Do words matter?

Ever been a part of the crime of the century? Well maybe not THE crime but a pretty big one. Ever? Well maybe not intentionally but as a patsy or by chance? And really it was no big deal, if it’s just some words? And who worries about words right? If Hitler had stopped at writing Mein Kampf then he’d be a nobody right?

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A warm easter evening with no breeze to bring any relief. Flinders Red bricks surround me reaching tall to God. Pews lightly varnished, worn smooth by hundreds or thousands of butts. Bland concrete floors covered by the thinnest and cheapest vinyl available, always cold, great in summer and not so great in winter. Some weeks the collection plate didn’t weigh much in the working class suburb of Acacia Ridge. And when that weight was mainly the worn bronze of 1 or 2 cent coins then the weight didn’t buy much.

How to explain two teens kneeling on hard timber steps? Blood red cassock so we don’t forget the blood of Christ and a pure white alb to signify our purity. That’s me and Robby waiting to ring the bell, the cue is when those strong forearms reach high escaping the sleeves to reveal their thick black wiry covering. And giggling, incessant giggles echoing back to our red ears. Well my ears were red.

“What did God say when he made the second Aboriginal? Strewth, burnt another one…….”, I had just whispered. The problem in here though is everything carries.

Poor Robby can’t help himself. He’s the only one who laughs at dad’s jokes. Ok they are my jokes as I’m the clown telling them. And his ears aren’t red so if he’d just shut up things would be fine.

Cold blue eyes peer over the thick horn rim glasses. Those eyes were more intense than Superman melting steel. If something happened to Christopher Reeves then those eyes alone could get the role of Clark Kent. Maybe Father Dooley thinks things have gone too far this time. A giant Irishman standing tall on the elevated chancel peering down on 2 insignificant teens, one of us straight laced with a face of purity and the other now a bent over mess of tears with his body racked by laughter. Father’s Irish brogue had thickened.

The smattering of prim and proper pensioners do not approve of this display. Tut tutts and gentle shakes of the head all round. Even my mum in the third row doesn’t seem to be joining in the responses tonight.  

Thankfully his forty minute hour was a set routine so I could avoid any further mishaps. Bells rang, chalices carried and no eucharist fell off those furry tongues that night. Then slip off the costime and into the HJ for a quick drive home.

Well the 6 foot tall slim straight A student stayed on the alter boy roster. Robby was not seen again in the bloody red under pure white and I’m not even sure I ever saw him even in the church again. The loss was on Our Lady of Fatima as Robby lived over the road, always available, and seemed to take this Jesus stuff seriously. Not sure what the parishioners problem was but they could be insensitive at times.

A few months later as the Ekka westerlies ripped across the Archerfield Airport and straight through those ragged teenagers on Ron Proud Oval. A few of us were struggling to stay interested as we dribbled around without vigour or purpose. Old Macca was doing his best to keep us engaged and active. Playing soccer on the weekends was great, training was ok but training in these gales that cut through any number of jumpers was crazy.

“The ball never gets tired boys, you do, but the ball just keeps rolling. That’s it Robby, run to space. Come on lads use him, come on booooys pass it. I’ll wager that ball can run longer and faster than any of ye whippets.”

And he had something. The previous few years we had been a pack of dingoes clinging together around a carcass, lots of staring and not much movement. In the winter of 82 though something had clicked under Mr MacGregor and we were kangaroos bounding across the green plains of Brisbane’s soccer fields. No defender could protect their fields from us blue coated joeys as we struck goals wherever we travelled.

“Which reminds me, what will be the fastest thing in Brisbane during the Commonwealth Games? Come on its obvious, a goanna going through Musgrave Park.”

I quickly get a move on as Macca closes the gap, that scowl a sure sign that his patience was thinning. Geez that was one of my better jokes gaining a few guffaws, I’m sure it’ll get retold a few times.

Dirt filled my face and my knee ached. Wow, Robby could pack a punch when needed. Not that it took much to push my spaghetti frame over, especially wind assisted. Rolling over I’m not sure why Robby is so upset as he stands over me but Macca has it covered. I’ll just pick myself up and play on, nothing to see here. Robby won’t do that again.

Macca set some high standards from his time as a wee lad in Edinburgh. Rumour has it his one game for Hiberian was on the bench of the 72 Scottish League Cup final. If you only play a handful of minutes in a handful of games at most, then was it a career? Afterall it wasn’t Liverpool or the FA Cup was it?

Next week I’m in fine form, again. We have one game to go and we are undefeated. Stars like Robby and Sergio kept finding the back of the net. Kolbie kept our net as empty as the shelves of methylated spirits on pension day. The 7 to 7 corner store down the hill from the freight yards at South Brisbane always has metho on the shelf. During summer the stain remover was sold from the fridge as well.

Every one in Macca’s team has a role and my part is on the left wing. No one is left footed in this team so I found my niche in the team practicing for hours kicking left footed. Although my trick when dribbling to the corner post was to suddenly stop, pivot around the ball and lace my cross right footed. Perfection was the sweet thud as Sergio sprung high and headed home. If the keeper got there first but couldn’t handle it then Robbie struck as fast as a taipan. Everyone rushed to Robby and rubbed his thick dark hair. Robby is the only one who appreciates the assist. After we wandered back for the restart he would give me a clap or jog over and pat me on the back. Well Robby and Macca who just nodded with a faint crack between his dry lips.

Anyway Macca is working hard to keep the footballs moving tonight. Not sure why as what can we learn with only one game left in the season? I heard Mrs Cook say we beat Logan around Easter 8 nil, maybe even 9 nil. The closest anyone had got to us all season was two goals.  So the premiership was ours, Logan a mere formality. Joke time.

“Hey boys, Queensland cops are good hey. Did you hear they busted a dope smuggling ring last night? Yeah they arrested a corroboree of pregnant women crossing over from the Territory?”

Well I won’t tell that one again, dead silence all around. So with my head high pretending nothing had been said I grabbed a scratched ball and dribbled around the centre circle. Pivoting to use my left foot I’m distracted by a clash of angry bodies.

Geez, Sergio and Robby have a fierce scuffle going, arms locked and legs straining. Wow Sergio’s forehead clipped his opponents chin leaving a lightning shaped trail of blood barely visible against the darkened face. Turf ripped. Sweat glistened making a firm hold precarious.

The height difference made the difference when Sergio managed to stand fully erect before twisting and flipping Robby around and over his extended leg. Robby buckled into the turf rolling around with his knee held tight. Too late but Sergio’s face creased as he looked down. I can’t remember what Sergio said but I can still picture Robby’s sweaty face, teeth gnashing together.

The victor straightened to his full height and killer cool just gazed my way. A weary arm pointed my way, wavering as it levelled with the horizon before dropping listlessly back to his side. If that was a victory dance then it needed refining. A brief nod with a wink from me acknowledged his help. If anyone asked I’d have feigned indifference with a quip about probably winning but if I lost it would be a close placed second. Secretly though I appreciated Sergio stepping up to guard my back.

Training ended on a downer as Mrs Cook and Macca helped Robby to the rusty gold Gemini. I couldn’t count how many kids were crammed in the back seat. I couldn’t imagine how Mrs Cook could fit her pronounced baby bump behind the wheel.

Dad said it was probably triplets as she had three boyfriends on the go at the local. When I queried mum on that over meat and three veg one night I just heard a calm assurance that Mrs Cook was a good Catholic girl who avoided the pub but not the Papal decree on protection.   

That Saturday we missed Robby. Sergio seemed guilty about Robby being a no show. His feet never left the ground, his arms clung to his side and his head was elsewhere. We forged forward enough but their keeper just easily scooped up the ball repeatedly. One of his clearing kicks bounced over halfway allowing the Logan forwards to swarm over the ball like field mice in a drought and around Kolbie. Halftime and we were down 1 nil.   

“Hey Serg, any chance of a pass? We are a team you know!” Unexpected venom spat back my way.

“Team, bloody hell you have no idea. How about you just shut up and stay way out on your wing.” Sergio’s face had screwed up, eyes reduced to slits, and spittle dribbled down his chin.  

How is it I can remember that sentence, every word, each emphasised syllable? I hadn’t wrestled Robby to the ground. I hadn’t put Robby on crutches.

Just before we run back out Kolbie found his voice. The youngest of six sporting lads he always just listened. Seemed all his brothers had won premierships, even a fancy First XV title at Lauries, but none have been undefeated. We had a chance for something special. He had a chance to put one over his tormentors. Not bad for a debut speech.

It worked as the ball spent the second half working around the field until Logan got tired before the ball did. Patiently we go left and right, right and left. Kolbie barked directions. Macca implored us to keep running to space and let the ball do the work.

Some bored kid kept blaring out a slightly familiar tune on an old ute’s horn. Beep….. beep ….. beep beep beep… beep beep ….. beep beeeeeppppp.

Eventually Sergio spotted an opening and like a karaop spider dancing out from under loose bark he feasted. He lunged past four exhausted defenders, spun ninety degrees to fool the keeper and casually strolled over the chalk dust. In the blink of an eye it was one all.

A shrill whistle rang around the oval. The referee shook a few limp hands and wandered back to the halfway for her next game.  

‘UNDEFEATED!!” Kolbie roared.  

Still, when that final whistle had pierced the crisp morning air I just slumped to the ground. Honestly, I felt like Logan had won the premiership with their cheers and hugs galore. It was the only game they had not lost that year.

Sergio and Kolbie wandered off arm in arm towards the carpark. Macca couldn’t think of a better way to finish his coaching career. My mum just smiled and took out an old Kodak for a few memories.

                 *****          *****          *****          *****

“Thanks Brad, as always appreciate your traffic updates. Hi again Brisbane, this is Kat Feney on ABC Brisbane. Just before I had over to Steve to drive you home I’ve asked Dr Robin Cook to stay a bit longer.”

“My pleasure Kate.”

“I’d like to move away from Covid for a bit. Heal Country. That’s the theme of Naidoc Week in 2021. As Uncle Robby in the Turrbal People, do you have a message for healing? A story to share?”

Come on red light, could you take any longer? Mondays were always a test of patience trying to race along Fairfield Road from work to pick up the girls. Monday means training. A chance to lie on the grassy knoll and listen to Steve cajole and coach my youngest. Why doesn’t he tell them the ball won’t get tired? Keep it simple instead of width, grow the ground, angles and potential.

“…. My faith guided my early years and still offers comfort. I don’t need perfection, I just need to be good. No, that’s not quite right, I just need to try to be good, as often as I can…..”

Do I slog up Fairfield Road or try to rat run down past the Corso? What’s the point of a manual or turbo if you can’t use them? Neither were any use at red lights. Swinging left I tune back into the radio.

“The best advice I ever received was from a priest. Father Dooley. Actually two pieces. First, you don’t have to go to mass to be a good Catholic, Jesus was just as happy with the man praying quietly to himself as the person in the front row praying loud while dropping notes in collection basket.”

Did Kat introduce this guest as Uncle Robby? And did Robby say Dooley? Not the most common Irish name or priest name.

“I think his Irish upbringing related well to us Murri mob. Being the butt of jokes just because we weren’t English. He always told me it was better to laugh than fight.”

Piercing blue eyes. Thick horn rimmed glasses. That gaze. Oh my, it wasn’t aimed at Robby. I was the reason the brogue thickened. Those tut tutts were aimed at the lanky straight backed altar boy.

“So if you didn’t go to church where did you go?”

“Mostly Musgrave Park. Till the Joh protests leading up to the Games I hadn’t really connected with my heritage. Listening to Mick and Marcia speak, learning of the struggles our elders past and present endured. It was a profound time for me.”

“That’s worthy of a whole conversation just on it’s own.” Kat, master of the understatement.

Goannas racing across Musgrave Park. Bins being painted red and yellow so the protestors could pretend to be at Maccas. I had cut close to home. What had I actually known about Robby?

“Earlier you were telling us of your fortunate life, how lucky you have been and you wouldn’t change much. Surely these must be a regret, somewhere?”

That giggle, it hadn’t change. Right now I could picture him laughing with his whole body.

“Recently I was privileged to give a eulogy for a man who helped generations. A humble man who quietly fought for the underdog. A man who could have coached any club in Australia after a successful career in Scotland starring for Celtic and Hiberians. A man who chose to coach kids at Acacia Ridge.”

Macca? A star. No he was bench warmer at best for a few games. It must be another coach.

“How could meeting a man like that be a regret?”

“He was a father figure for a few of us. Mostly mee, the Italian Sergio whose dad was always working and Polish Jakub Kolb whose Dad had died in a work accident. The Eye Tie, Abo and Wop. There were a few others in his teams but we were a tight trio.”

The names were familiar but the stories weren’t. The stories had just been jokes hadn’t they? The Italian tanks with 5 reverse gears? Poles having big noses because air was free?

“Well the regret was missed playing in our last match because I failed my friends. They couldn’t just laugh at the jokes aimed at me.”

The fastest thing in Musgrave Park? Robby standing over me? Oh my, Sergio had pushed me to the ground. Robby was protecting me? He was protecting me and not the aggressor. Macca was what if he wasn’t tearing a strip off him?

“Macca always appreciated my patience. He always asked how the water could wash off my back when ducks should drown under the torrent. Anyway, one day I had to actually stop my friend Serg knocking a clown out and hurt my knee. It was our last chance to play together before Kolbie had to play for school instead of club. And Serg was moving to a new suburb out of Brisbane. His dad wouldn’t need so much overtime to buy a house there.”

Me. I. Myself. My words had put Robby on crutches. We didn’t win every game because I was bored. My boredom turned to humour. No, my humour turned to casual racism. Words could break bones.

“The last time we were together the three of us were in the back of a ute. I’d begged a lift with Macca to watch the game but couldn’t get down the hill with the dew. So I beeped a horn and called out with all my might.”

How little I had known! How much had I done?

“Daddy, why are you crying?”

“Because words matter Maeve, words really matter.”