24 May 2011

Not that long ago in the Saturday comp at my golf club I almost had a hole in one. But for the ball not going in the hole I would have. Not surprisingly I have had several of those over the years. But this time I hit the flag stick on the full and was unlucky enough for my ball to come to rest in the bunker from which it took me 4 more shots to get it in the hole. That was unlucky. Really, the ball could have hit the flag stick and dropped straight down into the hole but hard luck intervened and I carded a disappointing 5. Well, it was disappointing for me. My golf mates thought otherwise. Apparently I am a regular source of entertainment for them.

What made me think of this golfing hard luck story (I’m not prone to reliving experiences such as those without stimulation) was that I was reminded of a comment a year or so ago by John Bertrand, the famous yachtsman and skipper, who sailed Australia II to our first America’s Cup win. It was also our last as I recall but at least we did it first. It’s interesting that Switzerland won the last America’s Cup. Switzerland doesn’t have any oceans to sail on. It’s completely landlocked by Germany, Austria, Italy and France. (If any Liechtensteiners are reading this … my apologies. Countless Tasmanians would understand how you feel.) The Swiss learn to sail in their bath tubs which sets them up nicely for a race for 30 metre ocean going yachts. Perhaps that is why the crew consisted mainly of Kiwis who have lots of ocean and very few bath tubs.

Bertrand is chairman and a member of SAHOF which is an acronym for the Sports Australia Hall of Fame … amongst other things … and an organisation that is unlikely to ever invite me to be a member, unless sports entertainment at club level becomes a criterion.

It was his criticism of the Australian cricket team that got my attention. Australia had just completed a series against India which was filled with acrimony and bad feeling. Regardless of India’s bad behavior in the series it was the Aussie side who were the target of Bertrand’s spray.

“They play to win at all costs”, he lamented. “They need to re-tune their moral compass.”

Only a yachtsman would use the word compass in such a context. At that time Ricky and his lot didn’t need a compass. They used a street directory to find the ground and from there on the boundaries were easy to find … all too easy at times. Lately Vasco da Gama and his compass couldn’t help Ricky or any of his players but that’s another story. When Bertrand made his complaint we were winning.

What is wrong with playing to win? Isn’t that the whole point?

“Sport is only sport,” he noted intriguingly, “it’s not war.”

It certainly is not. I’ve never been in a war but I’ve read a lot about them and cricket is nothing like war. If you get beaten in a war often you are the last to find out and only then when St Peter breaks the news to you. People die in war but rarely in cricket and hardly ever on the field of play. I suspect JB is using a bit of hyperbole here. It’s 25 years since he stiffed Denis Connor and became a hero. Maybe he misses the attention these days.

I don’t understand the problem. According to John, the Australians are the worst sledgers in the world. Whether they are the worst or best at it is of course a question of semantics, but having played a bit of cricket, I know sledging has a long tradition in the game. I used to get sledged when I played cricket at school, although admittedly batting at number eleven it was never for very long. If JB is concerned about sledging in sport I can introduce him to a few blokes at my golf club who would make Aussie cricketers look positively benign.

Is Bertram suggesting his contribution to sport was more benevolent? Back in the 80’s when he and Australia II were on that port tack in the last race with Connor covering him, yet appearing to go too far starboard of the mark, I don’t recall him yelling out any advice. Not on you life. He cut inside and left the American skipper floundering. If he yelled anything at all I’m betting it was advice reeking of insincerity and most likely punctuated with some gratuitous hand signals that would have had any of the Australian cricketers before the serious misconduct panel. Despite being on water for much of the time, yachtsmen are well known for their earthy vocabulary. Only wharf labourers know more adjectives.

No, regardless of the fact that the umpires ruled in favour of Australia so often that they could have got Kristina Keneally over the line, India were beaten fair and square. And the visitors, like true sportsmen, demanded they be allowed to take their bat and ball and go home.

Let’s not cry too loud over poor umpiring decisions. They have been around forever and I ought to know. I’ve been the recipient of plenty of them starting with the time I clean bowled Fridge Kelly middle stump in the final of the 1958 Myrtle Street backyard cricket series. Fridge, AKA Patrick, who earned his nickname as much for his body shape as for the fact that he could eat the contents of one in a single sitting, appealed the decision and the umpire and wicketkeeper at the time, a close relative of the Fridge in the form of his younger brother Michael, reversed his initial decision under threat of physical violence, and declared that the wind had blown the stump out of the ground. Apparently the wind was so strong that it blew the stump up onto the dunny roof amongst the pumpkins that were growing there from whence its retrieval took every bit of fifteen minutes and a ladder.

What is it about pumpkins and dunny roofs? I’ve always harboured a great suspicion about anything that could grow so well in such a specific environment. Time has not softened my view and I’ve never bothered to develop a taste for that particular vegetable.

Anyway it was a raw decision yet one that I didn’t bother to question with the other five fielders, all but one of whom, were younger brothers of the Fridge. The remaining fielder, Fridge’s elder sister Monica and a loyal Kelly to the end, never gave me anything, even the time of day, especially where her brothers were concerned, unless it didn’t relate to cricket, and anyway that was much later.

If I could have wrested my bat from the Fridge I might have considered taking it home but it was pointless. He had a powerful grip when it came to cricket bats and food, particularly the latter. Standing close to him while he ate was risky. I would have trusted a Doberman more. Later Fridge went on to become a priest. Monica chose a more secular lifestyle but at least she was a good sport.

Anyway, to overcome the threatened cancellation of the remainder of the cricket tour the International Cricket Council looked around for a fair and equitable solution. And lo and behold, there it was; a public lynching of the umpire. That always works. Well, so much for fair play.

Footnote

On completion of this article and in fairness to any critics of same I was conscious of the fact that there was a slight chance some readers might be offended by some of its content. To any reader who is I sincerely apologise. To be honest though I was less concerned about the sensibilities of readers I did not know and more about those I did, in particular my old dalliance, Monica Kelly. So much so that when I bumped into Monica and Fridge in the street recently I broached the subject and asked her for her thoughts. Her response was bitter sweet. She would be delighted to see her name in print. Sadly however she could not recall that anything had gone on between us.

Her brother’s response was more problematic. Father Fridge, as he is now known, hotly disputed that I had bowled him out on the day of the stumped pumpkin and maintained that he had got the better of me in that particular encounter. Apparently his time in the seminary and since has taught him little about sporting ethics.

John R Long