by Nick Cummins
The game itself was tough and while I didn’t get many chances, I felt I did my job.
THE THINGS THEY SAID THEY’D DO TO OUR LIVESTOCK WERE SIMPLY APPALLING.
Our kickers did well coping with the lasers and I’d never heard so much heckling from a crowd. The things they said they’d do to our livestock were simply appalling. Joke’s on them but, little did they know we had no livestock. Ha!
We survived the match – the local livestock, too – and when we won the old man convinced someone to give him a police escort onto the ground. He hugged me and just lost it. What a big moment!
Back in the changing room, Robbie Deans asked me and the old man to stand in the middle of the circle and lead the national anthem – the Australian one, not the Argentinian one.
It was a moment I’ll always cherish. The whole thing was a buzz.
Dad’s whole dream hadn’t come true but a few years later I notched a match-winner against England and he wasted no time claiming he’d predicted the whole thing.
THE RESCUE
I’ve been in need of my brothers’ help more often than I’d like to admit – to them at least. Cocky bastards. But there’s one incident I’ve got no shame in giving Nathan credit for.
We were on the way to Double Island Point – one of the best surf breaks on the east coast. Boards on, roosters in and we were away. Luckily as young kids, we all had shoulders like snakes and managed to fit into the truck.
Anyhow, we pulled up next to a massive hill up to a cliff that overlooked the beach and climbing that damn thing became priority No. 1. Surfing can wait. Boy, was that a mistake.
Why did we climb it? Because the bastard was there. That’s been my philosophy for a lot of my extra-curricular triumphs over the years.
Anyhow, just after we’d made it to the summit, dragging our bare feet over crusty coral and rocks to get there, the old man called us down.
WHY DID WE CLIMB IT? BECAUSE THE BASTARD WAS THERE.
She was steep, and the only way to get down was flat-out or fall arse-over-head trying. So we knocked it into second and legged it.
I was racing Nathan and we were neck-and-neck – I could have been in front now I think about it. But Nath made it. And I didn’t.
Some clown put a tree in the middle of my trajectory and I hit it at Mach 2. It was like being squirrel-gripped by Richie McCaw during a charity fun run. It made no sense. And it bloody well hurt. I fought the tears.
Nathan saw I’d virtually been impaled, and like a rat down a drainpipe he was there. He picked me up and carried me to the bottom. He was a strong bastard. But you think he’s let me forget it? With skills like that, no wonder he’s captain of the Norwegian rugby team.
DINGO DEADLOCK
It’s 1998 and here I am, knob high to a ladybug – or 11 in proper English – and on a fishing adventure with the old man on Fraser Island.
Like any shagger with a penchant for fishing, we caught the barge from Inskip Point, just up the road from Rainbow Beach, to Fraser and while Dad was all about fishing, all I could think about were the dingoes and stories of attacks on kids. Odds on, I was next.
So we’re in the truck driving along the beach, me on high dingo alert, and the old boy spots a gutter. ‘Righto, so we’re doing this. We’re having a cast. No problem.’ Until Dad decides to partake of a marathon walk along the beach trying different spots. What wasn’t running through my mind? ‘Has the old boy had enough? Am I a sacrifice? Is this some sort of fishing ritual – give up a kid for a net full of dart?’
Anyhow, last thing I wanted was for Dad to think I was a pussy. Hell, I was 11 years old. Pretty much a man – bar the Adam’s apple. So, not wanting to sound scared, I casually ask him: ‘Dad, you reckon we should bring the knife along? You know, just in case?’ He obliges. Thinks nothing more of it. I wasn’t going down without a fight.
So a little while later Dad’s about 200 metres up the beach, I’m casting my lure and then I start getting the feeling I’m being watched. A feeling I’m quite accustomed to these days . . . Anyhow, I look around but there’s nothing. But this feeling won’t go away. Like a Melbourne Cup hangover, it just becomes stronger and stronger. So I do my best impersonation of Michael Jackson, spin around on me heels and suddenly, there it is – a bloody dingo, standing at the tree line 40 metres away with its eyes right on me! It was a specimen-size build and healthy. If anything, abnormally large. Record-breaking even.
THERE IT IS – A BLOODY DINGO, STANDING AT THE TREE LINE 40 METRES AWAY WITH ITS EYES RIGHT ON ME!
I surmise he’s too far away to do anything with the knife. I mean, I was confident I could throw it that far and hit him between the eyes. What 11-year-old wouldn’t be? But I had a whiting on the other line. So I tried to be calm about it so as not to encourage an attack – or worse, incite one and it be my fault.
By this time, Dad was too far up the beach to hear me and the car was further away than the dingo. I was like a baseball player caught between bases – only the consequences were lethal. So I took a leaf out of the book of the girls from school I liked looking at and just turned away, pretending not to care. (They cared . . .)
I WAS LIKE A BASEBALL PLAYER CAUGHT BETWEEN BASES – ONLY THE CONSEQUENCES WERE LETHAL.
I kept fishing, thoughts of Dad crying ‘A dingo stole my Nicky’ running through my head. I checked again and it has narrowed the gap. It was now 30 metres and stationary. Then 20 metres and still crouched, nose pointing directly at me in a stalk position. This dingo must have thought it was a forest frog because it was doing its best to camouflage itself.
Now, my heart is pounding as I slowly unclip the button on the knife sheath and readied myself for battle. I’d seen Gladiator on Channel 7. This was classic one-on-one stuff. Then I remembered a story my cousin Ben told me about how a kangaroo survived a pack of hunting dogs by leading the dogs to a dam and then taking up position in the middle. When the dogs came in swimming after the kangaroo he pushed them down and held them under the water until they were motionless. ‘Bloody genius, kangaroo!’ I thought. ‘No wonder you’re on the national coat of arms.’ But I also understood the dingo’s plight. Kangaroo ain’t a bad feed.
I STARTED YELLING AT IT, BUT ITS EYES MEANT BUSINESS. I WAS A GONER.
Anyhow, with that knowledge fresh in my head I began backing up towards the water with the rod held out in front of me and the knife at the ready. My plan was to let it bite the rod – minds out of the gutter, people – while I tried to stab the eyes. Like my worst nightmare, it began following me into the water.
I started yelling at it, but its eyes meant business. I was a goner. And as I swung my rod around wildly – again, gutters people – Dad comes roaring around the corner and yells the six words that somehow scare off animals and men of all size – ‘GET OUT OF IT YA BASTARD!’ And a few more expletive terms that I’m certain the dingo didn’t understand, though Dad insists it did.
And sure enough, the dingo retreated back to the tree line. And I haven’t been to Fraser or fished on a beach since.
KABOOM IN CAMBODIA
I’m no stranger to taking things into my own hands when a job needs to be done. Get your heads out of the gutter. So while touring solo through Cambodia, and having heard whispers in the hostel of a secret location rife with live World War II weapons you can shoot, I ventured out to find out for myself.
I arrived at an army installation and met with a major of the Cambodian Army – he looked about 12. Anyhow, he brought a folder out with pictures of different weapons that I could choose to fire. A veritable smorgasbord of 1944’s most technologically advanced weaponry. I turned down the combo offer of a Browning machine gun and rocket launcher with live cow. Apparently, this is a popular option where if you miss the cow with the rocket launcher, you take it out with a high-calibre machine gun.
Sensing the magnitude of the karmic backlash associated with such an act, I respectfully declined. It would be a poor way to honour one of nature’s greatest beasts. Plus
, it would be a waste of steak.
I TURNED DOWN THE COMBO OFFER OF A BROWNING MACHINE GUN AND ROCKET LAUNCHER WITH LIVE COW.
I had my mind set on the rocket-propelled grenade. I asked how much and he replied: ‘$200’ in very broken English. I thought that was steep, so I tried to negotiate a better price – with a weapons dealer . . .
The major quickly turned aggressive and began shouting in Cambodian. Lucky for me, I’d spent some time in Matraville and picked up a little lingo. From what I could surmise it was just friendly banter. That was until the major stormed off in search of ammo and an elderly American tourist approached me with heavy caution: ‘You’re in a third world country, I strongly suggest you accept his offer’. Strewth! I shit myself. And quickly began to realise I could have just dug my own grave. Actually, I hadn’t been asked to dig my own grave yet so I still had time to put on some of that classic Cummins charm.
So the major returns, I throw cash at him like he’s a stripper and give him a huge grin. He reciprocates. Almost menacingly. And we set off on a two-hour drive on some outback tracks – presumably for me to dig my own grave. We finally pull up at an old hut. The major gets out of the car, goes inside and comes out with an AK47 alongside another soldier. My heart sinks. ‘This is it, Cummo. You’re like a palm tree in a cyclone – rooted.’
MY HEART SINKS. ‘THIS IS IT, CUMMO. YOU’RE LIKE A PALM TREE IN A CYCLONE – ROOTED.’
So through my best efforts of body language I try to express to the major that I did not ask for the gun he was carrying. He ignores me. And now they both get in the car and we proceed along rough windy tracks for half an hour.
We come to a halt, my heart still pounding as I think to myself: ‘No one will ever know I was here. The world will never get to know the real me. The Badger.’
The major picks up the AK47 from the boot and walks around to my door, holding the gun at hip height. He then proceeds to point the gun at me and use it to wave me out of the car. Like a virgin prom queen, I refused his advances. This was gonna be the end of me.
And if he didn’t take kindly to bartering you can only imagine how he reacted to flat-out rejection. So he grew frustrated and made bigger movements with the gun. I thought to myself: ‘My only chance is to go along with his demands until I see an opportunity to disarm and disable the major and the soldier’. This was Van Damme stuff.
So I get out and follow him around behind some bushes, being sure to be close enough behind to take the major to ground before he can fire. I look over my shoulder and realise it’s just the two of us. ‘This is my shot’.
I’m waiting for any sudden movement from him to make my move. I’m about to tackle him when he takes his hand off the trigger, which puts me on stand-by. He turns to see me in his sky rocket (pocket), which gives him a fright. Then, holding only the barrel, he hands me the gun and says: ‘Two shot to mountain’. I hastily accept the weapon. Not knowing why he is handing it to me, he explains: ‘Two shot so people hide’. Not fully understanding what he meant, and without delay, I shot two rounds over the mountains, just in case.
I then swap the AK47 for the Russian-made RPG. I throw it over my shoulder and assume firing position. The major squats down beside me and initiates countdown. Then a massive plume of smoke shot out behind me as the rocket accelerated and exploded into the mountain. Crisis averted.
On the trip back, the major explained that the mountain I was shooting towards is actually populated. ‘Shit!’ But that the two shots were to warn them that a rocket is headed their way.
It really is a solo traveller’s paradise . . .
THE NEW BOY SNAPS A HAMSTRING
What a year 2008 was about to be. From a relative unknown trudging the brown grass of Bundaberg to Western Force Super Rugby. Things were looking up for one Nick F. Cummins. And like a hippie with a dole cheque, I strutted into day one of the preseason with a real groove in my step. ‘What a day for it!’
Anyhow, the strength and conditioning coach thought it would be a good idea to kick off the very first day after the Chrissy holidays with speed testing over forty metres. Genius.
The speed gates were set up in the basketball court and the players were instructed to do some run-throughs to warm up for the test. However, Cummo, the young bull (yeah, that’s third person. It’s my book. No rules.) was a little too eager to impress the head coach, John Mitchell.
I STRUTTED INTO DAY ONE OF THE PRE-SEASON WITH A REAL GROOVE IN MY STEP.
Ten minutes goes by of warm-up and I’ve done more run-throughs than a rabbit in breeding season. And by the time it was my turn for the real test, you could play a note off my hamstrings – they were that tight. I’d either become a Guinness World Record holder on day one or an early casualty. Suffice to say, it was the latter.
BY THE TIME IT WAS MY TURN FOR THE REAL TEST, YOU COULD PLAY A NOTE OFF MY HAMSTRINGS
At about the 35-metre mark, what felt like a sniper’s bullet hit me direct in the right hamburglar. I went down like Pamela Anderson at the Playboy Mansion. It was brutal. And in an instant I was grimacing (get it?). Turned out to be a 14-centimetre tear and a five-week stint in rehab. Who was the genius now?
This was my first injury as a professional sportsman. Basically the equivalent of being suspended at school – a holiday, if you will.
So the next day I turned up to the field session in my best double pluggers keen to impress the coach. But ol’ Johnny Mitchell didn’t take too kindly – said that I was taking the piss and gave me the kind of spray usually reserved for the parking inspector.
And there’s a lesson to be learned from all this, kids. Never rock up to work with the wrong footwear.
MAKING A MEAL OF IT
To say I like my tucker is akin to saying rabbits don’t mind a shag. Please. They’re mating maniacs. And I’d jump on a Mardi Gras float for a sniff of a good steak. Beef, of course.
I’D JUMP ON A MARDI GRAS FLOAT FOR A SNIFF OF A GOOD STEAK.
So when it was suggested I undertake a course to accompany my training, my first question was, ‘How many courses? Entree and dessert?’ Alas, they meant an ‘adult learning’ course. And a business certificate at that.
It’s a rugby thing. Each year a few players sign up to do courses and certificates to serve them in the future. It’s a great initiative. And I expect it will serve me well someday.
However, for a bloke who struggled with attention in 6th grade, the term ‘study’ didn’t exactly incite fits of rapture. But no sooner had I attended my first lesson than I abruptly changed my tune. Like I had been struck by lightning or touched by angels – appropriately – I found a new love for study . . . (coughs) Bullshit. Turns out, the old college put on quite the spread for the business students. The sangers were outstanding and numerous. And this outweighed the pain of the drawn-out lessons.
Perhaps the teacher knew Sam Wykes and myself were one bad prawn cocktail away from pulling the plug, because he upped the smorgasbord weekly to match the ascending difficulty of the class. Each white bread delicacy more satisfying than the last.
That made it extremely difficult for Sammy and myself to leave. When you’re on the bones of your arse, opportunities to fill your guts with some good tucker must be taken seriously. Even if it meant going against everything you stand for and getting smarter in the process . . .
WHEN YOU’RE ON THE BONES OF YOUR ARSE, OPPORTUNITIES TO FILL YOUR GUTS WITH SOME GOOD TUCKER MUST BE TAKEN SERIOUSLY.
So despite having to sit through talks twice a week that would put an accountant to sleep, we hung in there. Coupled with the freshest juices in town, the joint was basically offering high tea for the price of a waiting room water. Needless to say, we entered each meeting with no less than six empty pockets each. I’m still picking out glazed salmon tart from my lucky trousers – which in hindsight, aren’t as lucky as they are stinky. When it came time to hand in our end-of-season assignments, the brains quickly realised we had no clue what we were talking about. And CCTV footage rev
ealed we were only there for the meal. I can only imagine it was like watching a wildlife documentary in infrared vision, with two hyenas sneakily picking at a zebra carcass and coming back for more. And more . . . And more.
I’M STILL PICKING OUT GLAZED SALMON TART FROM MY LUCKY TROUSERS
“I’M AS FULL AS A CENTRELINK ON PAYDAY.”
TRANSLATION: ‘Due to political forces and the economic climate, many Australians have taken a hit in the hip pocket and forced into unemployment. As such, many have little choice but to enrol in government-funded payments and are eager to collect said payments every second Friday. And the place gets full.’
WATER BIRTH
In my first season of Super Rugby, we were playing a Kiwi team at Patterson Stadium in Subiaco, Perth.
We were attempting to run it out from our 22 and the ball came to me. You beauty! I jigged, stepped, half got around their winger but he was hanging onto my jersey. I continued to pump the legs like a Warner Bros. cartoon character and manage to stay stationary at the same time – quite the feat – until he landed smack on the back of my ankle with an all-mighty crack!
The play moved on, but I couldn’t move. The physio arrived and in no uncertain terms told me to quit being a little bitch: ‘Get up, you’re fine’, the physio said. And why wouldn’t I listen to the physio? I’m no doctor.
So I rolled over to my stomach to take a good look back at my ankle – which right on cue fell to the side diagonally from my leg.
I was carried from the field with a broken fibula and syndesmosis with a six-month recovery ahead of me. But it didn’t end there. I was rushed in for surgery. The nurse dressed me for theatre and said: ‘Take this tablet. It will make you drowsy’. But I’d seen the ads. Last thing I was gonna do was take a pill from a complete stranger. Was she trying to take advantage of me? Hell, it wouldn’t have surprised me. Anyhow, turns out it was standard protocol. So I dropped it in and then waited for the call. When I rolled into theatre the anaesthetist gave me the first hit of anaesthetic and told me I’d be out in five minutes. Ten minutes goes by and I’m not the slightest bit sleepy. I was on high alert. And as I looked up from the operating table, I could see four heads with full surgical kits hovering over me, waiting for me to go under. At this point I was dead-set shitting myself because I thought I was about to feel everything. Hell, they were on a schedule. I yelled out. ‘Hey, doc! I’m not out yet, mate! Put away the knife!’ So the doc looks at his watch and then tells the anaesthetist to whack in another dose. You beauty!
