by Nick Cummins
And just as I got him to the bank, to claim the first trophy of the day, a bloody big lizard grabbed hold of it. Suffice to say, I shit myself almost immediately and let him have that one.
The old boy was first to drag one in – a nice barra. And he wasted no time hooting and hollering. He was making more noise than two skeletons doing the Macarena on a tin roof. I reminded him that mine was bigger. And where is it, mate?’ he said in the cold tone of a British soccer hooligan.
I dropped my head and before Dad had a chance to rub it in any further, we set off for the coast. Soaring along the coastline the ocean was teeming with rays, crocs and Noah’s arks. So we headed back inland and this time, it was my time to shine.
We settled on an inlet about 20 kilometres west of Darwin. I made a textbook cast with just the right choice of small plastic and whack! It was on, 20 kilos of leaping excellence on the other end of the line and the bastard was all mine. I swear Dad shed a solitary tear.
‘How you like them apples?’ I thought as I grinned at my loser companions. ‘Who’s Batman now, pussies?’
I could already see dinner, the beers, the story, but I didn’t see the croc. One hit and it took the backend of my barra clean off. Another hit and it removed all evidence.
Its work was done. So was mine. But Dad was only just getting started with rubbing it in.
“I’D BE 37 OR SOMETHING FOR THE NEXT ONE AND I’D NEED FOUR FACELIFTS AND A BUM TUCK TO BE A SHOT.”
TRANSLATION: ‘Don’t be stupid.’
ALL BLACKS BLACK EYE
Rugby players don’t often start fights. But if forced to, they’ll finish them.
Once you start to get recognised, be it local or nationally, a lot of juiced-up blokes like to test themselves against you.
My first experience was in 2006. I’d been in Sydney for a few months and we’d just had a good win at Coogee Oval. Better yet, the Bledisloe Cup was on and I, my roommate Luke Bertram and buddy Blair Frendin headed to the clubhouse to watch the game over a few cold ones.
To my delight, the Wallabies won. And with two victories in one day, we headed to a local burger joint for a quick Bruce Reid before getting on the launch pad and pressing the button for a big night out.
All was well. We were reminiscing the finer points of both games and bangin’ a burger in when a bloke in an All Blacks jersey and one too many under the belt wanders over to our table and takes a chip right from Blair’s plate. Now, from what the internet has shown me, I understand Kiwi folk love their ‘fush and chups’. But taking food from another man’s plate – let alone a stranger’s – is just not on.
We ignored it. But the bloke thought he’d help himself to another. And on this attempt, his hand was met with Blair’s, who pushed the bloke’s hand away and kindly asked him to beat it.
Well, old mate had no intentions of leaving quietly and started swearing and causing a scene in the joint. I hadn’t copped this much heat in a restaurant since I refused to pay $16 for a beer at that small sushi joint in Surry Hills – Nobu I think it is?
So he threatens to bash Blair, which in essence is Blair’s fault. I told him you always sit with your back to the wall . . . Anyhow, Blair stands up and tells the bloke to beat it once more. But this time, the Kiwi swung a packed lunch and Blair – school judo champion from the year before – ducked and landed a beauty right on old mate’s scone. The silly bloke was hammered, and went crashing through table and chairs, landing on the deck with a busted beak and a split eye.
I WASN’T ABOUT TO MISS OUT ON A NIGHT OUT OVER SOME SOGGY CHIPS
He gingerly gets up, claret everywhere and as Blair was moving towards him I jumped between them. I’d seen enough. I held them apart and said to Blair: ‘He’s done, mate. He’s had enough.’ And no sooner had I turned to the Kiwi bloke to say it’s over when he king hit me in the temple! And it bloody hurt.
Now, I love my grub as much as, if not more, than the next bloke. But I wasn’t about to miss out on a night out over some soggy chips.
So I grabbed Blair and Luke and made a beeline for the pub – ’cause I knew the swelling was only gonna get bigger and I wouldn’t be let in in half an hour’s time.
The security guard asked what happened to my eye and I replied: ‘Got a few bumps during our win today for Randwick.’ It worked a treat.
I was always taught to steer clear of fights. Dad always said that no one really wins in a fight, but if someone starts one, you finish it.
The black eye turned out to be a biggie and, given I barely got tackled – as per usual – that day, I’m not sure if my boss and coach bought the story. But I would take a hit for my mate any day. Good mates are rare these days.
“I’M GONNA HAVE A TRUCKLOAD OF PUDDING AND UH, OLD MUM’S GOOD ON THE COOK TOO SO, DAD’S GOT THE TUCKER READY OVER THERE AND MUM AND DAD ARE GONNA WORK TOGETHER AND FORM A MASSIVE FEED AND ER, I’M GONNA COME IN AND DOMINATE IT.”
TRANSLATION: ‘I’m real hungry after that and the oldies have promised me a feed. They better not disappoint.’
SPIDER’S WEB
It was 2010 and I was playing for Randwick, where the rugby club had put me up in Coogee with my mate Blair Frendin. And for once, this wasn’t a place where police tape and sidewalk chalk were a daily given.
Me and Blair were living the golden life only 250 metres from the beach on the main street. We spent our time-off surfing, chasing birds, exploring and going to Daryl Braithwaite concerts and chasing older birds. It truly was a great time to be alive.
There was a tucker joint that went by the name of ‘Five O’s’ and we frequented the dive for dinner ’cause it had a good-sized feed dirt cheap. Me and Blair didn’t have very high standards in any of our pursuits – culinary or otherwise . . . But the owner’s staff hiring policy certainly wasn’t anything to sneeze at.
Once we were confident that the two waitresses who worked there considered us ‘regulars’, we worked up the courage to put on our James Bond suits (Fun fact: James Bond gets all his quality suits from Lowes) and engage in charismatic repartee in the hope of luring them in. Nothing sinister, we just wanted to begin the courting process.
JAMES BOND GETS ALL HIS QUALITY SUITS FROM LOWES
The two birds were ginger ninjas and cool as cucumbers, so one night we invited them to our joint for pre-drinks before a game – jokes! – before heading out.
Hours later Blair and I find ourselves playing Call of Duty on Xbox – a female aphrodisiac in any language – having totally forgotten about our invitation.
Then a shriek! We were suddenly horrified by the sound of blood-curdling screams coming from the dark and dingy 20-metre stretch of putrid path that one had to take to get to our front door. It was right then we remembered the girls and also that the booby traps we would set daily for our unwitting teammates to come a mischief were still active!
We rushed outside and it looked like something from Lord of the Rings. The girls were tangled up in the fishing lines we had set at various heights, that were connected to a suspended pushbike and bucket full of vacuum dust.
The poor girls had fallen – the traps worked perfectly, just quietly – but were oddly still somewhat suspended by the array of lines. All we could do was laugh at the sheer confusion and disbelief on their faces.
After they brushed off the vacuum dust, we proceeded inside and as you can imagine they weren’t short of questions. Or too stoked that we wanted to finish Call of Duty.
And to my surprise, all these years later, one of those redheaded beauties is still putting up with Blair after getting tangled in our web.
But as her friend found out, no bird can tame this brumby. (Disclaimer: By brumby, I mean wild horse. And that suggestion does in no way pertain to my relationship – perceived or otherwise – to the ACT Brumbies, which may or may not be a rugby franchise.)
“JUST LIKE THAT KID THAT FELL OUTTA THE TREE YA KNOW, HE JUST WASN’T IN IT.”
TRANSLATION: ‘He didn’t stand a chance.’
; THONG THEFT
Long before it was trendy to have driftwood signs hanging in your home promoting ‘Live, laugh, love’ and whatever other affirmations the insecure and obviously miserable house-owner deems worthy, the old man flew one flag. A motto, if you will. It read: ‘A man’s thongs are his greatest possession’.
At least, that’s what he told us. We never saw the thing. But he put the fear of Dad into us and from an early age we learned to worship, above all else, our double pluggers.
Like a good guard dog, Dad would say, thongs sit at the doorway, ever ready for action. Because with a simple flip of the toe, the over-turned plugger is ready to be stood on, put into action and provide the barrier between foot and bindi. Between gay abandon and painful pebbles. Between your big toes and bitumen. Between a night out at the RSL and sitting on the footpath with a tallie (that’s a long neck to you southerners). You get the picture . . .
So with that in mind, as a family, we took thong theft more seriously than a small town takes UFO sightings. In short, thong theft is a dog act.
But for some reason, every bugger who has ever fronted up to my house has seemingly done so barefoot before feeling the need to flee with my prized possessions. My most valuable assets. My thongs.
In some ways, I’m thankful to them. How else do you think I learned to run so quickly? By chasing the bastards down is how.
Anyhow, a few years back I’d had enough. I’d witnessed something like five casualties in the space of a month and decided to do something drastic – go to Target.
As luck would have it, good old Tar-shay had a special on single pluggers – $1 a pair. They were genuine 1972 prices that I couldn’t pass up.
So I laid out two lobsters and got meself 40 pairs. It was time for a social experiment involving thongs, random house guests and grubby blokes. But this was no porno.
And sure enough, they took the bait. Every time a pair went missing, I’d keep quiet and deposit another by the stairs. The old man laid down the odds – reckoned we’d be out in six months. I scoffed at it and took that action, confident at least a few pairs of the classic blue/white combo would see another Christmas.
But like errant cattle stumbling onto the wrong property, I was shocked. Four months! Four months is all it took for my so-called friends and family to bleed me dry of God’s greatest creation. Now, put that into consideration. That’s 10 pairs a month at 2.5 pairs a week.
And not only was I out of 40 pairs of pluggers but I owed a pineapple to the old man, too. It was a $90 loss and the day I lost my innocence forever.
Yep, forget finding out the Easter Bunny, Santa Claus and cartoons weren’t real. That was the day I discovered just how low humans will stoop.
I remember looking at the last pair with a head like a beaten favourite, knowing the dream was over. And life would never be the same again. They, too, were gone at the very next BBQ.
“THAT LOOK ON YOUR FACE LIKE SOMEONE ASKED ME TO CLEAN THE TOILET AND I WAS JUST BLOODY GOIN’ FOR GOLD.”
TRANSLATION: ‘Are you f*&king serious, right now?’
BARBARIANS VS AUSTRALIA 2014
I’d been playing in Japan for a few months confusing the hell out of the locals and thought I had left Australian Rugby behind.
Then came the call: ‘Badge, do you want to play for the Barbarians in London?’
Shit yeah. Who wouldn’t? Playing for Bah-Bahs is akin to 1980s rugby in that training largely consists of a few beers – for bonding’s sake, of course – and a decent pay packet. I immediately agreed to the deal and then found out we were playing against Australia. Still, too good of an offer to refuse. I’d have played against Twickenham’s Under-15 side if it meant re-uniting with a few of the boys from back home and having a beer with some of the international heroes.
I arrived on the Wednesday before the big game and I was absolutely cooked. I’d just finished that 10 days in Mongolia hunting foxes on horseback – with an eagle. I’d spent every night sleeping on a dirt floor and hadn’t seen a porcelain dunny or otherwise in what seemed like years. It was a nice change not to have to dig a hole before dropping off the kids.
Anyway, no rest for the wicked. Sir John Kirwan, our coach, was a good bloke. He made sure we had a fat time and training was kept to a minimum – just how we liked it.
The game drew almost 55,000 and they were pumped. I was a little confused as what to do when they played the Aussie anthem over the speakers but without shame I belted it out anyway.
The game was flat-out. We called this random move we’d remembered from our 15-minute training session and I scored under the posts. There were three of us going for the ball but it was yours truly who grabbed the cheese and planted it. Very arsey!
It was a strange feeling playing against Australia. I had always been proud to wear the gold jersey and now the shoe was on the other foot. Actually, that analogy doesn’t make sense. The jersey was literally on the other team and here I was tackling my countrymen. Or at least making sure the forwards did it for me.
And I tell ya what, it was a helluva nice experience to have the Euro crowd cheering me on instead of giving it to me. The crowd loved the game and really backed us in.
My old man, brother Nathan, manager Josh, cousin Dane and a host of mad Norwegian buggers swelled the crowd. There was much yahooing when we caught up to 40–36. Keep in mind, the blokes we were playing had been training twice daily, sans the beers.
Unfortunately, we were beaten by them – for reasons I just mentioned above – but it was a great game and a lot of fun.
After the game we roared into the official function. I’d organised six tickets for my crowd but we managed to smuggle in 18. My sleight of hand knows no limits.
Security tried to stop a few but Dad quickly stepped in: ‘It’s OK, they’re with me!’
The old shagger had an official-looking shirt printed that included the IRB logo and in small print underneath read: ‘No association whatsoever’. But hey, if security guards could read they wouldn’t be security guards. Jokes . . .
Anyhow, this shirt got him into most venues.
The next Bah-Bahs game was at Leicester and I was a bit sore, only lasting until halftime. But what I accomplished in half a game takes most others 80 minutes anyhow, so I didn’t feel too bad. Haha.
BUT HEY, IF SECURITY GUARDS COULD READ THEY WOULDN’T BE SECURITY GUARDS.
On the bus to our hotel after, all the new blokes had to sing or dance. And Sir John was brutal in his condemnation of the performers. He was like Simon Cowell but with the ability to punch the shit out of you, so you took his feedback on the chin or it’d be a fist there instead. No punches were thrown.
Back at the hotel and we had the usual court session. Nathan, Dad and I went up against John Kirwan and a couple of others in a boat race. And we bloody smashed ’em – and again for good measure. Then we belted out the song ‘I’ll Never Find Another Ewe’ and that wound the Kiwis right up!
Suffice to say, Sir John didn’t take too kindly to the fun-poking or the vocal rendition. Legend of a bloke, Sir John.
ORPHANAGE
If you’ve made it this far in the book, you’ll find it’s pretty obvious I enjoy a laugh as much, if not more, than the next bloke. But the Badge has a serious side, too. And the plight of other human beings is something I care deeply about.
I’d always had a sense of empathy but like many of us, struggled to find the ideal outlet for it. That was until a solo trip to Cambodia in 2011 changed everything, when during my journey I came across an orphanage that had flooded.
TO SAY THESE KIDS HAVE BEEN DEALT A HARD HAND IS AN UNDERSTATEMENT.
The ACODO orphanage in Siem Reap provides children whose parents have died with food, water and basic education. To say these kids have been dealt a hard hand is an understatement. I’m an adult and can’t imagine not having my old man around, but somehow these young kids still had smiles on their faces. The kids would put on performances to raise money for the orphanage on a flat ar
ea just above the flood waters. It was a joy to watch. They were good little actors bouncing round with dragon suits on and others banging sticks in tune. But it was equally heart-wrenching hearing the stories of how they came to be there.
I spotted one kid who was quite reserved but knew what was going on. He had a strong presence and I was drawn towards him, hoping that boosting him would help boost the group. It was a matter of just seconds before I decided to sponsor Churit to a better life. And being in that orphanage was such a humbling experience that since then it has led me down roads trying to make this world a better place.
Everyone deserves a fair go. And I’m living proof that no matter where you come from, you can make a difference to someone’s life. There’s no excuse not to help make others’ lives that little bit easier.
BUDGIE SMUGGLERS
Ask any of my girlfriends and they’ll tell you flat-out that despite my shortcummins (see what I did there?) I’ve always been good with my hands – in the kitchen, around the house and other areas . . .
Anyhow, that can all be attributed to my grommet rooster days growing up with my brothers and our passion for heading out bush and building tree houses – each bigger, better and higher than the last. Our talents knew no bounds.
THE MORE EXTRAVAGANT THE TREE HOUSES GOT, THE MORE DANGEROUS THE BOOBY TRAPS BECAME.
We’d sneak some tools out of the old boy’s shed and head out for a hard day’s work knowing full well that others had their eye on our masterbuilt tree houses. As such, booby traps were a must. And the more extravagant the tree houses got, the more dangerous the booby traps became.
