The Club

Chapter 10 - Lost

Rugby players will tell you that soccer is a gentleman’s game played by hooligans whereas rugby is a barbaric game played by gentleman, but I’m not so sure; people say a lot of things.    

A couple of months after my appointment as assistant professional at the Club a lot of things had gone right. My junior development team was playing well, I had a steady clientele of lessons, Jason and I were running a tight ship in Cloudy’s perpetual “absence” and, most importantly, the range balls were being picked up daily. Unfortunately, Canberra isn’t the place to go if you value your social life. I had very little reason to venture out of the pro shop, so my life consisted of long hours at the course and short hours in my bed. However, tonight I had somewhere else to go other than the pickup window at the local KFC. The Brumbies rugby club had been to the Club for a charity event the previous week and had dropped off a bunch of tickets at the front counter. Telling no one, I proceeded to give a free ticket to every twenty- to thirty-year-old woman that had come in for a round of golf in the past week. The last ticket I kept for myself. Brilliant!

As I was driving to the game I recalled my own boyhood rugby career which lasted until I went into a scrum with two ears around the age of 9 and came out with one and a half. My mother put an end to the proceedings shortly thereafter. Still, I was a staunch supporter of the Queensland Reds and took every opportunity to see them, either on the telly or in person, when I could convince my father to go. Tonight the Queensland Reds were playing the Brumbies in one of the last games of the season. The Reds and the Brumbies play the true form of the game, rugby union, not the bastardized version known as rugby league. Union is the game played in the World Cup and is far more skilful than league.  Still, in a game of rugby union no one really knows the rules. The fans know about 60% of what is really going on, the players about 70%, and the officials about 80% of the game’s conventions. This crucial 10% gap between the referees’ knowledge and the players’ understanding keeps the game somewhat civilized. For instance, a whistle blows and the official makes a hand signal; suddenly the players stop and glance over at the referee. Usually nothing untoward has happened but the players don’t want to be found out. If they argue, it could expose the very fact that they have no clue what infractions are mentioned in the rule book. The official is essentially a lion tamer; at any moment the giant ogres on the field could engulf him in a single bite but the official’s authoritative whistling and hand gestures make the players believe that this guy is the top lion in the pride. Therefore, for the most part, the animals on the field act submissively but it is a fact that when the referee turns his head there are things going on at the bottom of the ruck that the police should know about.

I arrived at the game a little early, parked my car and walked 3 blocks and through a park to get to Canberra Stadium. It’s a great venue to see a game. I was hopeful that each of the attractive women that I had given tickets to over the course of the week would be in attendance; however, as I got closer to the seats it was clear they had re-gifted the tickets to gruesome-looking brothers and boyfriends. I decided I might get a beer. I took the long way around the stadium, taking in the sights, sounds, and smells of the event. By the time I got to the watering hole I had seen a dozen people I knew from the course including Jason who was with a large group of friends and several lovely-looking girls. They invited me to join them in their private box and the party was on. It was a great night and as the cold Canberra winter’s evening drew to a close the seats thinned out as typically happens when the visiting team (my Reds) puts a whipping on the home team. The group I was with was also thinning out but I was eager to see the end of the game and I was enjoying the calm of this winter’s evening. When I decided to walk down the steps to get a hot chocolate a wave of memories washed over me.

My father took me to many a Reds game when I was a wee lad. I had been to the Reds stadium many times and at half-time my father always took me down to get a treat. Around the age of 8 I asked him if I could go down to the snack bar by myself. I was pretty confident I could navigate the route on my own as I had been there so many times before. But something happened on the way down. Yes I had been there before but never on my own and never with so many adults around. I took a left when I should have taken a right, and went down some steps when I should have gone up, and I got completely lost. I compounded the problem by making numerous lefts and rights to try to get back to where I began. The stadium was enormous. I passed so many different vendors I was dizzy. Eventually, I found my way to a stairwell and looked out amongst the crowd, hoping to spot my father amongst 60,000 people. Ten minutes turned into twenty and I was officially in the lost child basket for the better part of an hour. For some reason I wasn’t afraid of being stranded or being harmed in anyway. I was disappointed in myself and frightened at what my father might do if and when he found me. As a boy you desperately want your father to feel that you are an equally independent and capable man, ready to take on whatever trouble the world can spit out at you. For a boy, death is one step below dishonour. I made a last turn around yet another hallway and saw my father. I was relieved to see him and he was relieved to see me. At the time, I put his look down to relief at the thought of having to face my mother if he were to leave without me and come home empty-handed. But more than his look, he put his arm around me and we walked back to our seats together. He didn’t scold or make a big deal. He just said, “Big place; I often get turned around myself”. He even remembered to get me that snack on the way back to our seats.

It wasn’t too long after that that our relationship began to dissolve. I have no idea why. Thinking back I wish I could have changed something that I had done, but in the end I don’t think it was me. You never know what is happening in someone else’s head or what demons they have inside. I just know that the two of us grew apart and had nothing in common to the point that we needed to go our separate ways. But when you ask me for a good memory of my Father, I remember that night.

I exited the stadium and tried to find my car. The park that I walked through on the way to the match was pitch black on the way back.  I had my phone out as a torch and was traipsing across the bush, looking for the side road that would bring me back to my car. Eventually the old Falcon stood alone and I headed back to Swinger Street. I get very sentimental when I drive, and my mind wandered to sailboats, rugby matches, and times that seemed a long way away. Fortunately when your job makes you work every single weekend you snap out of self-reflection quickly. I would be back at the course in 6 hours and, from Jason’s artificially- induced jolly demeanour when I left the stadium, this may have been the only time when I had a chance to beat him to the course in the morning.