by Nick Cummins
Deadliest of all were the booby traps we’d installed on our masterpiece – a four-storey tree house courtesy of my brother Nath. She was a beauty. A bush skyscraper.
It was a climb to get supplies up there and we’d go fully loaded with gear so we wouldn’t have to repeat the journey, but once upstairs at penthouse level, we felt invincible. Invincible, I tell ya! So long as the winds weren’t blowing.
WE WERE KINGS. GOLDEN GODS. LORDS OF OUR OWN DOMAIN.
We spent hours up there, just taking it all in. We were kings. Golden gods. Lords of our own domain. Well, you get the drift. Like our talents for building said abodes, our confidence, too, knew no bounds. Which is never a good thing for a bunch of adolescent grubs.
So one day Nath was on look-out and spots what can only be described as an intruder – possibly a sexual one on account of the man in question wearing nothing but worn-out joggers and a pair of budgie smugglers in an even sadder state than his Sauconys. It was a sight to behold and but a second went by before one of my brothers sang out from the top of his lungs: ‘Put some pants on, ya weirdo!’
It seemed justified given the nearest beach was some 100 nautical miles away and he was running in the suburbs. But as you can expect, he didn’t take too kindly to the insult.
So old mate spun on a dime and yelled back: ‘Right, get down here! I’m gonna give you a hiding!’
Forget that. We took enough beatings from each other let alone having some stranger give us what for in our own tree house. So it was a no-brainer – we’d stay up high in the fortress and continue to taunt him.
WE’D STAY UP HIGH IN THE FORTRESS AND CONTINUE TO TAUNT HIM.
‘Get stuffed!’ one of the brothers screamed. To Tony Abbott’s reply: ‘Take me to your parents now!’
Was he bluffing? We didn’t know. He was on a rager – the mental kind, sickos.
Bugger it! We decided to wait this one out. There was no sign of wind, we had a pocket full of Redskins and we could wait it out longer than he could. Until . . .
The weirdo threw caution to the wind and with his twig and berries dangling in the air began to climb the tree! ‘Things just got real’, I thought to myself. Because all of a sudden I was fearing for his safety and not ours.
Little did he know we were ready for such an intruder. And every fourth step on the timber ladder up was a fake – as in it wasn’t nailed in.
ALL OF A SUDDEN I WAS FEARING FOR HIS SAFETY AND NOT OURS.
‘Haha, got the bastard’, my brother yelled as the intruder took a tumble on the fourth. I hadn’t seen a grown man in dick togs hit the ground that hard since Trevor Hendy was dumped by a wave in old Uncle Toby’s Ironman.
He then threatened to cut down the tree – the next logical step by a man who thought it was okay to subject a family neighbourhood to the sight of his sweaty junk bounce up and down like a pogo stick.
However, at this stage I was shit scared and had a turtle head poking out and headbutting me undies. ‘Would he actually do it?’
As he stormed off to retrieve his cutting utensil, I didn’t want to be around to witness a bloke in that get-up wielding an axe or chainsaw. Surely it’s an OH&S issue. And quite frankly, we couldn’t take the chance that he might be serious so we bailed out and clapped it on all the way home in case he followed through with his plot.
He never caught us. And I suspect he thought twice before pulling on his budgie smugglers for his next jog.
FRUIT BATS
Argentina 2015. Wallabies tour.
After initially missing out on the Wallabies squad, it didn’t take long for the coaching staff to come to their senses and realise they needed a colourful shepherd for their sheep – yours truly.
The bulk of the team went direct to Argentina in preparation for the game but I was entrusted with something far more important – reinforcing international relations – and stereotypes – between Australia and the good people of Chicago, USA.
Nic White joined me as assistant ambassador to the Windy City, where we did what Obama never could and united the entire population and convinced them to attend our match against the American Eagles – not Roger Ramjet’s ones – later in the year.
And the locals took pretty kindly to yours truly, anointing me with what I understand was a traditional nickname – the Honey Bear. Nic had a real laugh until they gave him his nickname – Eeyore. Take that, you grumpy prick. Ha!
Anyhow, with our diplomacy mission a success, we joined the rest of the squad in Argentina where Nathan Grey and Stephen Larkham put the boys through some intense contact sessions. I couldn’t remember being this physical with a human being since the school dance.
I COULDN’T REMEMBER BEING THIS PHYSICAL WITH A HUMAN BEING SINCE THE SCHOOL DANCE.
Anyhow, the team was selected on a Wednesday morning and I wasn’t included. It happens. But as an old unspoken tradition, those double ds (not playing) are generally inclined to head out for a couple of Britney Spears to bond and relax the mind a bit from the frustration of selection. And with a day off training on the Thursday, why not? I asked myself?
Six of us didn’t get a start and Drew Mitchell – who did get a number – quickly named the us the ‘fruit bats’ and set the standard early for what would become an ongoing joke. Despite the label, we didn’t go batshit crazy but we enjoyed the night thoroughly. We definitely made use of our nocturnal allowance.
The next morning, however, everyone was expected to attend recovery – which was a sauna and stretching session – then a team meeting. There were a couple of red eyes from the fruit bats. And at least one of us looked like he’d been hanging upside down from a ceiling all night. And for once, it wasn’t me.
During the team meeting we did an exercise of closing your eyes and visualising winning the Rugby World Cup. I’m certain this is the same method John Eales and Michael Lynagh employed during their campaigns . . .
Anyhow, when the lights came back on there were still some fruit bats ‘visualising’ with eyes closed and breathing heavier than Darth Vader. The bats were cooked and just as the jersey presentation was taking place at the end Scott Higginbotham leant over and rested his head on me. And there was a spare seat between us, so that gives you an idea of the real-life size of the big unit. And his melon was right on my shoulder, like two schoolgirls on the bus home from camp. At first I thought he was joking, so I ignored it and just snuggled in, as I had my own internal battles. Then it went past a joke as I realised he wasn’t just resting the lids but had deadset fallen asleep.
That’s when my paternal instincts kicked in. I shifted to the spare seat between us to sit him up and tried to wake him up without a scene but the ‘ding bat’ had spent way too long in the sauna and didn’t rehydrate, leaving him with with the pruned hands of an Oxford Street fortune teller. And a brow just as rough.
He came to a little while later having been curled up in the foetal position and we got some fluids into the poor bastard.
The meeting finished and Drew Mitchell leans in with that cheeky grin: ‘That’s standard fruit bats’.
“LAST YEAR WE WERE ALL SIZZLE AND NO STEAK, BUT NOW WE’RE OFF LIKE A BRIDE’S NIGHTIE.”
TRANSLATION: ‘We were all talk and no action. Nothing is quicker than a bride’s nightie coming off wedding night. That’s how quick we’ve been off the mark this year.’
THE IDEAL DATE
Like any wild animal, the honey badger is on the constant lookout for a mate – of the sexual variety, that is. And unlike penguins, most are anything but monogamous. I must be the exception to the rule. Because one thing’s for sure, this honey badger’s mating ritual is a thing of legend.
See, it was a few years back when I legged it into the local Woolies on a Sunday arvo in search of the perfect roasted chicken for dinner – you know the ones, the chooks that have been in the heating bay since 6 am and are drier than The Caxton after Origin. But little did I know that I’d find the perfect chick – of the human variety, that is.
&nbs
p; There she was, in the produce section – a glow of energy beaming out to the beat of her own drum. This Viking beauty – or Scandinavian for the PC crowd – had all the credentials necessary for the job – beautiful big . . . eyes, plump and ripe . . . cheeks, a perfect perky . . . smile and a good rig to boot. The world stopped. Warrant’s ‘Cherry Pie’ blasted from the imaginary speakers. My mind instantly became alive with transient beams of thought cascading toward her like a cosmic river of creation. I knew I had to propose a first date. The only question was how?
Honey Badger Mating 101 suggests a scrap with another male or two before physically dominating the much smaller female. But like I said, I’m the exception to the rule so I waited for the perfect opportunity. I surveyed this mystic beauty as she gracefully patrolled the produce section, selecting only the healthiest and most vibrant fruit and veg. And instead of launching like a fat kid on a cupcake, I walked with purpose and precision, emanating a calm, confident, nonplussed approach to the task. And right before I introduced myself, God herself reached down and parted the peaches and pears, my dreamboat knocking over the oranges and sending them cascading to the floor. She did her best to stop them from hitting the ground but in the process lost her footing! As she went arse over head, I dived in to catch her like a footy from going into touch and put in a brilliant turn of phrase: ‘You’ve fallen for me already’.
GOD HERSELF REACHED DOWN AND PARTED THE PEACHES AND PEARS
Well, suffice to say, she appreciated the chat and put on the kind of smile to you’d see in a romantic comedy. And she loved it. So I told her I’d take her out for a Bruce Reid and she replied ‘When?’. It was the first time I’d heard her speak and after hearing that Scando accent it was like a deaf kid hearing music for the first time – I was ecstatic. ‘You ripper!’. On a roll, I said ‘Why not right now?’ And sure enough, we both saddled up in the Bulldog (blue Holden Rodeo single cab tray back and my first car) and I drive her to a ‘secret’ secluded beach.
I then proceeded to grab my ‘special’ basket, rip off the thongs and escort her down to the beach, the sand gently bonding the gaps between our toes as our spiritual connection did the same. I had her just where I wanted her – on the rug as I started a fire from friction (see Aboriginal tech) and then pulled out a bottle of the best red the bottom shelf of the local liquor store had to offer. For five minutes I waxed lyrical about the prestige of the said Queen Adelaide Cab Sav and explained to her how you can’t buy it anymore – it was roughly the same amount of time it took for me to remove the $3.99 price sticker from the back of it.
I filled her glass with the 2014 classic, fresh off the press, then headed to the water with my spear in hand. As fate would have it, I speared a fish in record time and before she could Viber her oldies to let ’em know she’d found paradise with the Badge, I had the fish cleaned and gutted and roasting on the fire. And if you think she was impressed then, you should see her face when she tasted the big bastard – she nearly slid off the rug!
Suffice to say, she made it clear it was the best date she’d ever been on. And long story short, not wanting to spoil the night and out of respect for her, we shook the sand out of our hair like nothing else. Hey, I didn’t want her to think I was a tease . . . Nah, jokes.
I was nothing short of a country gentleman and dropped her home to keep the experience beautiful and restore her faith in the male population.
Like any good fisherman, I released her back into the wild to live another day . . . Or did I? That’s private, ya bastards!
CHRISTMAS IN JAPAN
It was Christmas 2014 in Fukuoka, Japan – that’s pronounced ‘fark-u-ok-ey’. And while the locals won’t hesitate to shut down the main street to celebrate New Year’s, they don’t care too much for Christmas. Guess their dads never got ’em the remote control cars they wanted . . .
Anyhow, they were kind enough at my club, Coca-Cola, to let us have a little feed at the clubhouse and they even pretended to enjoy themselves. They’re so damn polite, it’s a beautiful thing to watch. And as the players and their families were gorging on the grub – your typical Christmas feast of sashimi and seaweed soup – I decided to sneak outside and climb into my Santa suit. It’s one of three things I pack every trip.
YOUR TYPICAL CHRISTMAS FEAST OF SASHIMI AND SEAWEED SOUP
So clad in best red and white get-up, I walk outside the clubhouse and in an instant the kids see me and come tearing outside. For a second, I forgot I was wearing the suit and freaked. It’s never a good look as an adult male to lure a bunch of kids to your side with a bag of lollies. So I turned and sprinted away, throwing the candy over my shoulder. Needless to say, the getaway sticks didn’t let me down.
After successfully sneaking back inside the clubhouse without the kids apprehending me, I loaded the gifts I had wrapped on the table, making sure no one could see. I wanted it to be a surprise. Because one gift in particular was a ripper.
I’d wrapped a framed picture of Tim Bateman (ex-Hurricanes player) dressed as a woman that I snapped at a dress-up earlier in the year. And I addressed the gift to former All Black Solomon King’s wife. I could barely contain myself as I asked Tim to hand out the presents for me on account of me being ‘busy’. Nick, you genius!
I watched in muffled silence and in awe of myself as Tim handed the wrapped picture to Solomon’s wife completely unaware that the card clearly stated the gift was from him.
She happily opened it up and like a woman who’d just found out her partner was cheating, her jaw dropped. She was shocked to see a framed picture of Tim in a skirt – and a card to match. Tim was equally confused and embarrassed.
They awkwardly stumbled through the type of conversation no married woman wants to have – unless she’s on Ashley Madison – as I laughed hysterically in the corner. Suffice to say, Solomon didn’t take too kindly either. But my fun wasn’t over yet.
Another present was addressed to a Japanese player we called ‘Tui’ – short for God knows what. The present was ‘from’ one of the coaches and when Tui unwrapped it to find 5 kilograms of cat biscuits he was bitterly confused and quickly approached the coach who denied any knowledge of it. Everyone was dumbfounded and then Tui looks around to see me pissing myself and approaches confused as ever: ‘Badger san, me have no pet’. And I reply: ‘You will next Christmas!’
That day’s laughter added years to my life. And regardless of my trickery, the Red Sparks have been good to me and the Cola boys are good men.
“I’VE BEEN DOING IT [PLAYING SUPER RUGBY] A GOOD FIVE YEARS NOW. LUCKY FOR ME EVERY BUGGER FELL OVER AND I GOT A GIG.”
TRANSLATION: ‘I’m not comfortable talking about myself in a professional sense. I’d prefer to deflect that question with some self-deprecating humour. I’m just happy to be here.’
A FINAL WORD
Thanks for taking the time to have a gander at a few stories that tell a little of my life. I’ve been blessed with a great family and friends and a job that I enjoy.
Sure there are tough times for everyone and for anyone who plays sport at the top level there are hundreds who don’t make it because of injury, bad luck, or because the right people weren’t paying attention.
There are plenty of others who battle chronic illness and just to keep going is a real mission. These are people I admire, because of what they do and how they remind us of what’s important.
Life is a great gift. Get out and get amongst it. Smile and find humour in your day because it’s infectious and we’re only here for a short time. Make the most of it and leave this place a little better than you found it.
A few years ago Dad was having dinner with my sister Bernadette in Cambodia. She’d just led Thailand in a test against Vietnam in netball and it was a good chance for them to catch up. He gave her some advice as they looked out over the Mekong River. Forgive yourself and forgive others.
Makes sense!
See ya round the ridges.
The Badger
THE HONEY BADG
ER
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PHOTO SECTION
THAT’S BIG BROTHER NATHAN DOING HIS BEST TO KEEP ME UPRIGHT. I’M TOLD I WEIGHED THE SAME AT FOUR MONTHS AS NATHAN DID AGED FOUR YEARS.
MY THIRD BIRTHDAY PARTY. DAD WAS IN CHARGE OF FIRE SAFETY BUT LUCKILY NOT THE CAKE - THAT WAS MUM’S AREA. CAN’T BEAT MUM’S SPONGE CAKE. LIKE DARRYL KERRIGAN SAYS, ‘IT’S WHAT YA DO WITH IT.’
ALWAYS IN THE YARD, KICKING WHATEVER WAS AROUND. MANY A DOLL WAS TORPEDOED OVER THE FENCE TO MY SISTER’S HORROR. ‘DON’T WORRY, THEIR DOG WILL TAKE CARE OF IT...’
LUKE SIGNALLING HIS PLEASURE AT BEING PART OF THE PHOTO. FROM LEFT TO RIGHT: LUKE, ME, LIZZY AND JAKE.
WITH THE OLD BOY AT THE PRESENTATION OF MY QUEENSLAND SCHOOLBOY’S JERSEY. I WAS 16 AND KNEW EVERYTHING.
A YOUNG BADGE, FRESHLY 18, AFTER AUSTRALIA EXITED THE HONG KONG 2007 IRB SEVENS WORLD SERIES. GRINNING LIKE A CHESHIRE CAT AFTER RELUCTANTLY SIGNING AN ENGLISH WOMAN’S CHEST.
MY FIRST HAT-TRICK FOR THE FORCE. WITH TWO TURNIN’ AND TWO BURNIN’ I TOOK AN INTERCEPT AND WENT LENGTH. THERE WERE REPORTS OF BLACK SMOKE SEEN BY THE SPECTATORS AT THE 50 METRE MARK. THREE IN A ROW AGAINST THE WARATAHS.
THE AUSTRALIAN COMMONWEALTH GAMES SWIMMING TEAM GETTING ON THE BURST AFTER A SOLID DAY OF RACES, DELHI 2010. MANY A BAD DECISION WAS MADE AT THE AFTER PARTY . . .
REHYDRATING WITH BEN TAPUAI AFTER A VICTORY AGAINST ENGLAND, NOVEMBER 2012.
BAGGING SOME MEAT FOR THE BARBARIANS VS THE WALLABIES AT TWICKENHAM, NOVEMBER 2014. ONE OF THE MORE PROFESSIONAL OUTFITS I’VE BEEN A PART OF.
