CHAPTER 38
The Reluctant Sportsman; and No. 27: The Sabre Jet
My final year at Gower Abbey College seemed one of unremitting study and relentless workload. Yet despite the dragging of classroom hours the days and weeks somehow fled, leaving me with a constant feeling of falling behind. School holidays brought little relief; I used them to preview the next term’s work.
In many ways, though, these perceptions were untrue, for during that time much occurred that was extra to our scholarly endeavours.
Where study practices were concerned, however, Father O’Long had some very firm ideas – particularly in respect of us senior students. He also had a very clear policy about sporting activities: Every Able-bodied Boy Was To Participate.
Naturally enough we were happy to oblige him at this, it being a welcome escape from the strict regimen of the classroom. And the way lessons terminated shortly after lunch of a Friday always had us feeling we’d earned ourselves an early mark of sizeable proportion.
But Father manipulated pretty much everything in our little lives and this was exactly how we were supposed to feel. His scheduling sports on a Friday afternoon was a typical example; it allowed us a means of relieving ourselves of any pent up angst or aggression we may be harbouring in a controlled and supervised environment, prior to our weekend “escape”.
Sometimes the aggression was not so pent, you understand, but as I mentioned earlier, he would not tolerate boys fighting. Better to find a large rock to kick.
So Friday was a great day. Half a day’s schoolwork and a morning test, a couple of lessons after lunch … then it was switch the old brain into neutral and head for the field of play – the notion of letting fly some really good bouncers or landing a vigorous tackle on the stinkin’ mongrel rat that dobbed you in to Brother Aufmein adding an element of sweet expectation to the affair.
Then one day I elected to forego the manly pleasures of the sporting field to study for an important test. Father soon heard of this and, despite my protests, made his feelings clear. We “study-bugs” (and I somehow seemed to have joined their ranks) were not to regard ourselves as being exempt from the school’s sporting activities, he declared – adding that he expected to see me out on the field in five minutes.
Rugby and cricket were the main sports played at Gower Abbey. Regrettably, where such group-endeavours were concerned, I could make no contribution to the school’s record of achievements.
“Teamwork, Cassidy! Teamwork!” was all very well, but for some reason I never could fit myself comfortably into being part of a team. Often, too, I found it difficult to shake off the feeling that I was more observer than participant. At such times, suddenly finding oneself in possession of the ball could be a thoroughly unnerving turn of events.
On one occasion, as a junior boy and following a couple of heavy tackles, the shouting confused me so much that I’d set off with the ball in the wrong direction. Nor did my team mates let me forget this traitorous act too readily. “Wrong-way Cassidy” it was for a while after that, my subsequent fainting and Mrs Finnegan’s diagnosis of mild concussion notwithstanding.
I was much happier playing cricket, and fielding out on the square leg boundary was a good place to observe play. Otherwise, any skills necessary to impress the selectors, such as an ability to catch, bowl, hit, kick or run with a ball, were, I regret to say, sadly lacking.
In direct contrast, Zack had become the demon bowler of Gower Abbey. He was always at his best when bowling barefooted, and would half terrorize opposing batsmen at inter-school competitions by simply taking off his shoes.
He had a special faster ball, too – a yorker, sparingly used. It seemed no different to his regular deliveries but would arrive at a batsman’s toes considerably earlier than expected and generally collect the off-stump on its way through.
Then one day Brother Aufmein introduced us to Aussie Rules Football. None of us became fanatics but the different style of play really suited some boys. Due to my ball skills I always found myself at back pocket, or “starvation point”. This was handy sometimes, as when the action was at the far end of the field, those of us around the goal area this end would often get together for a yarn or a to have brief game of marbles.
Certain of us even developed a technique for having a quick pee during these quieter moments, discreetly sitting with our backs to the spectators (if any), all attention, we assumed, being focused in the direction of play. There were no complaints, so it must have worked (something of a relief, I must say...).
It was somewhere about this time that I was drafted into the college’s annual sports day long distance event – a mile up the road towards Angus Cross’ homestead and then back again – which I won. This was a surprise to all concerned as I’d never had any success when running in the shorter, sprint races – the 100, 220 or 440 yard events.
In recognition of this (and my “Lone Ranger” temperament sports-wise), Father suggested I should consider focusing my efforts on long distance running – advice which I followed. Aside from actually winning the event I’d found that I actually enjoyed it. And there was something appealing about competing against others as an individual rather than in a team or simply running against the clock. I also found that I had the reserves of stamina necessary for protracted running.
And in the event I was fairly successful, managing during my senior years to best all of the boys in the Ingham region. That was as far as my triumph extended, however, as a lanky kid from Townsville had my measure.
Clarence Wainsop was his name – known generally as “Raindrop”. Kilometres we’d run, matching each other stride for stride, the only problem being that his strides were a few millimetres longer than mine. This meant he could maintain his natural rhythm and pace, while I had to produce an occasional burst of speed to catch up. Then, before long, he’d be ahead of me again. I’m sure he could have run to all the way to Brisbane, too, had no one told him to stop.
As a result of these things I was odds-on favourite to come in second at the Ingham and Townsville High School Championships to be conducted in Ingham during the first term of my final year. And I would have done so, too, had Raindrop not somehow taken a wrong turn.
Poor organisation, Brother SanSistez said, but it was just one of those unfortunate things that happen.
First prize was a five pound note and “all you could eat” for two at the Star of Ingham Cafe. And, despite its somewhat aged and spartan furnishings, I did for a while picture myself there with Julia, enjoying a romantic candlelight dinner as Garcon fawned over us with menus and stuff.
This fantasy delight was short lived, however. During a conversation shortly after the race, Father O’Long made the “observation” that, “…while it would be reasonable to pocket the fiver as the boy should have paid more attention to instructions, it would be a sportsmanlike gesture to acknowledge the fellow’s misfortune by inviting him to share in the meal at the café.” – an acknowledgement of which he would approve most highly, he added.
And so, the following Saturday, I went with Father to his office and rang Raindrop at his home in Townsville. He’d be visiting his grandparents in Ingham during the May holidays, he said, so we agreed to collect the prize while he was there. We also agreed to make a go of the “all you could eat” business by fasting as much as possible on the day prior to the appointment.
Everyone at Gower Abbey College knew The Star of Ingham Café and all of us knew The Star of Ingham’s proprietors, Gallio and Gina Pasticcini. And the Star of Ingham’s sandwiches were always thicker, their bags of chips larger and their milkshakes fuller for visiting Gower Abbey boys.
Gallio himself was a warm, effusive sort of fellow who sported the same hefty build as his offspring and on the appointed day he welcomed us like long-lost comrades. “Don’ta you worry ‘bouta da menu, boys,” he said, giving the green laminex table an extra wipe with a tired-looking dishcloth. “I fixa you the besta feed sinsa you drink from you mother’s ab
reast – no worries!”
What never occurred to us, of course, was that being the proud parents of four hulking great sons meant he knew something of a growing boy’s eating habits and, as a result, exactly what we would understand the words “all you can eat” to mean. And so, to ensure he remained master of the situation, he had deliberately and with considerable aforethought taken it upon himself to nobble us.
As he disappeared into the kitchen Gina arrived with a large glass of orange drink each, following which Gallio returned with two enormous bowls of pumpkin soup and half a loaf of freshly baked, hot-buttered bread. By then we were utterly ravenous and we fell on the food like fox kits. He then insisted we have more – to finish it off, he said, claiming he’d made it especially for us.
When that was done his wife brought from the kitchen two of the largest plates of spaghetti bolognese ever to grace a table. ...And we, like the poor young innocents we were, just ate ourselves deeper into his trap. Gone were any thoughts of barramundi fillets and scaloppini parmigiana, of roast chicken and tee-bone steaks and seafood platters. Gone too was any notion of tropical fruit salad, ice cream and crusty apple pie to follow, for when we finally mined our way to the end of the spaghetti Gallio appeared with a minor mountain of pancakes, plus syrup and lemon juice.
I capitulated about half way through the pancakes but Raindrop’s dinner table stamina was just as good as his athletic mettle. As he neared the last pancake the rest of the Pasticcini clan arrived to encourage him, grandma and grandpa Pasticcini included. And it was then that he took our only trick.
After dispatching the final morsel Raindrop leant back in his chair and burped discreetly. Then, with a beaming, self-satisfied smile, he said: “Gees! What a ripper feed! What do you say, Casey; some fruit salad and ice cream would really finish it off nicely, ay.”
Kevin Cassidy The Cassidy Chronicles Page 37
