At dawn, a thunderstorm rumbled overhead. The night before at Woodsy’s party there’d been laughter and stories. Some find these occasions difficult, but I’m heartened by the continuing connections in our broad cohort. I eased open the cabin door to Sunday morning. Nobody was about.
Jogging past the caravans and tents, Dutton Park’s sloping bottle green oval emerged. It was the first time I’d run in Kapunda this century. I decided to do a lap in the red and black, if only in my head. Several decades had passed since I’d last been a Bomber on this ground. Near the forward pocket, I hopped over the fence.
My last footy coach at Kapunda was Richie Mickan and while most of my school mates were busy winning the Senior Colts flag, I was roving in the B grade, and we were busy winning a wooden spoon. Despite Richie’s efforts, his speeches were no JFK, and we only won two games all season. His final three-quarter time address was, ‘Well boys, I’m buggered if I know. Let’s just run a lap or something.’
Ambling along on the wing, I remembered the menacing sight of Rod Burton, the former Port Magpie and our one-time A grade coach. He had mad eyes. Pushing off the timekeepers’ box like a western gunslinger, he launched a most monstrous screw punt, and it soared well above the southern goals. It’s the biggest kick I’ve seen.
Then I could hear Bruce Dermody, my mini-league mentor, announcing across Dutton Park that, ‘the liquor bar will be open at 2.30.’ I could also recall him repeatedly saying to us ten-year-olds, ‘Hold that ball straight. Do a drop punt. Forget the screw punts.’
In the Sunday morning tranquillity I weaved around the goalposts, fetching birdsong floating down about me. With my childhood oval still to myself, an invigorating drizzle descended. Another flashback. In my last year as a Junior Colt, we’d hosted the Tanunda Boxheads in a semi-final.
It was close late in the last quarter and following a behind their full back kicked it in. He’d done a pretty good job all game but as I stood the mark, he shanked it straight onto my chest. I was as startled as he was. Sending it back over his head for a goal, I consoled him with a ‘Bad luck mate. That’s tough.’ He just kept shaking his head. Poor bugger. Shortly after, the siren sounded. A Bomber win.
*
Kapunda was a dusty place when I was a kid. It always seemed to have more in common with the arid landscapes to the north than with our lush Barossa neighbours. The land has transformed. Dutton Park is now a botanical garden, carpeted in all directions with expansive lawns. It’s deeply appealing but the small grandstand remains neglected. In these past decades has anybody actually sat on its ancient timbers and watched some footy or cricket?
Along the outer wing I ran, inspecting the advertising hoardings. Most were for familiar businesses and their longevity pleased me. Another indicator of prosperity. Beyond the pubs and Perry’s (still Rexy Draper’s to me) was a sign for Menzel’s Meats.
Boo gave me my first job there at thirteen. Scrubbing mucky tubs and hosing down the blood-wet floors, I worked every night after school and most Saturday mornings. I was paid $2 an hour.
It was my first time in unsupervised adult male company. Boo and Mick Menzel, Roger Leslie and Spick Kruschel provided much grown-up instruction, both intentional and unintentional. I probably learnt as much about life out the back of that butcher shop as I did anywhere.
I’ve still never eaten cow tongue.
It was there that I heard on 5KA that John Lennon had been shot. Mum had just bought his record, Double Fantasy. It was a Tuesday early in December of 1980. Normally the back of the butcher shop was a chirpy, animated place. For a few minutes, it was quiet.
*
Finding a gap in the fence, I eased onto the long, hilly first hole of the Kapunda Golf Club. Playing (poorly) out there as a teenager, I recall brown and cracked fairways, tee blocks like tarmacs, and black putting scrapes.
Today, thick, spongy grass cushioned my feet. Beyond it, trees and undulating fairways combined to make a picturesque landscape. It was no longer a large paddock with nine up and back golf holes but an exquisite course.
I ran up and down about six holes. The (now) sixth hole requires you to carry the modest dam and I wondered about how many balls, to my undying disbelief, I slapped straight into it during the 1980s. Too many deceased Hot Dots.
I have a vivid memory of Dr Para making an eagle on the 18th. It was a par 5 and he hit his third shot from about 150 metres, and it bounced straight in the cup. The startled roars carried over the late afternoon fairways. After many decades why would I still have this in my head?
I squinted through the clubhouse windows. This was where I had my 21st birthday. It was a sixties-themed night, and I’d made four C-90 cassettes for the occasion. Of course, Eagle Rock with its trouser-dropping tradition happened too. I still have the photos. A beery circle featuring Paul Edward White, Tommy Hayward, Paul O’Reilley, Froggy Ryan, among others.
But it was also around that time I learnt to pour a beer from a keg. With considerable patience Davo and I were taught by Gus Higgins before tee-off one morning. He said, ‘Snap the tap off quickly and don’t overfill the glass. You don’t want to choke it.’ It took us a few attempts, but we got there. I could just make out the sign for ‘Gus’s Bar’ hanging in the murk.
Back outside on Sunday morning, I kept running.
Part Two coming soon!
