Well I took my eldest son Mark to the movies one night to see Gladiator - Definitely not a ???chick flick???.  It reminded me of the days when my Dad and me used to go to the movies to see the guy shows, like all the old Charles Bronson movies, and the Rocky series, only this was a lot more bloody.  I do remember seeing a horror movie (at least that was what they called it in those days) called ???Count Yorga, Vampire???.  I was about 14, and we took a short cut home (in the dark) and suddenly both got spooked and ran all the way home.  These days the same movie would be viewed with bemusement.

Speaking of guys stuff leads me into the subject matter I wanted to talk to you about today ??¦??¦. Football!!!   You may ask, why does this guy thinks I would want to hear about football, especially the Australian type.  Well, its not that I am running out of stories, but its one that I shared with my son the other day, and I realized that it goes a long way towards describing the Australian male, and the hallowed ideals/concepts of mate-ship, giving it all you have got, sportsmanship and good wholesome fun. 

When I was about 22, I lived in the country city of Lithgow, NSW.  Lithgow had only about 12,000 people, but compared with the surrounding areas, it was the city.  I played football (Rugby Union) for the city team, which was the team to beat in the area division, made up of many smaller towns.  Our home games would attract one or two thousand spectators to the city??™s sports ground on a mild winter??™s afternoon, after which we would be treated to free beer in our local pub.

A new team entered our division.  It was reportedly from a small town that nobody had ever heard of, about a hundred kilometers northwest of Lithgow.  When our bus arrived at the place we were directed to, we thought someone must have been joking.  There were 5 buildings in this ???town???, a pub, a petrol station, a general store, and 2 houses.  We could find no stadium, no sports ground, no welcoming committee, in fact no bloody people at all!!!  We weighed up our options while walking around the back of the pub, looking for a place (as guys do) to take a leak.

 We found ourselves in a cow paddock, when suddenly, along the 3 or four dirt tracks that led into the town, we heard the roar of dozens of utes (utility vehicles or pickup trucks), racing into town.  They all pulled up, almost at once, in a wagon train formation around the cow paddock.  A delegation approached us and drawled ???you must be the blokes from the city, lend us a hand, will ya???.  For the next 30 minutes, Lithgow??™s finest, were shooing cows from the paddock, picking up cow pats, marking out lines with lime powder, and erecting goal post from the timber that was stored under the pub.

Finally the game began, in front of our coach and trainers, a couple of carloads of our supporters, and 3 or 4 girlfriends of the local boys.  We raced to a 12 nil lead in fairly short time.  Our speed and experience was certain to win the day for us.  But then, the farm boys dug in, and we had a fight on our hands.  It was without a doubt the most physical, toughest 80 minutes I had ever experienced.   If you didn??™t know, Rugby Union is a game of football which entails passing/kicking/carrying a ball from one end of the field to the other, while 15 men on the other team try to tear your lungs out.  There are no time-outs (except 10 minutes half time), no protective headgear or padding, no offensive and defensive sides within the one team (the same 15 do all the work), and no ??¦.. absolutely no, bloody, mercy.

Foul play (I mean like eye gouging and such) would not be tolerated by the players (let alone the officials) but fighting is almost expected.  By half time, the cow cockies (Australianism for dirt farmers) had drawn level, and we went off to have our oranges, sore and sorry, but at the same time elated that we were playing in the game of our life.  I had endured 40 minutes of sprinting into a brick wall, then trying to maintain possession of the ball while being picked up and driven into the ground.  Winter is the driest season over here, and this cow paddock had not seen rain for many months.  Hence, a good supply of dust was mixed with the blood that flowed, as a result of heavy gang tackles and all-in brawls. 

My opposite number seemed intent to knock my block off, every time he had the chance (as did I for him) and we were pulled apart by the officials, on countless occasions.  Even if a mass brawl started, we would ignore most others in an attempt to get at each other.  With 5 minutes to go, we led by 18 points to 12.  In Rugby you get 4 points for placing the ball over the try line (like a touchdown, but you actually have to touchdown) and 2 points for kicking a goal.  We were on defense for the last 5 minutes, standing shoulder to shoulder along our try line.  The cockies sent man after man cannoning into us like Kamikaze s, and finally as the fulltime whistle blew, our line was breached. 

At 18-16 the cockies were allowed an attempt at goal after fulltime, for scoring the try.   My team huddled to one side and watched as their goal kicker successfully converted! The game was a draw!  Then something funny happened.  To a man, my whole team spontaneously cheered the result.  A tie was the only fitting result for a game which none of us would ever forget.  The other team felt it too.  And as men often do after mighty battles, we shook hands, patted backs, and congratulated each other??™s deeds.

The next unexpected, but really, typically Australian thing then happened.  As we came off the field and trudged to the garden hose at the back of the pub (you guessed it, no dressing sheds), we became aware that the girlfriends had been busily preparing a huge bonfire, and a BBQ.  As we hosed the cow dung, the dirt and the blood off each other, the publican rolled out an 18 gallon keg of beer.  We spent many hours eating, drinking, swapping stories of the game and generally, as we say, ???pissing in each other??™s ear???.  My opposite number and his girl, sat with me all night, and by the time we had to board the bus, he solemnly declared, that his first born would be named after me!!

None of this party cost us a cent.  The locals ran chook (chicken) raffles during the week at the pub, to pay for the party that they would have after each home game.  We did meet them again that season, but it was our home game, and without their home-ground advantage, we ran all over them.  It seemed that they could only dig deep on their own turf.  The atmosphere was just not the same, but then really, legends wouldn??™t be legends, if they occurred all the time.

I never got to travel to that town again, as I transferred to the Snowy Mountains with my job.  But about 2 years later, I was watching Wide World of Sports, one afternoon and low and behold, they did a feature story on THAT footy team from THAT town.  Yes, the legend of the spirit of the men from that tiny town, had spread across the land, and it was one of my fondest memories, that the game I played there had a part to play in the forging of that legend.

?© 2002 by Kevin J. Boxsell