, and all the more so as the HSC exams bore down upon us. Milk cartons were the preferred weapons, though on not a few occasions, plastic bags were used like slingshots to devastating effect. Greg Santamaria was an incorrigible water-bomber. One morning I lay in wait for Gav Cleary in the Common Room. The window was open. The day was warm. Below me was the stairs that led into the Canteen area. I had brought a two litre Pura Milk carton from home and filled it to the brim. Big Gav arrived with the Mitcham boys. Unsuspectingly, he trudged down the stairs. I shouted his name. With his mouth wide open, he looked up. There must have been something miraculous in the air that morning, as every drop of the payload was funnelled into his mouth. Quite understandably, Gav went berko - "Die Dog ! Die dog!" and set off in hot pursuit. From memory, my action sparked a wider war that morning. Water made its way into the canteen and some punk from a year below us slipped and nearly cracked his skull on the cement. Breathing fire, Father Kierce and Joey summoned us all to the Common Room. Sheepishly, Gav stood in the front row, as wet as a fish. Noel said that he would not hesitate to send any further exponents of the sport to the Exhibition Buildings where they could sit their HSC exams. That ended the practice.
Earlier in our stay, a Golf Club of sorts was formed. The membership comprised of the Balwyn guys, as I so labelled them (Paul Dietze, Peter Bennett, Dan Burgoine [though he was from Park Orchards], Andy Balkin and Michael Date - Boysen might have been involved as well). Various courses were improvised but they mostly centred around the main oval. As golf clubs were banned, suitable sticks were conscripted. I tried to participate once with my infamous club - the bog-slogger - but I was told to piss off pronto. As I understand it, the 'Golf Club' had wider interests than the sport itself, and on not a few occasions they had tussles with the guys from the Class of 82 . . . . .
As the days lengthened, many of us took to the cricket nets that were located where the library now stands. As both the run-up and the surface itself was uneven, they were treacherous to bowler and batsman alike. Batting-wise, they both faced the road, so a six could clear Park Road itself. One day Tim Magill was being bombarded by an array of full tosses, short-balls and grubbers. A pie-chucker sent a half-volley his way; in response, he promptly danced down the pitch and slogged it into the air; the ball did not quite clear Park Road - it landed on the bonnet of a passing Mercedes.
As mentioned, the Bush exerted a mystical, Siren-like attraction on the student body. There were few who did not venture into its domain. It was ALWAYS there, much like the Urwald in the German collective memory. Who could resist its summons during lunchtime? Other than roaming around, trekking to the bridge on Heads Road and having a fag, what else did one do in the Bush? Well, throwing rocks into Mullum Mullum creek itself was a favourite pastime. Tony Weeks’ house lay nearby; for friends, lunch was on offer.
For those wanting to avoid detection, there were two ingress points: the bottom oval nearer to the gym (where one simply disappeared over the lip into the pine trees) and behind the goals on the main oval where one had clear line-of-sight to any teacher in the vicinity. There were various tracks in the Bush; some of them attracted names like Bourke Street on Mt Buller. It was an imperative to carry a map in one’s head lest teachers be in the vicinity. Marauders from different years were to be avoided, particularly the guys from the year above us: it was no skin off their nose if we were nabbed. Tarzan-like noises or comments on Mal Parris’ diction could be heard through the foliage, causing Chunkles – an inveterate hunter - to zero in like an Exocet. In retrospect, I'm sure John Wilson enjoyed the pursuit. It was no mean challenge to round up such miscreants, particularly as they bolted for cover with jumpers over their heads if he came into view. John was no fool. Many a time he waited on the bottom oval for the dim-witted – the wildebeests among us - to emerge thoughtlessly from the Bush. Denials, quite rightly, were useless. Brendan remembers: "A good lunchtime sport was to sit high on the hill above the two lower ovals and watch Chunkles and Parris disappear down the bush behind the old Nissan hut gym. Five minutes later, we would see the procession of bodies with jumpers over their heads emerging from all other available exits . . . . (one year) Dietze, Boysen and myself had setup camp down the bush way upstream underneath the Heads Rd bridge. We would visit there most lunchtimes but I remember coming back early one day but couldn't find anyone in the outdoor areas of the schoolyard. Father Barry was walking past and told us there had been a bomb scare twenty minutes earlier and everyone had assembled on the basketball courts. Needless to say, we were busted."
And on one occasion, Chunkles himself caught the uncatchable: Peter 'Alby Mangals' Nanscawen (alas, sans Judy Green).
Upon being questioned by Pontius Pilate, Jesus replied at one point: "My Kingdom is not of this world." Similarly, Nanny's domain was not the classrooms but the Bush itself where he was sovereign. He clocked more hours in those damned trees, shrubs and undergrowth than the rest of us combined. He knew every track (and Chunkles' ambush-points) like the back of his hand. Yes, Chunkles caught him once but it was never going to happen a second time (Parris, haughtily despised, was no threat to a bushman of Nanny's calibre). Even today, during half time at an Old Boys' match, Nanny is sure-footed in his former realm!
For those gallivanting through the bush, the three sewage ponds provided compass. Needlessly, they were ringed by a fence – no-one was ever going to dive into their murky waters with so many Mars Bars afloat on the surface. Many a large rock was lobbed into their middle, and we watched on in horror as various monsters surfaced in their wake.
Update 2020. Times have changed. My school-mates mates have vividly reminded me of a herculean feat that is worthy of commemoration: Santa and Nanny commandeering an upside-down classroom table as a sled to hammer down the hill to the oval closer to the gym. This is no mean incline. In my mind, I can still see these dare-devils as they undertook this feat; both of them crouched down for the duration of the journey and then leapt for their lives as the table came to grief at the bottom of the slope. In this current age of liability and insurance, this heroic act would be banned by the Administration - but back then, no-one gave a shit. Reader, next time you stand at the top of the hill overlooking the first oval, remember these heroes of yesteryear!
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Chapter 6 - the Forgotten Year at Play
The Forgotten Year was at its most forgettable on the sporting fields of Whitefriars.
Two episodes illustrate our lack of prowess.
One day – perhaps in Year 10 or 11 - we participated in a cricket match. From memory, Ray Keane was the umpire and it was played on the soccer oval. As per usual, I was an observer. The day itself was steamy. Whoever was batting skied a shot, and it travelled towards the heavens as if propelled by a howitzer. Matt Price was standing at mid-off. As soon as the ball began its ascent, everyone at the ground knew that it was coming his way. Indeed, Matt did not have to move an inch; he was perfectly placed; he bent at the knees and cupped his hands appropriately. I remember thinking to myself: that's a rocket! The ball slowed as it approached its zenith, stopped, and then fell back towards earth. It must have been travelling at terminal velocity as it approached the fielder. We gulped in anticipation. Sure enough, accompanied by a collective sigh, the ball bored straight through Matt’s fingers and thudded into the earth. Ray snorted in disgust. The game went on; Matt’s mitts recovered in time but the image of that failure left an indelible impression.
Elsewhere, Trenny and I were selected to play table-tennis against St Joey's. On both fronts, this selection was a mystery. I said to Trenny before the game: let’s bamboozle our competitors by playing shit in the warm up and then turn it on for the real stuff – they won’t know what’s hit them! Trenny agreed. We had a plan. Our pre-match warm up was marred by an exuberant incompetence – we slammed the ball around without a care in the world; indeed, we were lucky to hit any part of the table. Our competitors were drooling in anticipation – how bad were these clowns? But when the match commenced, our skills worsened. Trenny and I looked at each other in despair. No redemption was at hand.
The Class of 1983 represents a low-point in the history of the College, football-wise. Here is our Team of the Century and, with more relish, the Dud Team of the Century. I have shown neither fear or favour in my selections.
Team of the Century
FF Nanny - Wayne Doherty - Terry Dunn
CHF Martin Steward - Marc Podolak - Tony Weeks (c)
C Vin Sully - Ian Walker - Chris O'Farrell
CHB Geoff Guggenheimer - Bernie Rohan - Peter Harvey
FB Michael Baade - Maggot - Glenn Guest.
Followers: Cam Fraser - Andrew Mullens (vc) - Stephen Boysen
Interchange: Steff Andrews, Tony Donaldson, Paul Baker, Peter
Bennett.
Coach Gary Wilson
Masseurs Denise Wolf and Jenny Christy
LOGIC - Well back in 1978 if anyone resembled Tony Lockett it was Wayne "the Whale" Doherty. Perhaps he may not have kicked many goals, but the defenders would've been wary of getting in his way, particularly if he was throwing his weight around and the ‘grumps’ were upon him. CHF was tough. I remember getting cleaned up once by Podolak on the Monastery oval so that was good enough for me.
Bernie Rohan was always a rock-solid CHB. FB was not an easy choice. While I cannot remember that he was an overly great footballer, Maggot certainly had the competitive instincts to be in this team, particularly if he was wearing his Geoff Blethyn glasses. The same comment applies to Glenn Guest. Cam Fraser was a monster, height-wise, in 1978. Mind you, he never grew another inch. This side would certainly not lose the fights - just look at Martin Steward, Steff, Podolak, Sean Butler, Ian Walker, Weekes, Nanny (the brawl ball King) and Boysen. The centre line in particular is strong. I could have made Weeks the ruck-rover rather than Mullens, but Andrew always played his best games in this position, and Tony would never just hang around the half-forward line in any event. Steff, it should be noted, once took an amazing hanger on one of the bottom ovals. He came back to earth, however, with all the grace of the Challenger space-shuttle. An ambulance was duly summoned.
Dud Team of the Century
FF Johnny Reb - Paul Dietze - Bernard O'Hanlon
CHF Danny Burgoyne - Vince Natoli - David Spriggs
C Matt Price - Tommy Casamento - Andrew Wild
CHB Len Phillips - Adrian Hill - Kev Teehan (c)
FB John Wilkins - Paul Teiwes - Andy McClure
Followers: Big Gav, Craig Trenfield, Brendan McKenna
Interchange (Extreme): Tommy Sabatino, Justin Selleck (vc), George Torounoglou, Vince Natoli, Tony di Pietro, Greg Hermans
Coach - Brendan O'Donnell.
Masseur - Doc Walsh
Well this side would have copped it on the field and, judging by the support-staff, off the field too. Its spearhead is goal kicking machine, Paul Dietze. Much like the Legends, the centre line is the chief highlight. Big Gav could acquit himself ok on a football field when the mood was upon him so I'm being unkind to him at this point. Teiwes was as fast as quick drying cement. Indeed, the entire spine wobbles like jelly. I cannot even begin to imagine how Selleck would've fared on the football field. Sabba would have kicked the footy around like a soccer ball. McClure was the epitome of lethargy. Indeed, the backline would've been under more pressure than Hitler in 1945. Most of the guys in the forward-line would not need to hit the showers afterwards (not a bad thing in itself) as the ball would never get past the centre line unless it was a bad bounce !!!
Football-wise, we had access to four ovals and they're still in use today. There were the two bottom ovals; the one closer to Park Road was used for soccer and cricket, while the other was reserved for the execrable matches of the Second XVIII (Aussie Rules at its most degraded). The main oval was a great place to play and behold football (nowadays, Nanny and I watch the Old Boys from the so-called Simon Strike Stand, known colloquially as the Brad Woodman Memorial Stand). The Monastery Oval frequently hosted football matches when the other three were in use. There was plenty of ambience to it but its uneven surface was treacherous underfoot, and on the far wing, pine-trees abutted the boundary-line. Every goal that I kicked in my stellar career - all three of them - occurred at the goals closer to the Monastery where the overflow from the septic tank trickles out.
We were less worse at cricket. Here is the makings of a reasonable First XI:
Ian Walker (all-rounder)
Brad Spillane (batsman)
Steve Boysen (batsman - and possibly the captain as well)
Steff Andrews (all-rounder - Steff was good at any sport)
Jon Magill (the best bowler in our Year by a mile)
Tony Weekes (as per Steph)
Peter Nanscawen (wicket-keeper)
Andrew Mullens (all-rounder)
Vin Sully (batsman)
Mark Steel (batsman)
Martin Steward (all-rounder)
Bernie Rohan (12th man).
While he could feature elsewhere in the Secret History, it is not inappropriate to discuss Martin Steward at this point. Martin was Class of 1983 from the C stream. At the end of that year, it was decided to shift him to the more sedate Bs, thereby isolating him from the likes of Ian Walker and Sean Butler (who were trouble-makers in the eye of Admin). Martin left Whitefriars either at the end of Year 9 or 10. He was not overly tall or muscular but indubitably, he was the toughest hombre in the year - in fact, he could've been classified as a T-1000, Terminator-style. There were plenty of rough edges to Martin. From memory, he had an older brother at the school who was equally tough and of course stronger - word had it that they fought like cats and dogs every weekend, and Old Man Steward regularly waded into the conflagrations in a domestic equivalent of UFC. As evidenced by his bout with David Toll, Steff was a formidable opponent but Martin would've sent him to the canvas with little trouble. In retrospect, it's amazing that Martin did not feature in more fights that what he did - in fact, I cannot remember a single instance; perhaps the punks from the Class of 82, unwise as they were, instinctively kept their distance (I would've backed Martin against any one of them - the only guy who had his measure at the school was probably his brother). Upon leaving Whitefriars, Martin spent time at Blackie Tech where he systematically 'rectified' the view that only fags attended Whitefriars. I was edgy whenever he was around. Martin was suspicious of me as being 'one of those princesses who hung around Doc Walsh' but we got along well enough and rode home together on our bikes.
Anyway, one day Ray Keane left some sporting equipment on the bottom oval (near to the gym) which normally did not see the light of day. For whatever reason, Martin and I had the oval to ourselves. I tried my hand at archery and my clumsiness was to the fore. In sharp contrast, Martin deftly fitted an arrow to the bow and shot it past the goal posts into the bush. The gap in our abilities was also evident in the hammer-throw. But it was the third event that made this episode stick in my mind. With Martin looking on in mild disgust, I took hold of a javelin and chucked it as far as I could. Martin shook his head; now it was his turn. Nonchalantly, he took hold of a javelin, and with a grace and fluidity that took my breath away, he threw it a country-mile - the javelin even had the 'wobble' to it as it was propelled through the air. In the second that he launched this thunderbolt, Martin was kin to the Athenian warriors who are depicted on the Elgin Marbles: perfection was his.
We were about to undertake another round when the voice of Ray Keane boomed out from the top of the hill 'Stewwwwward and O'Hanlon - you little poofters - pick up that stuff and bring it back to the gym now!" And so it ended.
Soccer was played during our earlier years at the school. Danny Mahwhinney was the coach. The 1982 Yearbook states that he was the Whitefriars 'Soccer Coach of the Year' between 1977 and the year of publication - truth to tell, there was not a lot of competition. The soccer team was largely filled with guys from the A Stream: Paul Baker (who was one guy in the team with any talent), Darius Calestani, Chris Meury, Chris Rowe and Paul Teiwes (the goal-keeper who was so appointed because he looked the part). I played a couple of games which is a damming indication of the standards. We were shit-house. As Steff remembers: "The soccer team really did suck, I had a broken finger once so I thought how hard could it be to switch to soccer from football. After giving up 5 goals in 10 mins I figured pretty hard and goalkeeping was not for me."
Physical Education as a subject occurred once a week. It invariably started with the order "Right, run up to the Monastery and back." As the crow flies, the Monastery was close enough but the hill lay in between. The route involved running through the wind-tunnel that lay underneath Rooms 8 or 9 (lockers were on either side). To the left, there was a corridor that led to Doc's Den and, more pertinently, a change-room. Slothfulness is one of the Seven Deadly Sins. I do not know who first yielded to the temptation but it took little effort to turn into this corridor and then slump down in the change-rooms in wait for the runners to return. Over time, while the likes of Boysen, Weeks and Maggot were gut-running to the Monastery and back, the change-rooms became filled with laggards. After lathering their foreheads with saliva or water from a nearby tap, these slackers waited for the runners to return before emerging from their foxhole and jogging back wearily to the gym. It is now time to name and shame these bludgers. At their head - and they were the instigators of this nefarious practice - were Paul Dietze and Adrian Hill. Many others joined them furtively: Russ Lane, Johnny Wilkins, Big Gav, Matt Thomas, Wayne Doherty, Tommy Casamento and Santa. They were never caught. One can only imagine what would have happened if Ray Keane had strode in - that change-room would have borne resemblance to the Belanglo State Forest.
During our earlier years at Whitefriars, many a trip was undertaken to the Nunawading Pool. Miss Miles often accompanied us. Her main task was to avert 'the bombing campaigns'. None of us were strong swimmers. Even so, all those laps left us ravenously hungry at the end of the session (and being teenagers, our metabolic rates were comet-like). There was a vending machine in the foyer - but alas, we were collectively penniless. While we waited for the bus to arrive, we'd stare longingly at the chocolate bars and chips that were so near and yet so far. Those among us with more ingenuity - namely, Steff - approached the problem as if they were attempting to open a safe; one only had to push the buttons in a certain sequence for the door to open (and not a little force was used). Sad to say, such efforts ended in failure. On one occasion at least, Martin Steward adopted a more direct approach: brute force. Our faces went white in horror at the noise that was so generated but the staff did not notice. Even so, the choc bars remained where they were and two of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse - Famine and Pestilence - were our companions for the journey home.
Two episodes illustrate our lack of prowess.
One day – perhaps in Year 10 or 11 - we participated in a cricket match. From memory, Ray Keane was the umpire and it was played on the soccer oval. As per usual, I was an observer. The day itself was steamy. Whoever was batting skied a shot, and it travelled towards the heavens as if propelled by a howitzer. Matt Price was standing at mid-off. As soon as the ball began its ascent, everyone at the ground knew that it was coming his way. Indeed, Matt did not have to move an inch; he was perfectly placed; he bent at the knees and cupped his hands appropriately. I remember thinking to myself: that's a rocket! The ball slowed as it approached its zenith, stopped, and then fell back towards earth. It must have been travelling at terminal velocity as it approached the fielder. We gulped in anticipation. Sure enough, accompanied by a collective sigh, the ball bored straight through Matt’s fingers and thudded into the earth. Ray snorted in disgust. The game went on; Matt’s mitts recovered in time but the image of that failure left an indelible impression.
Elsewhere, Trenny and I were selected to play table-tennis against St Joey's. On both fronts, this selection was a mystery. I said to Trenny before the game: let’s bamboozle our competitors by playing shit in the warm up and then turn it on for the real stuff – they won’t know what’s hit them! Trenny agreed. We had a plan. Our pre-match warm up was marred by an exuberant incompetence – we slammed the ball around without a care in the world; indeed, we were lucky to hit any part of the table. Our competitors were drooling in anticipation – how bad were these clowns? But when the match commenced, our skills worsened. Trenny and I looked at each other in despair. No redemption was at hand.
The Class of 1983 represents a low-point in the history of the College, football-wise. Here is our Team of the Century and, with more relish, the Dud Team of the Century. I have shown neither fear or favour in my selections.
Team of the Century
FF Nanny - Wayne Doherty - Terry Dunn
CHF Martin Steward - Marc Podolak - Tony Weeks (c)
C Vin Sully - Ian Walker - Chris O'Farrell
CHB Geoff Guggenheimer - Bernie Rohan - Peter Harvey
FB Michael Baade - Maggot - Glenn Guest.
Followers: Cam Fraser - Andrew Mullens (vc) - Stephen Boysen
Interchange: Steff Andrews, Tony Donaldson, Paul Baker, Peter
Bennett.
Coach Gary Wilson
Masseurs Denise Wolf and Jenny Christy
LOGIC - Well back in 1978 if anyone resembled Tony Lockett it was Wayne "the Whale" Doherty. Perhaps he may not have kicked many goals, but the defenders would've been wary of getting in his way, particularly if he was throwing his weight around and the ‘grumps’ were upon him. CHF was tough. I remember getting cleaned up once by Podolak on the Monastery oval so that was good enough for me.
Bernie Rohan was always a rock-solid CHB. FB was not an easy choice. While I cannot remember that he was an overly great footballer, Maggot certainly had the competitive instincts to be in this team, particularly if he was wearing his Geoff Blethyn glasses. The same comment applies to Glenn Guest. Cam Fraser was a monster, height-wise, in 1978. Mind you, he never grew another inch. This side would certainly not lose the fights - just look at Martin Steward, Steff, Podolak, Sean Butler, Ian Walker, Weekes, Nanny (the brawl ball King) and Boysen. The centre line in particular is strong. I could have made Weeks the ruck-rover rather than Mullens, but Andrew always played his best games in this position, and Tony would never just hang around the half-forward line in any event. Steff, it should be noted, once took an amazing hanger on one of the bottom ovals. He came back to earth, however, with all the grace of the Challenger space-shuttle. An ambulance was duly summoned.
Dud Team of the Century
FF Johnny Reb - Paul Dietze - Bernard O'Hanlon
CHF Danny Burgoyne - Vince Natoli - David Spriggs
C Matt Price - Tommy Casamento - Andrew Wild
CHB Len Phillips - Adrian Hill - Kev Teehan (c)
FB John Wilkins - Paul Teiwes - Andy McClure
Followers: Big Gav, Craig Trenfield, Brendan McKenna
Interchange (Extreme): Tommy Sabatino, Justin Selleck (vc), George Torounoglou, Vince Natoli, Tony di Pietro, Greg Hermans
Coach - Brendan O'Donnell.
Masseur - Doc Walsh
Well this side would have copped it on the field and, judging by the support-staff, off the field too. Its spearhead is goal kicking machine, Paul Dietze. Much like the Legends, the centre line is the chief highlight. Big Gav could acquit himself ok on a football field when the mood was upon him so I'm being unkind to him at this point. Teiwes was as fast as quick drying cement. Indeed, the entire spine wobbles like jelly. I cannot even begin to imagine how Selleck would've fared on the football field. Sabba would have kicked the footy around like a soccer ball. McClure was the epitome of lethargy. Indeed, the backline would've been under more pressure than Hitler in 1945. Most of the guys in the forward-line would not need to hit the showers afterwards (not a bad thing in itself) as the ball would never get past the centre line unless it was a bad bounce !!!
Football-wise, we had access to four ovals and they're still in use today. There were the two bottom ovals; the one closer to Park Road was used for soccer and cricket, while the other was reserved for the execrable matches of the Second XVIII (Aussie Rules at its most degraded). The main oval was a great place to play and behold football (nowadays, Nanny and I watch the Old Boys from the so-called Simon Strike Stand, known colloquially as the Brad Woodman Memorial Stand). The Monastery Oval frequently hosted football matches when the other three were in use. There was plenty of ambience to it but its uneven surface was treacherous underfoot, and on the far wing, pine-trees abutted the boundary-line. Every goal that I kicked in my stellar career - all three of them - occurred at the goals closer to the Monastery where the overflow from the septic tank trickles out.
We were less worse at cricket. Here is the makings of a reasonable First XI:
Ian Walker (all-rounder)
Brad Spillane (batsman)
Steve Boysen (batsman - and possibly the captain as well)
Steff Andrews (all-rounder - Steff was good at any sport)
Jon Magill (the best bowler in our Year by a mile)
Tony Weekes (as per Steph)
Peter Nanscawen (wicket-keeper)
Andrew Mullens (all-rounder)
Vin Sully (batsman)
Mark Steel (batsman)
Martin Steward (all-rounder)
Bernie Rohan (12th man).
While he could feature elsewhere in the Secret History, it is not inappropriate to discuss Martin Steward at this point. Martin was Class of 1983 from the C stream. At the end of that year, it was decided to shift him to the more sedate Bs, thereby isolating him from the likes of Ian Walker and Sean Butler (who were trouble-makers in the eye of Admin). Martin left Whitefriars either at the end of Year 9 or 10. He was not overly tall or muscular but indubitably, he was the toughest hombre in the year - in fact, he could've been classified as a T-1000, Terminator-style. There were plenty of rough edges to Martin. From memory, he had an older brother at the school who was equally tough and of course stronger - word had it that they fought like cats and dogs every weekend, and Old Man Steward regularly waded into the conflagrations in a domestic equivalent of UFC. As evidenced by his bout with David Toll, Steff was a formidable opponent but Martin would've sent him to the canvas with little trouble. In retrospect, it's amazing that Martin did not feature in more fights that what he did - in fact, I cannot remember a single instance; perhaps the punks from the Class of 82, unwise as they were, instinctively kept their distance (I would've backed Martin against any one of them - the only guy who had his measure at the school was probably his brother). Upon leaving Whitefriars, Martin spent time at Blackie Tech where he systematically 'rectified' the view that only fags attended Whitefriars. I was edgy whenever he was around. Martin was suspicious of me as being 'one of those princesses who hung around Doc Walsh' but we got along well enough and rode home together on our bikes.
Anyway, one day Ray Keane left some sporting equipment on the bottom oval (near to the gym) which normally did not see the light of day. For whatever reason, Martin and I had the oval to ourselves. I tried my hand at archery and my clumsiness was to the fore. In sharp contrast, Martin deftly fitted an arrow to the bow and shot it past the goal posts into the bush. The gap in our abilities was also evident in the hammer-throw. But it was the third event that made this episode stick in my mind. With Martin looking on in mild disgust, I took hold of a javelin and chucked it as far as I could. Martin shook his head; now it was his turn. Nonchalantly, he took hold of a javelin, and with a grace and fluidity that took my breath away, he threw it a country-mile - the javelin even had the 'wobble' to it as it was propelled through the air. In the second that he launched this thunderbolt, Martin was kin to the Athenian warriors who are depicted on the Elgin Marbles: perfection was his.
We were about to undertake another round when the voice of Ray Keane boomed out from the top of the hill 'Stewwwwward and O'Hanlon - you little poofters - pick up that stuff and bring it back to the gym now!" And so it ended.
Soccer was played during our earlier years at the school. Danny Mahwhinney was the coach. The 1982 Yearbook states that he was the Whitefriars 'Soccer Coach of the Year' between 1977 and the year of publication - truth to tell, there was not a lot of competition. The soccer team was largely filled with guys from the A Stream: Paul Baker (who was one guy in the team with any talent), Darius Calestani, Chris Meury, Chris Rowe and Paul Teiwes (the goal-keeper who was so appointed because he looked the part). I played a couple of games which is a damming indication of the standards. We were shit-house. As Steff remembers: "The soccer team really did suck, I had a broken finger once so I thought how hard could it be to switch to soccer from football. After giving up 5 goals in 10 mins I figured pretty hard and goalkeeping was not for me."
Physical Education as a subject occurred once a week. It invariably started with the order "Right, run up to the Monastery and back." As the crow flies, the Monastery was close enough but the hill lay in between. The route involved running through the wind-tunnel that lay underneath Rooms 8 or 9 (lockers were on either side). To the left, there was a corridor that led to Doc's Den and, more pertinently, a change-room. Slothfulness is one of the Seven Deadly Sins. I do not know who first yielded to the temptation but it took little effort to turn into this corridor and then slump down in the change-rooms in wait for the runners to return. Over time, while the likes of Boysen, Weeks and Maggot were gut-running to the Monastery and back, the change-rooms became filled with laggards. After lathering their foreheads with saliva or water from a nearby tap, these slackers waited for the runners to return before emerging from their foxhole and jogging back wearily to the gym. It is now time to name and shame these bludgers. At their head - and they were the instigators of this nefarious practice - were Paul Dietze and Adrian Hill. Many others joined them furtively: Russ Lane, Johnny Wilkins, Big Gav, Matt Thomas, Wayne Doherty, Tommy Casamento and Santa. They were never caught. One can only imagine what would have happened if Ray Keane had strode in - that change-room would have borne resemblance to the Belanglo State Forest.
During our earlier years at Whitefriars, many a trip was undertaken to the Nunawading Pool. Miss Miles often accompanied us. Her main task was to avert 'the bombing campaigns'. None of us were strong swimmers. Even so, all those laps left us ravenously hungry at the end of the session (and being teenagers, our metabolic rates were comet-like). There was a vending machine in the foyer - but alas, we were collectively penniless. While we waited for the bus to arrive, we'd stare longingly at the chocolate bars and chips that were so near and yet so far. Those among us with more ingenuity - namely, Steff - approached the problem as if they were attempting to open a safe; one only had to push the buttons in a certain sequence for the door to open (and not a little force was used). Sad to say, such efforts ended in failure. On one occasion at least, Martin Steward adopted a more direct approach: brute force. Our faces went white in horror at the noise that was so generated but the staff did not notice. Even so, the choc bars remained where they were and two of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse - Famine and Pestilence - were our companions for the journey home.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Chapter 5 - Of Cardigans & Hookers
I've always been suspicious of people who wear cardigans, particularly brown ones. Little needs to be said. Don Juan was never so dressed. Nor was Hitler, for all his demonry.
An exponent of such attire, Robert de Kleyn – otherwise known as Deckers – was our English teacher (by and large) from Years 9 to 11.
Deckers was a medium-sized man with a full set of hair that was always immaculately combed. His station-wagon, older than Noah and miraculously rust-free, was well-kept. Disconcertingly, Christoph Waltz from Inglourious Basterds bears resemblance to him. Deckers rarely belly-laughed. He embodied a methodical, steady-as-she-goes approach. Nor was he inspirational as a teacher – Jeff Burns, a cool cat, was a refreshing change in Year 12. Evidently, the Almighty had urged Deckers to become a teacher when the wind opened up a Bible at an appropriate place and he read a verse to that effect. On the premise that only God is perfect, A-grades were reserved for super-human efforts. Lest the youth of the 1980s be corrupted by putrescence, come the Whitefriars Fete, Deckers would grimly comb through book donations and consign offending works to the fire (in retrospect, this practice makes me wonder whether Deckers had fallen for the old sucker punch of religion as morality). Every teacher has – or should have – a strategy to impose discipline on a class; some teachers cajole, others bluster. Deckers was a martinet but in an understated way; students were left in no doubt that if they crossed the line, damnation would be theirs.
One of us had a gruesome encounter with Deckers post-Whitefriars:
"Some years after leaving the old WF (1991) I found myself with a woodwind teaching gig at Caulfield Grammar School in Wheelers Hill. On my first day there I came across an old, poo brown holden station wagon in the carpark. It was obvious that this was a special vehicle as evidenced by the way that the bog had been lovingly applied to the rust over the wheel arches and the care taken to ensure that the covering paint job was the required two shades darker than the rest of the vehicle. Despite convincing myself that this was a different vehicle, a subsequent visit to the staff room confirmed my worst fears. Deckers even remembered my real name (which is never to be uttered in public) and continued to use it whenever our paths crossed. He hadn’t aged and is probably still there to this day............."
Under Decker's tutelage, we surveyed the following works of literature: All the Green Year; Foundation; Bless the Beasts and Children; of Mice & Men; White Eagles over Serbia; It Shouldn’t Happen to a Vet; Macbeth; All Quiet on the Western Front.
At least two of these books are masterpieces. Collectively they continue to give pleasure. Decker’s expositions on grammar and clear-thinking resonate - with me at least - to this day. But there is one episode in particular that causes his name to be perpetuated:
"We were in Deckers' English class in Year 10 or 11. We had to deliver a speech. Most people chose relatively boring topics, but Stephen Andrews decided to enlighten us all on the subject of contraception. I can't recall many of the details (partly because of the intervening years, but partly because the class descended into uproar virtually from the opening line and I spent as much time watching Deckers' face going every colour of red as I did straining to hear Steff over the noise) but the take-out messages for me were these:
• Steff declared that he wanted to be "a virgin exterminator" when he grew up. This was an occupation I'd not considered previously.
• Girls could use the pill to protect themselves from VD. Steff was unable to identify the medical journals supporting this thesis and performed admirably in the face of heckling.
• The discussion on the use of condoms went off at a tangent when Reb questioned the speaker on his ability to fill the said device. Steff replied that he could "choke Linda Lovelace". From the colour of purple on Deckers' face and the howls from the class, I understood that this claim was somewhat controversial. No-one could stop laughing long enough to explain it to me and Deckers terminated the speech shortly thereafter."
Steff’s recollection is this: "With apologies for my aforementioned lapses in memory, I can clarify this one a little bit. I believe the subject was prostitution, and the details included cost, location and the risk of Venereal Diseases. Like you say there was definitely an uproar and Deckers did not know what colour to turn. I'll take your word for it on the "virgin exterminator" comment because it is consistent with the naive bravado I tried to exhibit. Choking Linda Lovelace, now that's a stretch (no pun intended) I'm sure I said it but I would have a HARD time backing it up. As far as the grade it was B+, which for me at the time was a bloody miracle. I believe he was impressed when I quoted as sources, the Victoria police and a couple of hookers named Lola and Boots. Which of course was bullshit, but it sounded good."
Deckers exemplified the College’s wider attitude: no great expectations were placed on us. We were all so many sausages in the machine. Take Macbeth, for instance, an eternal exposition of ambition, guilt and retribution.
Deckers was an intelligent, dedicated teacher but he never looked us in the eye – with a tremor in his voice – and said (in so many words, tailored for fifteen year olds): “here is one of the great creations of the human spirit. It is a work that you will never fathom fully. It has a power to it that is both cathartic and redemptive. It – and other great works of literature – can guide you through life. And how are you – yes, you – going to respond to it? If Macbeth – or other such works - don’t impart a degree of intensity and urgency to you, what are you doing on this rock for three score and ten? Accounting is down the hall.”
No such message was given. Perhaps one could liken such a gesture to casting pearls into a swineherd of pigs - but it should have been attempted. Indeed, there was never any possibility that Robin Williams would model himself on Deckers in preparing for ‘Dead Poets Society’. It was a thoroughly middle-class schooling: immanence to the exclusion of transcendence. Perhaps I'm being hard on Deckers, but English as a subject has the innate capacity to deliver more.
The College at the time was no better. Whatever the focal point be, there was no call to arms. I cannot remember there being any social outreach to provide us with a window upon the world. Academic excellence was not celebrated with one exception (at the end of Year 9, all the teachers banded together informally to reward Justin Selleck with a gift). Old Boys who had actually done something with their lives, whatever the measure be, were not invited back to address us with the aim of widening our vision.
There is a proposition in philosophy: nihil ex nihilio. Nothing comes from nothing. While none of us are world beaters - if Alexander rode Bucephalus to the ends of the earth, most of us putt around in glorified shitboxes - collectively we have accomplished many things with our lives; these achievements could be attributed more to our own resilience rather than any impetus imparted by the College (which was negligible).
And to the best of my knowledge, none of us wear brown cardigans.
Vale Deckers.
An exponent of such attire, Robert de Kleyn – otherwise known as Deckers – was our English teacher (by and large) from Years 9 to 11.
Deckers was a medium-sized man with a full set of hair that was always immaculately combed. His station-wagon, older than Noah and miraculously rust-free, was well-kept. Disconcertingly, Christoph Waltz from Inglourious Basterds bears resemblance to him. Deckers rarely belly-laughed. He embodied a methodical, steady-as-she-goes approach. Nor was he inspirational as a teacher – Jeff Burns, a cool cat, was a refreshing change in Year 12. Evidently, the Almighty had urged Deckers to become a teacher when the wind opened up a Bible at an appropriate place and he read a verse to that effect. On the premise that only God is perfect, A-grades were reserved for super-human efforts. Lest the youth of the 1980s be corrupted by putrescence, come the Whitefriars Fete, Deckers would grimly comb through book donations and consign offending works to the fire (in retrospect, this practice makes me wonder whether Deckers had fallen for the old sucker punch of religion as morality). Every teacher has – or should have – a strategy to impose discipline on a class; some teachers cajole, others bluster. Deckers was a martinet but in an understated way; students were left in no doubt that if they crossed the line, damnation would be theirs.
One of us had a gruesome encounter with Deckers post-Whitefriars:
"Some years after leaving the old WF (1991) I found myself with a woodwind teaching gig at Caulfield Grammar School in Wheelers Hill. On my first day there I came across an old, poo brown holden station wagon in the carpark. It was obvious that this was a special vehicle as evidenced by the way that the bog had been lovingly applied to the rust over the wheel arches and the care taken to ensure that the covering paint job was the required two shades darker than the rest of the vehicle. Despite convincing myself that this was a different vehicle, a subsequent visit to the staff room confirmed my worst fears. Deckers even remembered my real name (which is never to be uttered in public) and continued to use it whenever our paths crossed. He hadn’t aged and is probably still there to this day............."
Under Decker's tutelage, we surveyed the following works of literature: All the Green Year; Foundation; Bless the Beasts and Children; of Mice & Men; White Eagles over Serbia; It Shouldn’t Happen to a Vet; Macbeth; All Quiet on the Western Front.
At least two of these books are masterpieces. Collectively they continue to give pleasure. Decker’s expositions on grammar and clear-thinking resonate - with me at least - to this day. But there is one episode in particular that causes his name to be perpetuated:
"We were in Deckers' English class in Year 10 or 11. We had to deliver a speech. Most people chose relatively boring topics, but Stephen Andrews decided to enlighten us all on the subject of contraception. I can't recall many of the details (partly because of the intervening years, but partly because the class descended into uproar virtually from the opening line and I spent as much time watching Deckers' face going every colour of red as I did straining to hear Steff over the noise) but the take-out messages for me were these:
• Steff declared that he wanted to be "a virgin exterminator" when he grew up. This was an occupation I'd not considered previously.
• Girls could use the pill to protect themselves from VD. Steff was unable to identify the medical journals supporting this thesis and performed admirably in the face of heckling.
• The discussion on the use of condoms went off at a tangent when Reb questioned the speaker on his ability to fill the said device. Steff replied that he could "choke Linda Lovelace". From the colour of purple on Deckers' face and the howls from the class, I understood that this claim was somewhat controversial. No-one could stop laughing long enough to explain it to me and Deckers terminated the speech shortly thereafter."
Steff’s recollection is this: "With apologies for my aforementioned lapses in memory, I can clarify this one a little bit. I believe the subject was prostitution, and the details included cost, location and the risk of Venereal Diseases. Like you say there was definitely an uproar and Deckers did not know what colour to turn. I'll take your word for it on the "virgin exterminator" comment because it is consistent with the naive bravado I tried to exhibit. Choking Linda Lovelace, now that's a stretch (no pun intended) I'm sure I said it but I would have a HARD time backing it up. As far as the grade it was B+, which for me at the time was a bloody miracle. I believe he was impressed when I quoted as sources, the Victoria police and a couple of hookers named Lola and Boots. Which of course was bullshit, but it sounded good."
Deckers exemplified the College’s wider attitude: no great expectations were placed on us. We were all so many sausages in the machine. Take Macbeth, for instance, an eternal exposition of ambition, guilt and retribution.
Deckers was an intelligent, dedicated teacher but he never looked us in the eye – with a tremor in his voice – and said (in so many words, tailored for fifteen year olds): “here is one of the great creations of the human spirit. It is a work that you will never fathom fully. It has a power to it that is both cathartic and redemptive. It – and other great works of literature – can guide you through life. And how are you – yes, you – going to respond to it? If Macbeth – or other such works - don’t impart a degree of intensity and urgency to you, what are you doing on this rock for three score and ten? Accounting is down the hall.”
No such message was given. Perhaps one could liken such a gesture to casting pearls into a swineherd of pigs - but it should have been attempted. Indeed, there was never any possibility that Robin Williams would model himself on Deckers in preparing for ‘Dead Poets Society’. It was a thoroughly middle-class schooling: immanence to the exclusion of transcendence. Perhaps I'm being hard on Deckers, but English as a subject has the innate capacity to deliver more.
The College at the time was no better. Whatever the focal point be, there was no call to arms. I cannot remember there being any social outreach to provide us with a window upon the world. Academic excellence was not celebrated with one exception (at the end of Year 9, all the teachers banded together informally to reward Justin Selleck with a gift). Old Boys who had actually done something with their lives, whatever the measure be, were not invited back to address us with the aim of widening our vision.
There is a proposition in philosophy: nihil ex nihilio. Nothing comes from nothing. While none of us are world beaters - if Alexander rode Bucephalus to the ends of the earth, most of us putt around in glorified shitboxes - collectively we have accomplished many things with our lives; these achievements could be attributed more to our own resilience rather than any impetus imparted by the College (which was negligible).
And to the best of my knowledge, none of us wear brown cardigans.
Vale Deckers.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Chapter 4 - Of Noughts and Crosses
Since its inception, Whitefriars has been an all-boys school. In our time, there was little or no contact with the opposite sex other than encounters in transit. The Forgotten Year of 1983 was truly forgotten in this respect: unlike other years, no-one bothered to organise a formal gathering for us (otherwise known as a ‘Social’) with our contemporaries from Sion (mind you, most of us, the writer included, would have been terrified if such an event had eventuated). There was talk to that effect in 1980 when we were painting the backdrop to The Olympian – but it came to nothing. We breathed a sigh of relief but the torment intensified.
For instance, here is a photo taken from the October 1983 Formal Dinner at Argentis. There is one girl in picture. Sad stuff. I had the opportunity to invite along a 16year beauty to this event - as fair as the moon, as bright as the sun - but I wimped it.
There were those who sought to capitalise on this deprivation: namely, Steff, with his famous porno-library. His locker was a den of iniquity. As far as I know, the business was never busted by the Whitefriars Morality Gestapo (spearheaded by Deckers). Steff’s mags were available for rent. The stock turned over regularly (not a few of them , it has to be said, were returned in a tattered condition). Rumour had it that Steff was ‘eating his own profits’ to a frenzied extent - hence the limited availability of key publications (Johnny Reb was also a prominent user and by virtue of their mateship, added little to Steff’s cash-flow). One day, we were returning home to Whitefriars after an excursion. Steff was sitting down the back of the bus with one of his mags. He waited for a red light, turned to the centrefold and placed it flat on the back window so that it was directly in the face of the driver of the bus behind us. The girl in question had gigantic norgs. Much to our glee, the driver rocked with laughter and not a few of his passengers rushed to the front in order to behold the curvatures. Steff spent the rest of the journey flashing the centrefold at hapless drivers elsewhere. As the poet says, “Oh, blessed rage for order!”
Priapus, the Greek God of Fertility, made his presence known too. One day – perhaps in 1982 - the bottom oval nearer to the gym was being re-sown; as such, it was denuded of greenery. Using the topsoil as his canvas, Paul Riser took this opportunity to etch a massive phallus from one goal to another, complete with testicles and a few drops of semen. We stood on top of the ridge and stared down in wonder. In its own way, it was a megalithic work of art. Riser was not popular with contemporaries; breaking the unwritten code, quite a number of the guys – from what I am told - dobbed him in. Some Year 7s were ordered to scuff out the phallus with their boots. Even so, for the duration of its existence, it was emblematic of things to come.
Elsewhere, if human sexuality - preference-wise - resembles a bell-curve, then most of us are entrenched in the mean. Others come pre-loaded with different software. Brendan O’Donnell became the College’s music teacher, circa 1982. He was committed to the theatre and Broadway - and he later spent some prayerful time with the Carmelites as a novice. Under Brendan’s leadership, the Mikado (1982) and The Witness (1983) were staged to acclaim. Moreover, Brendan attracted a coterie of like-minded students. Come lunchtime, many a show-tune could be heard from the Music Room, "Oh, We Sail the Ocean Blue and our Little Ship's a Beauty", joyfully refrained.
During our early years at Whitefriars, the few females on staff did not make one’s blood boil (Mrs Healy, Miss Miles, Mrs Duncan, Bu Diraji and Shirley Fung were all worthy individuals but not Pirelli-grade). Then all of a sudden, in year 9 or 10, two hotties showed up simultaneously: Mrs Denise Wolfe and Miss Jenny Christie.
Denise taught graphics whereas Jenny was an art-teacher. Both women were in their mid-twenties. Sandy-haired, Denise resembled Delvene Delaney from the Paul Hogan Show. She was buxom from any angle and – much to our anguish - married. Jenny was a brunette with a bohemian air; she wore tight jeans that left little to the imagination. Wandering down the corridor, not a few of us would de-accelerate as we approached Room 1 or 2 just to catch a glimpse of Denise through the window as she attempt to focus her class’ attention on the work at hand. Jenny was a ‘born-again’ Christian and some desperadoes, including yours truly, joined the Whitefriars prayer group in order to be irradiated by her presence – and oh, when she spoke about temptation, how the tempest raged! Not a few lunchtime discussions were spent debating the relative merits of their hardware. Some pseudo stalkers became so fixated with the pair that even to this day, decades later, they can still recite their licence-plate numbers verbatim - which so happen to be LZZ 299 and LNC 124 !
One day, for whatever dumb reason, I was bereft of my bike and a walk home was looming. A Toyota Celica pulled up. It was Denise. She brightly offered me a lift home. In retrospect, this was surprising as I never failed to ogle her whenever she came into view and my lust must've been known to her. Oh, how I trembled as I took a seat. It was a warm day. The Devil did not need to tempt me – the leer was on! From where I was sitting, I could see the Promised Land, crowned by the Twin Peaks of Ecstasy in their wonder. The sweat poured down my forehead as Denise tightened her grip on the gear-stick and shifted into second. I shed two kilograms in the minutes that followed. No man, woman or child in the world was sadder than yours truly when we reached my destination – it could have been Paradise; instead it was the Donvale Post Office with its chips and icy-poles.
All Flesh is as grass, it withers and fades. Scripture, sad to say, never spoke more truly. Counter measures notwithstanding, all women inevitably transform into Old Bags, just as guys become Silly Old Buggers. There are no exemptions. As much as they resonate in the collective memory of our Year, none of us, I suggest, would care to see Denise or Jenny as they are today. Perhaps they're grandmothers or zeppelins in human guise. But thy eternal summer shall not fade. Let that be their epithet.
POSTSCRIPT
Towards the end of 1983, a big chance to take off the Big V jumper was upon us, or so we assured by Gav Cleary, at no less a function than the Heatherdale Tennis Club BBQ. Big Gav solemnly assured us that at the 1982 function, Cam Mitchell had snagged three birds, whatever ‘snagged’ really meant. One of them had been ‘roasted’ up against the tennis fence itself. We drooled in wonder. It was time for the boys to become men.
Dressed in our finest and - paradoxically - ready to drop our trousers at the least provocation, we trooped over to the function in question. Expectations were high. I cannot remember who the other suckers were, but I was certainly in that number. Gav was in the lead, snorting like a stallion about to be released into a paddock of mares. Victory was nigh.
It was a balmy night. We barged through the front-door like gunslingers into the Last Chance Saloon. Much to our consternation, the function bore greater resemblance to a sedate family affair than a Roman orgy. No wench was on offer. There were a few scrubbers present but they regarded us as offal.
While there have been many let-downs in my life, that night was as deflating as they come – and in every way too. By the end of the night, we could not look each other in the eye. The Big V jumper was still firmly in place – and yep, we were duds.
For instance, here is a photo taken from the October 1983 Formal Dinner at Argentis. There is one girl in picture. Sad stuff. I had the opportunity to invite along a 16year beauty to this event - as fair as the moon, as bright as the sun - but I wimped it.
There were those who sought to capitalise on this deprivation: namely, Steff, with his famous porno-library. His locker was a den of iniquity. As far as I know, the business was never busted by the Whitefriars Morality Gestapo (spearheaded by Deckers). Steff’s mags were available for rent. The stock turned over regularly (not a few of them , it has to be said, were returned in a tattered condition). Rumour had it that Steff was ‘eating his own profits’ to a frenzied extent - hence the limited availability of key publications (Johnny Reb was also a prominent user and by virtue of their mateship, added little to Steff’s cash-flow). One day, we were returning home to Whitefriars after an excursion. Steff was sitting down the back of the bus with one of his mags. He waited for a red light, turned to the centrefold and placed it flat on the back window so that it was directly in the face of the driver of the bus behind us. The girl in question had gigantic norgs. Much to our glee, the driver rocked with laughter and not a few of his passengers rushed to the front in order to behold the curvatures. Steff spent the rest of the journey flashing the centrefold at hapless drivers elsewhere. As the poet says, “Oh, blessed rage for order!”
Priapus, the Greek God of Fertility, made his presence known too. One day – perhaps in 1982 - the bottom oval nearer to the gym was being re-sown; as such, it was denuded of greenery. Using the topsoil as his canvas, Paul Riser took this opportunity to etch a massive phallus from one goal to another, complete with testicles and a few drops of semen. We stood on top of the ridge and stared down in wonder. In its own way, it was a megalithic work of art. Riser was not popular with contemporaries; breaking the unwritten code, quite a number of the guys – from what I am told - dobbed him in. Some Year 7s were ordered to scuff out the phallus with their boots. Even so, for the duration of its existence, it was emblematic of things to come.
Elsewhere, if human sexuality - preference-wise - resembles a bell-curve, then most of us are entrenched in the mean. Others come pre-loaded with different software. Brendan O’Donnell became the College’s music teacher, circa 1982. He was committed to the theatre and Broadway - and he later spent some prayerful time with the Carmelites as a novice. Under Brendan’s leadership, the Mikado (1982) and The Witness (1983) were staged to acclaim. Moreover, Brendan attracted a coterie of like-minded students. Come lunchtime, many a show-tune could be heard from the Music Room, "Oh, We Sail the Ocean Blue and our Little Ship's a Beauty", joyfully refrained.
During our early years at Whitefriars, the few females on staff did not make one’s blood boil (Mrs Healy, Miss Miles, Mrs Duncan, Bu Diraji and Shirley Fung were all worthy individuals but not Pirelli-grade). Then all of a sudden, in year 9 or 10, two hotties showed up simultaneously: Mrs Denise Wolfe and Miss Jenny Christie.
Denise taught graphics whereas Jenny was an art-teacher. Both women were in their mid-twenties. Sandy-haired, Denise resembled Delvene Delaney from the Paul Hogan Show. She was buxom from any angle and – much to our anguish - married. Jenny was a brunette with a bohemian air; she wore tight jeans that left little to the imagination. Wandering down the corridor, not a few of us would de-accelerate as we approached Room 1 or 2 just to catch a glimpse of Denise through the window as she attempt to focus her class’ attention on the work at hand. Jenny was a ‘born-again’ Christian and some desperadoes, including yours truly, joined the Whitefriars prayer group in order to be irradiated by her presence – and oh, when she spoke about temptation, how the tempest raged! Not a few lunchtime discussions were spent debating the relative merits of their hardware. Some pseudo stalkers became so fixated with the pair that even to this day, decades later, they can still recite their licence-plate numbers verbatim - which so happen to be LZZ 299 and LNC 124 !
One day, for whatever dumb reason, I was bereft of my bike and a walk home was looming. A Toyota Celica pulled up. It was Denise. She brightly offered me a lift home. In retrospect, this was surprising as I never failed to ogle her whenever she came into view and my lust must've been known to her. Oh, how I trembled as I took a seat. It was a warm day. The Devil did not need to tempt me – the leer was on! From where I was sitting, I could see the Promised Land, crowned by the Twin Peaks of Ecstasy in their wonder. The sweat poured down my forehead as Denise tightened her grip on the gear-stick and shifted into second. I shed two kilograms in the minutes that followed. No man, woman or child in the world was sadder than yours truly when we reached my destination – it could have been Paradise; instead it was the Donvale Post Office with its chips and icy-poles.
All Flesh is as grass, it withers and fades. Scripture, sad to say, never spoke more truly. Counter measures notwithstanding, all women inevitably transform into Old Bags, just as guys become Silly Old Buggers. There are no exemptions. As much as they resonate in the collective memory of our Year, none of us, I suggest, would care to see Denise or Jenny as they are today. Perhaps they're grandmothers or zeppelins in human guise. But thy eternal summer shall not fade. Let that be their epithet.
POSTSCRIPT
Towards the end of 1983, a big chance to take off the Big V jumper was upon us, or so we assured by Gav Cleary, at no less a function than the Heatherdale Tennis Club BBQ. Big Gav solemnly assured us that at the 1982 function, Cam Mitchell had snagged three birds, whatever ‘snagged’ really meant. One of them had been ‘roasted’ up against the tennis fence itself. We drooled in wonder. It was time for the boys to become men.
Dressed in our finest and - paradoxically - ready to drop our trousers at the least provocation, we trooped over to the function in question. Expectations were high. I cannot remember who the other suckers were, but I was certainly in that number. Gav was in the lead, snorting like a stallion about to be released into a paddock of mares. Victory was nigh.
It was a balmy night. We barged through the front-door like gunslingers into the Last Chance Saloon. Much to our consternation, the function bore greater resemblance to a sedate family affair than a Roman orgy. No wench was on offer. There were a few scrubbers present but they regarded us as offal.
While there have been many let-downs in my life, that night was as deflating as they come – and in every way too. By the end of the night, we could not look each other in the eye. The Big V jumper was still firmly in place – and yep, we were duds.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Chapter 3 - Doc Walsh
Reader - please note the update at the end of the chapter. What I have written here is erroneous.
A.T. E ‘Doc’ Walsh was the drama teacher at Whitefriars at the time of our arrival. He had the air of an old thespian (which was augmented by a cravat and a seedy sports-coat). His earlier life remained nebulous – Whitefriars was his last gig. Doc must have died during the 1980s (and I do not remember him being at the school after 1981. Doc was a sports-fan – indeed, he hosted me and other students at the Melbourne Cricket Club (and the outing included lunch in the Long Room – no mean gesture in itself); the Swans and Melbourne commanded his affiliations. From what I understand, there was no family to speak of. The Arts, as we shall call them, received desultory attention from Whitefriars at the time. Drama was offered in Year 7 and 8 and there was little of note beyond that (with apologies to Barbara Grollmus and her 3-D drawing classes!).
Rumours aplenty have been associated with Doc. Earlier Yearbooks contained photographs where boys sit on his lap; they instigate unease, particularly when viewed nowadays. I remember many a class where insults were hurled at Doc from the other side of the wall as students walked past – to this day, I vividly recall Doc’s face draining of blood at such times as if a lynch-mob was at hand. One of our number had managed to obtain his phone-number and harassed him on the weekends; nor was he Robinson Caruso.
Having participated in three of his plays – Mystery at Gabo Island (1978), Mail Mislaid (1979) and the Olympian (1980) - I will speak of what I know.
First and foremost, I spent considerable amounts of time with Doc, both at the College and in his flat in Kireep Road in Balwyn as we rehearsed for plays and debates. Many a time we were alone together. With me at least, he never crossed the line. If he had, I can assure you, I would not have a mortgage. I always found him to be a gentleman.
His notoriety, as we will call it, was twofold: as actors need to shed their inhibitions – or so he claimed - one by one we were ordered to strip down to our jocks and improvise an advertisement for underpants in front of the class. As these were being performed, Doc would sit at the back of the class, broodingly. Oblivious to darker currents – if indeed they were present - we revelled in the fun. None of us were wearing Calvin Klein underwear, so standing gawkily in front of one’s classmates was the equivalent of going over the top on the Western Front: one had to weather a hailstorm of abuse and mockery (I remember, sadly, Andy Pickett coping it so severely that he was barely able to mumble his way through the exercise). Secondly, Doc would ask us to mimic being in the shower, again, by standing up in front of the class in our jocks. Some of us hammed it up (Steff Andrews took great pleasure in scrubbing his backside with a big invisible brush to the acclaim of all). It's fair to say that neither of these practices would be countenanced nowadays – and rightly so. They were controversial even in 1978. As Captain Willard says in Apocalypse Now: I cannot see any method, only madness.
Doc dispensed money to those who had acquitted themselves well in his classes. On other occasions, he threw money up in the air. While these practices were well-intentioned, they did little to dispel the air of strangeness. A key feature of the Sunday rehearsals at "Doc's Den" was the complete smorgasbord provided at the end of each session: roasted chickens, pies, cakes, buns were all on offer and few of them survived the carnage.
Doc organised a series of debates with other schools in the area. I was a participant as were the likes of Tom Sabatino (Sabba), Maggot and Mark Healy. Topics included ‘Is Daylight Savings Desirable in Australia?’ and ‘That the Modern Generation is not more Permissive than those of their Grandparents’ era’ (I still have the notes for these events). These were the only debates I have participated in, but to my mind, they were odd. Good debaters are quick thinkers – not only can they speak authoritatively on the topic at hand, they quickly refute the opposition as the debate unfolds. Doc, on the other hand, in way of preparation, would laboriously type out an argument for each of the three speakers to read out, rote-style, as if there was no need to worry about what our opponents were saying concurrently (one would have thought that bullet points were in order). In the latter debate above, Doc fulminated against those youth of the 1970s who “are attracted to those places (pin ball parlours) because of the food, excitement and entertainment. At these parlours are found unsavoury predators connected with pornography, homosexuality, drugs and prostitution. When stress occurs at home or school, they often win the young person’s confidence and they become introduced to these permissive vices. Once these young people are hooked by these predators, there is no escape with the pressure on them. For (these)teenagers, life now has no meaning and they often take on crimes of violence, such as robbing chemist shops for drugs, as well as bank robberies.” To paraphrase Gough Whitlam: so now you know.
To raise funds for his productions, various events were held at the College in the Religion Room. Often they featured an array of guest-speakers or debates. One night, a key attendee failed to show up, so Doc turned to the older student who was his production-manager – Paul Roberts – to fill the gap. Thereafter he was known as ‘Ear-basher’ as he spent the next ninety minutes explaining the intricacies of stage-lighting in a monotonous drone. To this day, it ranks among the most boring nights of my life.
Doc’s plays were his own. Of the three that I participated in, I have manuscripts of the first two to varying degrees. He was no Sophocles. It is unlikely that any of his plays – and there were legion – will be revived. Their idiom was Coward-esque without profundity or wit. As I read them today, they're gauche. Many of them contained female roles and the actresses were sourced from the ranks (from memory, Craig Trenfield and Greg Santamaria were conscripted thus). Again, this practice did little to embellish his reputation in the College. Peter Nanscawen, appropriately enough, was the 'trendy young man’ Luke Lazarus in Mail Mislaid – in actual fact, he was an ASIO agent and his finest moment came at the end of the play when he nabbed the nefarious drug-runners ‘Grubb and Davidson’ at Kongwak Station. Maggot participated in Mystery at Gabo Island and was going to take the lead-role in Mail Mislaid (“Graeme O’Brien’) when his extra-curricular musical activities compelled him to relinquish the role (hence my promotion). Stephen Boysen played the troubled son in MM, Justin O’Brien who – shockingly - had refused to be confirmed. Here are some publicity shots for Mail Mislaid, taken at Doc's Den:
The plays themselves, for the all energy they consumed, had short-runs. Mystery at Gabo Island only ran for three nights in October 1978 (it was also performed twice in two different nursing homes). Mail Mislaid was performed but once. The Olympian received one performance in Melbourne, and a repeat run up in Bendigo (the cast and crew travelled up by tain and were billeted out for the night) Participants included: Brendan McKenna, Craig Trenfield, Russell Lane, Jon Magill, Dominic & Nick Cracknell, Greg Santamaria, Stephen Boysen, Greg Healy, John Blakey and Peter Nanscawen.
The opening night of Mystery at Gabo Island was a debacle, even by the lowly standards of college theatre. There was one scene where Maggot and I were to watch a video and respond accordingly. Much to our horror, it failed to work. For the better part of five minutes, as Ear Basher worked on the problem - and his hairy hands were all too evident to the audience - Jon and I ad-libbed away. Watching on, the audience revelled in our discomfort and throw-away lines. From memory, we discussed football, cricket and the weather – in fact, whatever nonsense that came to mind. Adding to our confusion, Doc was madly hissing out instructions from behind the stage. Eventually the VCR spluttered back into life and the play went on. Later that same night, the glue on my moustache began to fail. In an attempt to keep it in place, I held my hand to my upper lip as if lost in thought. It was no good; gravity was king. Eventually, I span around on my heels, ripped it off and turned to face the audience who did not fail to notice the transformation. At the end of the night, Claire Healy came backstage and congratulated us: she had rarely laughed so much at the theatre.
Mail Misland had fewer disasters. For whatever technical reason, Ear Basher's tape player failed at the precise second when the ghost train was meant to thunder through Kongwak Station - EB was almost reduced to making 'chu-chu' noises himself. Simultaneously, backstage-hand Tim Magill released a flare (unbeknown to Doc) that was supposed to emulate the smoke from the train. The flare was more powerful than estimated. Seconds later, the theatre resembled a soccer stadium where much of the audience was coughing from smoke inhalation . . . .
The Olympian was produced in 1980. It was customary that Year 7s and 8s provided the cast of the plays, whereas the Year 9s assisted backstage. Our main task that year was to create the backdrop itself, which was no mean task. Tim Magill, from the year above us, was the supervisor. From memory, Maggot, Nanny, Craig Trenfield and I formed the workforce (though as Trenny can testify, my lack of handyman skills was so apparent). To provide us with a suitably large easel, we were directed to use one side of the sheds up at the monastery. This was good in theory but the paint seeped through the canvas onto the wall itself, leaving the monastery with a ‘Shroud of Turin’ like reminder of our efforts in the decades that followed. Peter Nanscawen, for whatever reason, also decorated the shed with flamboyant portraits of Adolf Hitler – they provided a reminder of the existence of evil to any visitor who was monastery-bound.
Whether by insight or injury or an amalgam of the two, we all gain in wisdom. Even so, as I write I do not know what to make of Doc: no final word comes to mind. Perhaps we're all so many icebergs in the sea and who knows what lurks under the surface with any one of us? Whitefriars in our time was homophobic and suspicious of any interest that deviated from football, meat-pies and Holden cars – the proletariat norm. Doc was – perhaps - his own worst enemy, and the enemy lay within. With me at least, he stayed on the right side of the line; hopefully the same can be said of other students.
UPDATE DECEMBER 2016
Reader, recently I learnt of an occasion where Doc Walsh sexually abused a Whitefriars student. Another incident has become known to me where he fully exposed himself to a student at his house. This information comes from credible sources. I was shocked to hear of these incidents - given how much time I spent at his house, there by the grace of God go I!!! I've decided not to alter the narrative above to demonstrate just how crafty these paedophiles can be where twilight and ambiguity are the norm. Additionally, I've heard two horrendous stories re Father Peter Slattery O' Carm over the past year or so (again from different sources). I urge anyone who has suffered sexual abuse to contact the relevant authorities. For what I am worth - nothing, I would also be interested to hear your story under whatever provisos (Bernard.ohanlon@gmail.com).
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Chapter 2 - Adventures with Joey Jordan
John ‘Joey’ Jordan was an Old Boy who had come back to his alma mater to practice his profession: history. I rated him as a teacher and my admiration is undiminished: in my mind, he was on par with John Wilson. Joey was intelligent and insightful. He once lent me a book on the Enlightenment which had his uncle’s name written on the inside cover: this indicated his genealogy. In his own way, he was as much a product of Whitefriars, with all of its limitations, as we were. He taught us Year 9 American History in 1980 and served as the Year 12 Co-ordinator in '83 which was his final year at the school. He had a refined sense of humour. But he was not a man to be trifled with; in the classroom, he ruled with an iron-fist. In retrospect, his toughness - as we shall call it - was a calculated projection on his part - after all, how else does one bring semi-pubescent boys into line – but we swallowed it hook, line and sinker and we loved him for it. It's only fitting that he should command a chapter in his own right for the following reasons.
If there was a legendary figure in our year, it was our classmate Stephen Andrews, otherwise known as Steff. His exploits have echoed down the years (and they feature elsewhere in the Secret History). While the Class of 83 was a wimpy lot, Steff had a physical presence that daunted even the thugs in the Year above us. For instance, he always stood in the back row of any classroom photo with an air of bravura. There was more than a touch of the ‘Wild Colonial Boy’ to Steff. Anyway, sometime during 1980, Joey Jordan was finishing up a class in American History in Room 12. From memory, it was sunny. As we were about to leave the room, there was a commotion in the back corner. Orange smoke filled the room. Somewhat stunned, we gathered around. Steff was on his knees, frantically trying to zip up his school-bag. Dan Burgoine was standing nearby, looking distraught. Seconds later, Joey Jordan pushed his way through the impromptu gathering. Much to our astonishment, the butt of a sky-rocket was sticking out from the bag and attempting to consummate its purpose in life: burn and fly. Why so? Towards the end of the class – as we later learnt - Steff had surreptitiously shown the skyrocket to Dan and had pretended to ignite it with a cigarette-lighter. A miscalculation had ensued – the wick had caught fire and in a moment of panic, Steff had attempted to stash it in his school-bag. His efforts were to no avail: the skyrocket burnt on. In astonishment, we gazed back at Joey: his lower jaw had swung open like a gate to a paddock. We were all thinking: Joey will nuke Steff for this misdeed. My memory fails at this point. As I can best recall, Joey was too stupefied to exact retribution; all of us, Steff included, were meekly ordered out of the room as the smoke dissipated. I've seen many skyrockets over the course of my life, but that one humble specimen has resonated more strongly in my mind than any of its more powerful counterparts.
One day, again in 1980, our class strolled down to Room 12. Joey was nowhere to be seen but he was surely on his way. The classroom itself was empty. Surprisingly, the door that led into the locker-room was shut. We looked more closely: some goose from another year had impaled a sanger on the door-handle like a club-sandwich. It was no mean specimen: it contained an array of condiments, not least pickle sauce. We drew a collective breath; while the guilt lay elsewhere, Joey’s reaction would be atomic in scale. Our teacher did not disappoint. He rolled up a few minutes late, only to be confronted by the sandwich. With thirty eyes upon him, Joey became still; his facial muscles twitched ever so slightly; his skin-colour reddened as blood coursed through his veins. The universe and all that it contained were ignored as he focused on the intruder. Drawing a deep breath, he glared at us, much like a Grand Inquisitor. Unable to detect guilt, he imperiously strode forward, seized the item and cast it to the ground as if it was Satan. Again, that sandwich, much like the skyrocket, could have ‘gone the way of all flesh’. But it defied destiny and its memory lives on.
There's a lot to be said for American History. On my part, I enjoyed it more than its Australian counterpart (bugger the gold-rushes and ‘The Old Bark Hut’ with Tim Ellis). Joey used a meaty textbook to illuminate the subject. Unfortunately for the textbooks in question, they came with dozens of photos that were too enticing for a group of fifteen year old boys to leave untouched. Throughout 1980, a legion of boobs, dicks, beards, swastikas and jokes were progressively added to the books – in this task, we had been prepped by our Indonesian classes of the year before with Brother Leo whose textbooks had likewise invited modification. I cannot remember any one insertion but it was a collective effort and we were proud of it. Certain books acquired nicknames like a Mozart symphony and were eagerly sought out at the commencement of class. Come the end of the year, the textbooks were our Sistine Chapel – such was the accomplishment. Thereabouts, Joey seized a copy to check a reference: his face went alabaster. Was it Abe Lincoln with an enormous wanger? Had JFK been adorned with a Hitler moustache? I cannot say but he threw the textbook to the table, seized another copy and beheld our handiwork a second time. Much like the episode of the skyrocket, I cannot remember there being much fallout: perhaps Joey had been yorked by the severity of the event. I daresay a decision would have been made afterwards to replace the entire set; only God knows where they lie – perhaps they are turning into humus at the bottom of some landfill – but make no mistake: those textbooks served their day.
Whitefriars had many shortcomings as a school, not least, its failure to expose us to the opposite sex in a staged and constructive manner. Those among us who made it to the end of Year 12 were invariably wearing a Big V jumper, where V, I can assure you, did not stand for Victoria. It was hardly surprising that come the end of school, some of us abruptly procreated. True enough, there was the occasional ‘sex-talk’ but such gatherings – often conducted by earnest, middle-aged Catholic housewives - were greeted with derision. Anyway, having fathered a progeny – young Liam - sometime in 1983, Joey stepped up to the plate and conduct a ‘birds and the bees’ discussion with our class. While I cannot recall the bulk of his address, his comment that 'it' – whatever 'it' was – ‘sort of expands’ could have been better phrased. Bedlam followed. His imperiousness notwithstanding, Joey realised that he had committed a cardinal error and there was no point attempting to impose order on chaos. While most of us – me included – did not exactly know what we were laughing at, oh, how the wind blew.
Tony di Pietro joined us in 1980 for a short but memorable stay at Whitefriars. It is fair to say that Tony had wider issues in life; the College at the time made no such allowances with its ‘one size fits all’ approach to student welfare. Breaking Johnny Wilkens’ arm in Religion - a tale in itself - was the stamp on Tony’s departure-visa. Pre-exilic, one day he was sitting down the back of American History. The bell had just gone but Joey ignored it; he wanted to finish up discussing the Great Depression. He asked us if anyone could think of an Australian equivalent of Tennessee Valley Authority: namely, a public-works program that was implemented to stimulate economic activity. Being the shit-stirrer that I am, I lent over to Tony and provided him with a ‘helpful’ suggestion. Unthinkingly, Tony raised a hand in response. “Mister Jordan, I know, I know!” Joey quietened the class in wait for the answer. Tony gulped in excitement before continuing: “Yep, it was . . . it was . . . it was the Footscray Railroad Bridge.” I have never seen anyone being hit by a dum-dum bullet but the look on Joey’s face at that moment was approximation enough.
Excursions were always eventful even if they were no more than a trip to the Nunawading Pool. One day, we were returning back to the College in a bus when twittering could be heard: a porno had been smuggled onto the bus and its delights were being savoured by the rank and file. Now Joey was on the bus, sitting near the driver. Joey was no fool: he did not need to be told that something was up (in more ways than one). He leapt to his feet and turned to face us.
“Ok, where is it?” he demanded baldly.
Now sitting in the middle of the bus as I was, the identity of the perpetrators were unknown to me; but whoever they were, they did not want to be nabbed. To evade detection, the culprits passed it backwards through the gap in the seats. On the hunt, Joey strode forward, scanning one row after another. Like a baton, it came into my possession. Being a goody two-shoes, I went into a state of shock. Then whoever was sitting next to me – it might have been Tom Sabatino – hissed: “Get rid of it, you idiot!” With Joey bearing down upon us, I passed it to the guys behind me. Eventually it made its way down to the ‘toughies’ down the back, and as good as Joey was, the porno was safe in their possession.
Another tale comes to mind. One day we were asked to write up a paper on a famous battle. Joey was not interested in what happened – he wanted an analysis. Sitting next to one another, Big Gav and I jointly selected the Battle of Austerlitz as a book on that subject had recently come my way. We wrote up the same document. I received a mediocre mark which was more attributable to my overall standing with Joey than the intrinsic excellence (or otherwise) of the paper itself. Big Gav, however, was torched. His paper had been written up with a black-pen; by the time Joey had finished with it, red was dominant as a colour. To this day, Big Gav's essay on Austerlitz is the most famous document penned by anyone in our Year.
Joey has claims to being the best teacher at Whitefriars in our time and he features in more anecdotes than any other – but there was another teacher who was more memorable for all the wrong reasons: Doc Walsh.
If there was a legendary figure in our year, it was our classmate Stephen Andrews, otherwise known as Steff. His exploits have echoed down the years (and they feature elsewhere in the Secret History). While the Class of 83 was a wimpy lot, Steff had a physical presence that daunted even the thugs in the Year above us. For instance, he always stood in the back row of any classroom photo with an air of bravura. There was more than a touch of the ‘Wild Colonial Boy’ to Steff. Anyway, sometime during 1980, Joey Jordan was finishing up a class in American History in Room 12. From memory, it was sunny. As we were about to leave the room, there was a commotion in the back corner. Orange smoke filled the room. Somewhat stunned, we gathered around. Steff was on his knees, frantically trying to zip up his school-bag. Dan Burgoine was standing nearby, looking distraught. Seconds later, Joey Jordan pushed his way through the impromptu gathering. Much to our astonishment, the butt of a sky-rocket was sticking out from the bag and attempting to consummate its purpose in life: burn and fly. Why so? Towards the end of the class – as we later learnt - Steff had surreptitiously shown the skyrocket to Dan and had pretended to ignite it with a cigarette-lighter. A miscalculation had ensued – the wick had caught fire and in a moment of panic, Steff had attempted to stash it in his school-bag. His efforts were to no avail: the skyrocket burnt on. In astonishment, we gazed back at Joey: his lower jaw had swung open like a gate to a paddock. We were all thinking: Joey will nuke Steff for this misdeed. My memory fails at this point. As I can best recall, Joey was too stupefied to exact retribution; all of us, Steff included, were meekly ordered out of the room as the smoke dissipated. I've seen many skyrockets over the course of my life, but that one humble specimen has resonated more strongly in my mind than any of its more powerful counterparts.
One day, again in 1980, our class strolled down to Room 12. Joey was nowhere to be seen but he was surely on his way. The classroom itself was empty. Surprisingly, the door that led into the locker-room was shut. We looked more closely: some goose from another year had impaled a sanger on the door-handle like a club-sandwich. It was no mean specimen: it contained an array of condiments, not least pickle sauce. We drew a collective breath; while the guilt lay elsewhere, Joey’s reaction would be atomic in scale. Our teacher did not disappoint. He rolled up a few minutes late, only to be confronted by the sandwich. With thirty eyes upon him, Joey became still; his facial muscles twitched ever so slightly; his skin-colour reddened as blood coursed through his veins. The universe and all that it contained were ignored as he focused on the intruder. Drawing a deep breath, he glared at us, much like a Grand Inquisitor. Unable to detect guilt, he imperiously strode forward, seized the item and cast it to the ground as if it was Satan. Again, that sandwich, much like the skyrocket, could have ‘gone the way of all flesh’. But it defied destiny and its memory lives on.
There's a lot to be said for American History. On my part, I enjoyed it more than its Australian counterpart (bugger the gold-rushes and ‘The Old Bark Hut’ with Tim Ellis). Joey used a meaty textbook to illuminate the subject. Unfortunately for the textbooks in question, they came with dozens of photos that were too enticing for a group of fifteen year old boys to leave untouched. Throughout 1980, a legion of boobs, dicks, beards, swastikas and jokes were progressively added to the books – in this task, we had been prepped by our Indonesian classes of the year before with Brother Leo whose textbooks had likewise invited modification. I cannot remember any one insertion but it was a collective effort and we were proud of it. Certain books acquired nicknames like a Mozart symphony and were eagerly sought out at the commencement of class. Come the end of the year, the textbooks were our Sistine Chapel – such was the accomplishment. Thereabouts, Joey seized a copy to check a reference: his face went alabaster. Was it Abe Lincoln with an enormous wanger? Had JFK been adorned with a Hitler moustache? I cannot say but he threw the textbook to the table, seized another copy and beheld our handiwork a second time. Much like the episode of the skyrocket, I cannot remember there being much fallout: perhaps Joey had been yorked by the severity of the event. I daresay a decision would have been made afterwards to replace the entire set; only God knows where they lie – perhaps they are turning into humus at the bottom of some landfill – but make no mistake: those textbooks served their day.
Whitefriars had many shortcomings as a school, not least, its failure to expose us to the opposite sex in a staged and constructive manner. Those among us who made it to the end of Year 12 were invariably wearing a Big V jumper, where V, I can assure you, did not stand for Victoria. It was hardly surprising that come the end of school, some of us abruptly procreated. True enough, there was the occasional ‘sex-talk’ but such gatherings – often conducted by earnest, middle-aged Catholic housewives - were greeted with derision. Anyway, having fathered a progeny – young Liam - sometime in 1983, Joey stepped up to the plate and conduct a ‘birds and the bees’ discussion with our class. While I cannot recall the bulk of his address, his comment that 'it' – whatever 'it' was – ‘sort of expands’ could have been better phrased. Bedlam followed. His imperiousness notwithstanding, Joey realised that he had committed a cardinal error and there was no point attempting to impose order on chaos. While most of us – me included – did not exactly know what we were laughing at, oh, how the wind blew.
Tony di Pietro joined us in 1980 for a short but memorable stay at Whitefriars. It is fair to say that Tony had wider issues in life; the College at the time made no such allowances with its ‘one size fits all’ approach to student welfare. Breaking Johnny Wilkens’ arm in Religion - a tale in itself - was the stamp on Tony’s departure-visa. Pre-exilic, one day he was sitting down the back of American History. The bell had just gone but Joey ignored it; he wanted to finish up discussing the Great Depression. He asked us if anyone could think of an Australian equivalent of Tennessee Valley Authority: namely, a public-works program that was implemented to stimulate economic activity. Being the shit-stirrer that I am, I lent over to Tony and provided him with a ‘helpful’ suggestion. Unthinkingly, Tony raised a hand in response. “Mister Jordan, I know, I know!” Joey quietened the class in wait for the answer. Tony gulped in excitement before continuing: “Yep, it was . . . it was . . . it was the Footscray Railroad Bridge.” I have never seen anyone being hit by a dum-dum bullet but the look on Joey’s face at that moment was approximation enough.
Excursions were always eventful even if they were no more than a trip to the Nunawading Pool. One day, we were returning back to the College in a bus when twittering could be heard: a porno had been smuggled onto the bus and its delights were being savoured by the rank and file. Now Joey was on the bus, sitting near the driver. Joey was no fool: he did not need to be told that something was up (in more ways than one). He leapt to his feet and turned to face us.
“Ok, where is it?” he demanded baldly.
Now sitting in the middle of the bus as I was, the identity of the perpetrators were unknown to me; but whoever they were, they did not want to be nabbed. To evade detection, the culprits passed it backwards through the gap in the seats. On the hunt, Joey strode forward, scanning one row after another. Like a baton, it came into my possession. Being a goody two-shoes, I went into a state of shock. Then whoever was sitting next to me – it might have been Tom Sabatino – hissed: “Get rid of it, you idiot!” With Joey bearing down upon us, I passed it to the guys behind me. Eventually it made its way down to the ‘toughies’ down the back, and as good as Joey was, the porno was safe in their possession.
Another tale comes to mind. One day we were asked to write up a paper on a famous battle. Joey was not interested in what happened – he wanted an analysis. Sitting next to one another, Big Gav and I jointly selected the Battle of Austerlitz as a book on that subject had recently come my way. We wrote up the same document. I received a mediocre mark which was more attributable to my overall standing with Joey than the intrinsic excellence (or otherwise) of the paper itself. Big Gav, however, was torched. His paper had been written up with a black-pen; by the time Joey had finished with it, red was dominant as a colour. To this day, Big Gav's essay on Austerlitz is the most famous document penned by anyone in our Year.
Joey has claims to being the best teacher at Whitefriars in our time and he features in more anecdotes than any other – but there was another teacher who was more memorable for all the wrong reasons: Doc Walsh.
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