In 1971, the Blacks, coached by Kevin Easton, lost the E Grade Grand Final to St Pat’s Old Boys, whom we had beaten in the second semi.
For promotion into D Grade in 1972 the committee decided we needed an enforcer to protect all the young university footballers from the thugs lurking in the suburban Ammo sides.
Terry Loftus from Reservoir-Lakeside was appointed playing coach, our first experience of a player over 30 years-old, playing with tatts and without teeth.
We played Parkside at home. They attempted to fill their designated role of belting the long hairs, until Terry evened up with a crunching fist to the nose of their centre half forward, who was duly taken away for facial reconstruction.
At 7:30 that night, towards the end of after match drinks, John 'Fish' Condon and I were manning the bar when in marched the aforementioned centre half forward, sticking plaster all over his shattered nose.
He was a national serviceman in the army and had dressed in full uniform. He was carrying his SLR (self loading rifle) and demanded to know where 'that big fat cunt' was.
We had never been so glad that our coach never stayed around to drink with us and, after examining all the frozen 'Trober faces in the room, our opponent, and his big gun, left.
Craig adds: I recall that we ran a raffle to pay for Terry's services. He was flogging tickets himself and did a bunk with the proceeds he'd collected. Just disappeared without trace. Does anyone know what became of the big fella, or know of a similar instance when a coach vanished mid-way through a season?
Tony also forwarded a copy of a story that appeared in the dear departed National Times, sometime in the early 1980s. It's a great yarn by erstwhile Aussie author Laurie Clancy about his days at La Trobe. I shall endeavour to post it.
30 June 2009
28 June 2009
Sucked in
One Friday morning in 1971, John Shaw, Ric Osborn, Scot 'Scoobie' Smith and I were perusing a notice board in the Agora near what was then Renato's hairdressing and tobacconist when Jim 'Snout' McMillan, passed by.
'Looking for a game?' he asked.
'Maybe,' we demured.
Jim told us how his stellar career with Melbourne Grammar's 5th XVIII had led him to a spot on the wing for La Trobe Uni Reds. He reckoned we'd have no problem getting a game.
He lured us to the university printing press, where President Bob Segrave resided, and we were signed up to play the next day.
No training, white shorts and red socks required.
We rocked up at some foresaken ground in Balwyn where I found myself next to Kevin 'Harry' McElwain in the rooms before the game.
'Thank god this bloke's on my side,' I thought.
Not that it helped, we were beaten, but I was promoted to the ones next game.
Got a kick in the first 20 seconds off the half-back flank, kicked too short to Keith Miller, Dookie Old Boys intercepted and slammed the pill towards goal, where big Don Rowe burst out from full-back to gather the ball and tell me to get out of the fuckin' way.
Confidence shattered, I didn't get another touch and hobbled out the game, defeated by old-school leather studs that wrecked my feet.
Never said a word about that to the coach - too embarrassed to be ill-equipped - and played in the twos for the rest of the year. Actually, I played in the twos for most of my time at La Trobe.
But Jim recruited well. The four of us played at least three seasons together before the others either dropped out or graduated from that place across Kingsbury Drive.
Always a slow learner, I hung around the club until 1981. Then I followed South Melbourne to Sydney, but couldn't crack it at the Swans.
Made some great mates at La Trobe, as you do, and the characters I met as a callow youth are still writ large in memory.
Ken White shocked me with descriptions of what went on in confession boxes when we played Catholic teams.
He and Gary 'Gus' Weaven, Keith Miller, Noel Hillis et al indoctrinated me into socialist principles whenever we played 'old boy' sides.
I began to learn why opposition teams wanted to thump the shit out of the students - arrogant, offensive pricks that we were.
But what fun.
You are what you're taught and I confess to carrying on the verbal tradition I learnt from those elders.
I apologise to the grey-haired ruckman from St Bedes who chased me around all day after I asked if he still played footy because he liked little boys. (Although, perhaps he protested too much.)
And the bloke from Thomastown who, after I made some disparaging remarks about his mum, told me she died two weeks ago.
And those 'born in a bucket' slurs I learnt from Russell Badham that came unstuck when a mum I knew was there to watch her son play.
The days of playing in the twos and then watching the ones with a keg on the boundary. La Trobe was instrumental in the VAFA's introduction of the alcohol ban during games.
Which was hard to take when pre-season intra-club practice matches between the Reds and Blacks included liquid refreshment at every break.
And Bob Segrave, filling a hole in the forward pocket in one of those matches, going in hard for the ball with a pipe in his mouth.
Sunday excursions to St Andrew's pub, because it was beyond the city-limit ban on pubs opening on the sabbath.
Long nights around the keg after practice and home games where every conceivable subject was discussed among blokes, and some great sheilas, whose studies and interests were as varied as the teams we played.
Actually, they were much more varied.
Craig Nelson
'Looking for a game?' he asked.
'Maybe,' we demured.
Jim told us how his stellar career with Melbourne Grammar's 5th XVIII had led him to a spot on the wing for La Trobe Uni Reds. He reckoned we'd have no problem getting a game.
He lured us to the university printing press, where President Bob Segrave resided, and we were signed up to play the next day.
No training, white shorts and red socks required.
We rocked up at some foresaken ground in Balwyn where I found myself next to Kevin 'Harry' McElwain in the rooms before the game.
'Thank god this bloke's on my side,' I thought.
Not that it helped, we were beaten, but I was promoted to the ones next game.
Got a kick in the first 20 seconds off the half-back flank, kicked too short to Keith Miller, Dookie Old Boys intercepted and slammed the pill towards goal, where big Don Rowe burst out from full-back to gather the ball and tell me to get out of the fuckin' way.
Confidence shattered, I didn't get another touch and hobbled out the game, defeated by old-school leather studs that wrecked my feet.
Never said a word about that to the coach - too embarrassed to be ill-equipped - and played in the twos for the rest of the year. Actually, I played in the twos for most of my time at La Trobe.
But Jim recruited well. The four of us played at least three seasons together before the others either dropped out or graduated from that place across Kingsbury Drive.
Always a slow learner, I hung around the club until 1981. Then I followed South Melbourne to Sydney, but couldn't crack it at the Swans.
Made some great mates at La Trobe, as you do, and the characters I met as a callow youth are still writ large in memory.
Ken White shocked me with descriptions of what went on in confession boxes when we played Catholic teams.
He and Gary 'Gus' Weaven, Keith Miller, Noel Hillis et al indoctrinated me into socialist principles whenever we played 'old boy' sides.
I began to learn why opposition teams wanted to thump the shit out of the students - arrogant, offensive pricks that we were.
But what fun.
You are what you're taught and I confess to carrying on the verbal tradition I learnt from those elders.
I apologise to the grey-haired ruckman from St Bedes who chased me around all day after I asked if he still played footy because he liked little boys. (Although, perhaps he protested too much.)
And the bloke from Thomastown who, after I made some disparaging remarks about his mum, told me she died two weeks ago.
And those 'born in a bucket' slurs I learnt from Russell Badham that came unstuck when a mum I knew was there to watch her son play.
The days of playing in the twos and then watching the ones with a keg on the boundary. La Trobe was instrumental in the VAFA's introduction of the alcohol ban during games.
Which was hard to take when pre-season intra-club practice matches between the Reds and Blacks included liquid refreshment at every break.
And Bob Segrave, filling a hole in the forward pocket in one of those matches, going in hard for the ball with a pipe in his mouth.
Sunday excursions to St Andrew's pub, because it was beyond the city-limit ban on pubs opening on the sabbath.
Long nights around the keg after practice and home games where every conceivable subject was discussed among blokes, and some great sheilas, whose studies and interests were as varied as the teams we played.
Actually, they were much more varied.
Craig Nelson
24 June 2009
I couldn't believe it by John Dumaresq
It was September 1988. I was sitting on the stage in the Blue Room under the Grand Stand of the Ballarat City Oval.
I sat next to Peter Tunbridge, captain of the Ballarat Football Club. Ballarat had just won the U17, reserve and senior premierships.
Peter and I had played.
We had taken a moment to collect our thoughts and were watching a club celebrate.
I turned and said to him, “This must be the best day in your football career”.
I knew it wasn’t a certainty. His football career was full of highlights, captain of the dominant Ballarat Winfield Cup Side, Victorian representation with the VAFA, captain of the Country vs City Team, numerous B&Fs.
His answer floored me.
He said, “You know JD, my best times in footy were playing with my mates at La Trobe Uni."
I couldn’t believe it.
Ten years later, as club president, I handed him life membership to the 'Trobers.
I never forgot those words, but what they meant changed for me markedly the more I became involved with the wonderful group of people that make up the players past and present of our unique footy club, the Trobers.
(President of LTUFC for 12 years and still donning the boots after 19 years on the paddock.)
I sat next to Peter Tunbridge, captain of the Ballarat Football Club. Ballarat had just won the U17, reserve and senior premierships.
Peter and I had played.
We had taken a moment to collect our thoughts and were watching a club celebrate.
I turned and said to him, “This must be the best day in your football career”.
I knew it wasn’t a certainty. His football career was full of highlights, captain of the dominant Ballarat Winfield Cup Side, Victorian representation with the VAFA, captain of the Country vs City Team, numerous B&Fs.
His answer floored me.
He said, “You know JD, my best times in footy were playing with my mates at La Trobe Uni."
I couldn’t believe it.
Ten years later, as club president, I handed him life membership to the 'Trobers.
I never forgot those words, but what they meant changed for me markedly the more I became involved with the wonderful group of people that make up the players past and present of our unique footy club, the Trobers.
(President of LTUFC for 12 years and still donning the boots after 19 years on the paddock.)
Nick who?
Pootang,
It was Nick Bolger, son of Irene Bolger (Nurse Strike Organiser). Nick was on the SRC and was one of those threatened with jail over the Rabelais article on how to steal. Last heard of living in Spain.
John Dumaresq
It was Nick Bolger, son of Irene Bolger (Nurse Strike Organiser). Nick was on the SRC and was one of those threatened with jail over the Rabelais article on how to steal. Last heard of living in Spain.
John Dumaresq
17 June 2009
Why are we here
This blog was created to harness the recollections of those who donned the red and/or black.
The long term plan is to use personal anecdotes in a 50-year history of the club.
That's not until 2017, so why start now?
Firstly, you'll forget.
Secondly, you may die and your memory bank is lost forever.
Thirdly, memories differ and cross-referencing helps verify accounts.
I'm continually alarmed at reunions when supposed exploits bear no resemblance to my own recollections. Yeh, yeh, I know what you're thinking.
Folklore and mythology have their place in history, and 'historic' accounts are boring without them, but the 'real' story is often more incredible than what it became in the re-telling.
Enough of my views on historical methodology.
Send in your views, banter with each other, push, pull and stretch the boundaries of credibility and decency in the way of a true 'Trober.
May friendships be rekindled, grudges forgiven and the fun of playing for a great club be remembered.
The long term plan is to use personal anecdotes in a 50-year history of the club.
That's not until 2017, so why start now?
Firstly, you'll forget.
Secondly, you may die and your memory bank is lost forever.
Thirdly, memories differ and cross-referencing helps verify accounts.
I'm continually alarmed at reunions when supposed exploits bear no resemblance to my own recollections. Yeh, yeh, I know what you're thinking.
Folklore and mythology have their place in history, and 'historic' accounts are boring without them, but the 'real' story is often more incredible than what it became in the re-telling.
Enough of my views on historical methodology.
Send in your views, banter with each other, push, pull and stretch the boundaries of credibility and decency in the way of a true 'Trober.
May friendships be rekindled, grudges forgiven and the fun of playing for a great club be remembered.
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