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