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.
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