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!