Category Archives: Glenelg

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How Good’s Grand Final Week?

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Siren sounds.

Somehow, we’ve pinched it by two points. Somehow, from directly in front, Redleg Tristan Binder’s kick swung late, like a Terry Alderman outswinger. Moments later, ‘We’re From Tigerland’ blasts out around Adelaide Oval. Despite finishing second, we played and won like underdogs.

Somehow, we’re in the Grand Final.

*

Mum and Dad live in the Barossa. Mum barracks for Sturt. Dad and I are Tigers faithful. This Sunday night, someone’s having disappointment for dinner. Sitting on the veranda, I ring.

Dad says, ‘We’ll really miss Max Proud.’ Matty Snook was Dad’s perpetual favourite.

I say, ‘Gee, it’d be great if Hosie, McBean, and Reynolds all have a day out. It’s been a while.’ We dissect Jonty Scharenberg’s enormous last month.

*

The City-Bay Fun Run is also Sunday. Usually, it coincides with the preliminary final. I formerly ran the twelve kilometres, but now I do just the six from Kurralta Park in the interests of, well, my interests. I’ll again wear my 2023 premiership guernsey. It’s a magnificent running top and attracts quips from cheering onlookers lining the (mercifully downhill) Anzac Highway route.

‘Go, Tigers.’

‘Come on, the Bays.’

And from a tiny, white-haired lady, ‘Go, you good thing!’

*

We all dig out old scarves and ancient yellow and black caps this week. For me, I’ll enlist a premiership stubby holder to chaperone me through. Like a sommelier, I pick each up in turn, study it, and turn it gently in my hand. Which vintage to savour? The 2023? The 2024? I settle on the superbly aged 2019. I inhale and it smells like victory.

Grand final eve eve eve (Thursday) and we wander around Jetty Road to admire the decorations. Yellow and black streamers festooned in shop windows and across pub bars. Balloons bouncing on business facades. Tigers roaring.

Touring the holy trinity of B: Barb’s (Sew and Knits), the Broady pub, Butcher — SA Gourmet Meats (formerly Brian’s) I drink in their displays of communal celebration. Duck in the footy club for a brisk beer to appreciate the buzz — and under the darkening sky, scrutinise training and try to gather some heartening signs.

*

My wife, Claire, is a (mostly) lapsed Norwood fan from a big family of Redlegs supporters — her Dad introduced me to the idea of Port being labelled, ‘The Filth.’ Over beef curry one night she wonders aloud if it’s boring how Glenelg’s into a fifth grand final in seven years. I remind her of the conversation I once had at The Wheaty listening to her brother’s band: Don Morrison’s Raging Thirst.

It was with an old friend and mad Centrals fan. I said, ‘Your mob played in twelve consecutive grand finals, Smacka. Did it ever lose that excitement?’ Smacka instantly replied, laughing like a pirate, ‘No. Never!’

We’re with him.

*

When we win a grand final, my tradition is to swing by the Elephant and Castle (West Terrace) on the way home and buy a Coopers Sparkling Ale stubby (for whichever holder’s riding in the front seat). Here’s hoping that around 6pm Sunday I’m veering through the drive-through for a fourth beer.

I anticipate its zesty hoppiness.

*

Sunday afternoon drive into the CBD. Trust my secret (free) car park’s available. Kimba friends Mozz and Kathy will be with me, so I’ll ask them to not breathe a word of this clandestine location. Then, the thrumming anticipation when crossing the Torrens footbridge.

We’ll sit in the Ricciuto Stand. Looks like it’ll be showery. Max Proud is out — sadly his remarkable career is done — but with significant upset Sturt captain James Battersby has not so much walked out as run out to Oxford Terrace, wailing and blubbing. Both teams need to absorb these seismic events. Our last three finals victories have been by a combined eight points. They’ve been gripping and frantic. We’re underdogs, again.

And then, there’ll be that enlivening, hot-blooded moment when all the energy of the players and fans explodes.

The opening siren.

*all photos courtesy of the author

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The Beautiful Behind

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Mist hangs inside the Adelaide Oval, the arena lights smudgy and weary. A sullen sky thinks about raining but can’t be bothered to do so properly. It could be Yorkshire — on a summer’s day.

We’re in the Sir Donald Bradman Pavillion and it’s late in the last quarter of the Glenelg and Adelaide qualifying final.

The ball has morphed into a cake of soap — Palmolive Gold — yet somehow the disposal quality is still impressive — from both teams. It’s ferocious, it’s close. All afternoon, our forwards have been suffocated. The Crows intercept and rebound regularly. Our tackles are often swotted aside with indifference. The indicators are worrying.

Down two goals. On a slippery deck, old friend Brett and I decide this lead is worth four. We’re spluttering but Lachie Hosie converts a timely shot to the northern end. Six points in it but it feels like an unconquerable canyon.

The clock marches on. A bedevilling resignation forms. Crows fans grow louder. In front of us, an elderly couple — she in a Crows scarf, he in a Tigers top. Someone’s going home grumpy.

Every time they surge forward, Adelaide looks irresistible. Our defenders battle to be bold and resolute, to borrow from Macbeth.

Glancing at the scoreboard I see the clock ticking past 24 minutes. I say to Brett, ‘We really need to hurry.’

He replies, ‘There can’t be much time-on.’

26 minutes. Can only be a minute or two. I dread the siren.

Darcy Bailey pumps it to the square. Luke Reynolds slips behind the pack. He’s been below his best, but this is his moment. The ball spills and he edges into the corridor. With the outside of his left boot, he caresses it through like an Italian striker! Bellissima.

Scores are level. Ecstasy immediately swamped by threat of the cruel clock. Planes drone overhead. I bet it’s chilly at the Showgrounds. Only the woodchoppers would be warm — my hot chips are forgotten.

Heading deep into an unbearable thirty-first minute, Jarrod Lyons drives it into the arc. This is it.

Matty Allen snatches a quick handball from Hosie, steadies on a slight angle, and kicks. This afternoon has been one of relentless danger and suddenly, Glenelg finds its twinkling of grace. He dribbles the soggy Sherrin and tumbling goalward, it bounces three or four times and clangs into the post.

Have we just seen the best behind ever?

Tiger roar in the stands. Uniquely, Australian rules football rewards scoring inaccuracy and I love how this reflects our best, laconic selves (Good try matey but not quite. Here have a point!) and so, we lead, 74 – 73. On my all-time favourite left-footers list, number 22 climbs a few rungs to join Freddy McGuinness, Matty Bode and Ruory ‘Space Goat’ Kirkby.

The moments stretch excruciatingly. Allen’s behind is better than a goal — Adelaide must now go the full length of the ground. A major and a quick centre clearance could sink us. More anguish as the ball pings back and forth in our half.

Then the siren. And then the song crashes in: Oh, we’re from Tigerland / A fighting fury, we’re from Tigerland…

Like a Dickensian thief, we’ve pinched it. Seven consecutive wins in finals.

Two to go.

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The (Claire Louise) Beverage Compliance Manual

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Congratulations on your appointment as Claire Louise’s sommelier, barista, mixologist (oh) and general drinks help. Of course, it’s not really about beverages. It’s about knowing someone’s favourites, their rhythms, their fussy preferences — and loving them not in spite of them, but because of them

To assist you in your duties here’s a (brief) list of requirements.

1. Green tea. Taken regularly throughout the day. Any number between 4 and 7 cups. Teabags must undertake multiple tours of duty. Tea strength, as Goldilocks knows, should not be too weak nor too strong but just right.

    2. Coffee. Taken morning (one at breakfast) and afternoon (also one). As per tea should be moderate in strength. Sometimes, the afternoon one is purchased from a café or the evil Scottish corporation (drive through, not walk-in) and must be nice. As in a nice coffee. A chocolate muffin might accompany the later. Pro tip: Half the muffin is to be taken home and graciously offered to the husband. This, too, is nice.

    3. Water. Above all else this cannot be yukky. Filtered water that has fallen as gentle, nice rain in a country location is best. Do not buy in plastic bottles. Repeat. Do not buy in plastic bottles. Unless circumstances demand. These may include hikes in Europe across especially rocky terrain like the Cinque Terre.

    4. Orange juice. Taken in a small glass upon rising. Must be diluted (not overly) to allow for ease of consumption and to avoid citrus shock. NB- this is in stark contrast to #9.

    5. White wine. Must be cold but not too cold. 8 degrees Celsius seems ideal. Fill to (Rodney) line if using glass acquired* from pub. Do not add ice, regardless of outdoor temperature. But it’s nice to ask.

    6. Red wine. If using glass acquired* from pub fill to just below the Rodney line. No, I don’t know either. Add a single magic drop—no one really knows what it does, but it feels important.

    7. Sparkling white. Occasionally taken as first drink in pub. Only one glass and this is described as nice.

    8. Sparkling red. Despite early enthusiasm, this is now shunned. No loss.

    9. Brandy. In order to obtain your mandatory Cert IV, the Brandy unit must be passed at a minimum B level. Large, wide-mouthed tumbler. Substantial ice cube. Ice first to allow for spirit-cooling. How much brandy? Covering the brandy and ice, but not really, only conceptually. Then add new coke not pre-opened coke for it’ll be flat. Then again, the new coke will demonstrate a disappointing lack of fizz (see enshittification). Take care to not over-fill the tumbler to leave room for coke-topping to alleviate the intense brandy hit. To support you with this, a range of face-to-face and online groups are available such as the Brandy Assistance Division (BAD) who meet every month on the second Tuesday and 1 – 800 – BRANDYHELP has proved useful to some.

    10. Gin. Similar to but not quite the same as #9. Probably less spirit but with the addition of botanicals — though don’t let Miss overhear you saying that word, a dehydrated lemon wheel — don’t let Miss overhear you saying that either, mint et al.

    11. Cocktails. No genuine insight. Just make ‘em strong. Unless 10% ABV, don’t bovver.

    12. Pimm’s. (correct use of possessive apostrophe, thanks) See #11.

    13. Beer. The sole exclusion. Simple rule to remember.

    14. Hot chocolate. Taken mid-evening (mostly during the southern hemisphere winter) around 9pm. Sometimes as early as 8.30 and as late as 9.30. Never a giant mug’s worth. Regardless of the temperature, microwave for an additional 30 seconds (minimum) but do not allow to boil. May be accompanied (irregularly) by treats.

    15. Baileys et al. Taken occasionally, mostly on a Sunday. Often with an ice cube. Do not be alarmed when, days later, you find a glass with a barely-there centimetre of (diluted) milky beverage hidden away (in seeming shame) on a low fridge shelf. Sometimes poorly sealed with a sad square of cling wrap.

    I wish you well and trust you’ll enjoy this lively and exciting role.

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    Glenelg v Eagles — Pecker Park Ponderings

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    Woodville Oval is long.

    From fence to fence, it’s two-hundred massive metres. How agog must European or American visitors be who are accustomed to compact soccer pitches and gridiron fields? It reminds me of Rome’s chariot-racing stadium, the Circus Maximus, with its intimidating length and considerable circumference. Running laps here would be tough.

    Watching the Eagles in their warm-up jog, they appear (mostly) young and undersized. Two dozen are sidelined with injury. A good thing the QEH is out the back. Many look like they’re a year or two off (legally) driving. It’s bright and sunny. Clots of blokes in shorts. I prefer not to grizzle about footy catering — but wonder if I paid too much for my bucket of chip. A rare odourless wind blows in from the Port.

    After a scrappy opening, on Glenelg’s first entry Riley Holder dribbles it through. The Tigers then begin to exploit the oval’s massive acreage by sustaining possession with solid chains of handball and short passing. Archie Lovelock asserts himself with a smother, gather, and goal.

    Aw, Cracklin’ Hosie, gets on board with a major, characterised by his panther-like prowling and athletic predation. Jarryd Lyons was a Lion but now he’s a Tiger. While he and his brother Corey are in the team, a pair of Lyons doesn’t quite make a pride — but we’ll be proud of them if these feline fellows help win the flag. He takes some inspiring grabs.

    The Eagles kick two goals to commence the second term and courtesy of the zephyr, the Sherrin remains captive at the southern end. After twelve minutes Glenelg finally gets it inside fifty. This barren period is rare for such an attacking side but shows how our game is partly at the mercy of the elements. In a sometimes-malicious encounter there’s a skirmish on the forward flank from which Alex Martini emerges shaken not stirred.

    *

    The third quarter is underway and given the relentless wind I reckon we need to be at least six goals up at the final change to avoid a visit to the QEH cardiac ward — at least it’s only a swift stroll. A match highlight is the half a dozen frantic smothers from both sides and with a smile I recall the last-gasp effort from Will Chandler in the 2024 decider. I’m convinced this could’ve been the flag-winner.

    Second-half specialist Luke Reynolds scores after a free and then there’s one for the VHS tape with a (Darcy) Bailey banana. During a P&O cruise happy hour who wouldn’t welcome a Bailey(s) banana? The ever-elusive and unruffled Cole Gerloff goals following a retaliatory smother from Hosie. A blow-out approaches. The umpires endure five torrid minutes during which spectators from both camps bark disapproval to the wind — and as always, hear nothing back.

    In a display of sparkling local wit our first miss of the quarter is met with an aged antagonist yelling, ‘Sucked in.’ Laugh! A great captain’s tackle in our arc and with his immaculate kicking mechanics Liam McBean converts again. He’s the best shot for goal I’ve seen in our city since D. Jarman.

    McBean again. Lyons another hanger. Clouds now assembling over the Port and the air is suddenly chilled. Pleased I’m not in shorts.

    As is my spectating habit I move every quarter and for the concluding stanza I’m on the sloping lawns in front of the scoreboard. The breeze is now becalmed and so the ball has permission to venture to the northern end. We trade scores early but are largely unflustered by the hosts.

    With less fizz in the contest now than flat Fanta, the clock ticks down — but up on scoreboard. Only golf claps for goals. But there’s still outrage present with a late dubious free against the home side. Why is sporting dismay louder than celebration?

    It’s a win for the Tigers — modestly efficient. But we haven’t done much to sharpen our premiership credentials. I thread between the Barry Jarman Stand and the Percy Fox Green Stand and head to my car — half frozen, half hopeful.

    We’ll remain in a wary but largely inconsequential waltz with the Crows for second spot. Either way, the qualifying final looms.

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    Seven Small Thoughts from this Week

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    1. I love cooking a barbeque on our veranda, but I’m forming a view that July evenings are too cold for this optimism.

    2. I’m re-reading a book on the song ‘Wichita Lineman’ and still find it astonishing that it was written by Jimmy Webb when he was barely 22.

    3. I would enjoy running on the Glenelg North beach but because of the recent storms there isn’t really one. The sea has reclaimed what was briefly ours.

    4. This is a lovely billboard.

    5. Has anybody ever had a dream that began at the very beginning, and not part way through the story?

    6. I might buy a roll of film, take some photos, and get it developed. I almost hope one is accidentally of my shoes. I could use the honesty.

    7. Can anybody lend me an abacus?

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      Five Things That Made My Saturday

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      Saturday afternoon and I’m home alone. Chores are in hand. Nothing on TV and the book I’m reading, the collected stories of cult American author, HP Lovecraft, is more medicinal than recreational, so it sits untouched by our bed.

      On Record Store Day (globally recognised on April 19th) I swung by Mr. V’s on Semaphore Road, and because one of the very best ways to invest half an hour is by listening to a Beatles’ album, I bought this. The music transports me to my childhood. It remains thrilling and urgent and while Paul is my favourite, I can understand why George Martin, their producer, commented that of all the great things he got to do with the Beatles, his absolute preference was mixing the vocals of John. As I type, the album’s on and it’s utterly joyous and innocent and compelling.

      I love our backyard. And the time of peak admiration is, of course, in those first minutes after it’s been mowed on an autumnal afternoon. The breeze is coaxing the trees and shrubs towards folksy dance and there’s bursts of birdsong. I’m in debt to Claire who, with her artistic eye, designed and brought our garden to painterly life. Later, I may sit out here with a quiet ale and admire the view.

      I purchased Glenelg Footy Club’s 2023 premiership jumper at Adelaide Oval during last year’s finals for tuppence and my appreciation of this simple item is twofold. Yes, the dual flags (nice win yesterday over Norwood in the Anzac Day grand final rematch with Lachie Hosie kicking eight goals) but the guernsey is my default running top. It’s frequently a conversation starter and when I’m on the beach in the morning a passerby will sometimes say, ‘Go Tigers’ as we puff by each other. I had it on this morning at the Patawalonga parkrun (my 110th, the 200th such local event and day number 729 of my current streak) and it was a fun 5k (24.49 which is decent for me). I’m grateful for footy and running.

      Dinner is slowly cooking in the slow cooker. Which is what the label promised, Mr Spock. It’s a beef casserole and I look forward to it. I assembled it late morning with the help of a Ball Park Music playlist. Can you remind me to throw in the beans around six o’clock? Thanks.

      It’s a bit of a narrative but Claire has been in receipt of red wine. Needing some for the aforementioned dinner, I opened a bottle of the 2005, McLaren Vale. This was done with nervousness for I anticipated it might have aged as well as the K-Pop song, Gangnam Style.

      How is it? It was a little cantankerous during those early minutes, but I commented to Claire that if I’d been trapped in a bottle for twenty years I would be too. I slopped a few generous glugs into the cooker and popping into the kitchen across the afternoon, both casserole and plonk are doing well.

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      7:22 am, Friday – Glenelg North Beach

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      Jogging along the ribbon of blonde sand, he was grateful for the gulf and majestic sky.

      There were only vague, soundless characters scattered on the coast.

      In the softened distance a lone figure was smudged on the scenery. He could make out her muted pink dress. She was at the water’s edge, moving north towards West Beach.

      Arriving at her side he slowed and bent towards her. Then he reached for the closest shoulder. He kissed her cheek—exquisite, familiar—and was moved in a profound, unspoken way.

      She murmured that the morning suited her, that she should come here more often.

      He reminded her of the unseasonal winter’s day, a few years’ back, when they did this before work.

      She smiled, a kind nod to their memory.

      Yes, he said, August—just before the Josh Pyke concert.

      He returned to his jog and stretched away from her. The water receded some more with the moon’s fading gravity.

      It was the briefest of exchanges, a sliver of chat. But it was connective and affectionate. As he pushed away, she offered tender encouragement after him, before laughing too.

      Squaring his shoulders to make erect his carriage, he stared towards the usual turn-around point. It was just beyond a jutting ramp, bordered with rocks.

      With the delighted sun vaulting into the incalculable blue, he’d soon return and ease to a walk alongside her.

      Again, he would kiss her cheek.

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      Beer Review: Nepal’s Finest Ale

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      To recycle an old joke, I’m going to try to write this without mentioning the Himalayas. Oops, failed already.

      The Barahsinghe is a swamp deer that’s native to Nepal. It has given its name to a craft beer brewery located three hours from the capital Kathmandu in Kurintar. Founded in 2016, it has a modest range of products including a dark wheat beer, fruit beer and pale ale. Should the words swamp and beer co-exist in the same sentence? Let’s find out.

      Claire and I are not in Nepal.

      We’re just across the road from the Coles supermarket in Glenelg at the Sherpa Kitchen and Bar. It’s long held curious appeal, and we decided to visit early Saturday evening (our dining hours are veering dangerously toward that of Queensland pensioners). We had a minor celebration to acknowledge.

      Taking our chairs on the alfresco area the menus soon materialise. Our server is affable and answers our questions. For starters we settle upon some dumplings. We can select ten or five. We ask for five. The smiling staff says, ‘Would you like six?’ As the Dalai Lama noted in his cricket diary, ‘Kindness is my religion.’

      ‘Yes,’ we chorus, knowing he’s saved us from the interpersonal calamity of an irreconcilable fifth dumpling.

      Claire orders a white wine. I follow with, ‘I’d like the Barahsinghe Pilsener, please.’ Having completed our order, we chat among ourselves.

      There’s modest frisson for I’m about to make my Nepali beer debut. Cars come and go from Coles. There’s a river of foot traffic past the restaurant. Modern music plays throughout, presumably from Nepal. Doof, doof but Buddhist.

      We speak of Christmas, NYE cricket, The White Lotus (we’re late to streaming TV) and our impending trip to Sydney. Hot on the heels of our 1985 adventure to the Harbour City (it’s been forty years, so hot like tundra) and it’ll be fresh and distantly familiar as teenaged memories largely are.

      Next to appear is my beer.

      The label tells me it’s made with German hops and natural spring water, and I wonder if spring water can be unnatural.

      The Pilsner’s bright and appealing in the glass. Entirely unlike a swamp deer I quietly imagine. The aromatics are zesty, and this builds my expectation. It’s hoppy and refreshing to sip. Does the Dalai Lama approve? Should he?

      My ale from the foot of the Himalayas is going well. Can’t believe I did it again!

      While our starters of Sherpa Momo (dumplings with curry sauce) were excellent our main courses arrived prompt and hot but presented as a little bland (like the early evening view of a Coles supermarket).

      The Barahsinghe Pilsener was a highlight and in our globalised world it has made its way from Nepal to Glenelg (likely via Dan’s at the execrable Watermark pub).

      This is Blog #500. Thanks for reading and your words of encouragement. Here’s to more stories, and adventures.

      See you in 2025!

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      Slender Elegance

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      With immense kindness, you bought me a Coopers Glass.

      While you were out, you drifted into an Op Shop and thought of me—a simple transaction yet one abundant with love. You bought this because as we sat outside, you knew I’d be able to pour a beer into it, and for me it would enrich that place.

      And you know so well how I love place—especially, our veranda.

      It’s a bid that arrived without complication or messy context and simply says, ‘I love you and hope this brings you joy.’ It’s a declaration of devotion and consideration. In a world often filled with loud gestures and grand expressions, its slender elegance and humility hold appeal.

      With its fetching, silent curves, it doesn’t beg for attention. The glass is efficient but wants no boisterous recognition. Free of ostentation, there’re no unnecessary embellishments but it catches my eye with its allure, every time.

      Quietly, it holds profound enchantment—a meaningful investment of thought and care.

      Out back, on the table, with Neil Diamond as the heartening soundtrack, the fading light dances with the garden—a scene both painterly and idyllic. The dark will shortly rise from the lawn. It transcends, a poetic expression of intimacy.

      It’s all you.

      4

      Carrickalinga, Abbey Road, and the Visionary Pub Schnitzel

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      During our annual Carrickalinga getaway I took some conscripts to parkrun at Myponga Reservoir, and I think we all enjoyed our ensemble endeavour. With water, stern hills, and forest it’s a fetching but searching physical test. Leonard rambled over the finish line and Claire and Trish then came down the final hill, legs whizzing not unlike the Tasmanian devil (Taz) in the Looney Tunes cartoons. It was a succession of warm moments across a brisk morning.

      *

      Cindy Lee is a Canadian band who’s come to recent global attention with their remarkable album Diamond Jubilee. It’s not on Spotify or vinyl but available as a single two-hour track on YouTube. Hypnotic and haunting, it evokes 1960’s girl groups and also features jangly guitars bouncing across its thirty-two songs. It put me in mind of buskers you might happen upon somewhere off-beat like Boise, Idaho.

      *

      Alain de Botton is an author I love to re-visit and this year he’s been in frequent demand. With Claire and I in an unbroken, anticipatory conversation about overseas trips, I was keen to purchase a book of his I’d previously appreciated. On level two of Adelaide’s Myer Centre is the most excellent Page and Turner, a sprawling second-hand bookstore and from here I bought The Art of Travel. The exquisitely observed prose possesses a deep, almost meditative fluency, and early in this work, he depicts the wonder of flight:

      This morning the plane was over the Malay Peninsula, a phrase in which there lingers the smells of guava and sandalwood. And now, a few metres above the earth which it has avoided for so long, the plane appears motionless, its nose raised upwards, seeming to pause before its sixteen rear wheels meet the tarmac with a blast of smoke that makes manifest its speed and weight.

      *

      The glow from Glenelg’s SANFL victory continues. Given the ultimate margin of five points and with only one score in the final seven minutes, the tension was sustained at stratospheric levels. The sole behind came from Tiger forward Lachie Hosie hitting the post; itself among our game’s most theatrical events and a unique scoring outcome among world sports. Contrastingly, in rugby, soccer, and American football if a goal post is brushed, the ball’s destination is all that counts: inside the goal is good and deflected away means nothing. The notion of the behind as a reward for goal-kicking inaccuracy seems distinctly Australian and effectively announces, ‘That’s not a goal, but good effort. Here, have a point!’

      *

      Amidst the Carrickalinga escape, we spent a stout hour aboard the Yankalilla pub beer garden. This was an instructive text with the conversation moving from Asian and European travel to domestic matters. Returning to the holiday home, we’re welcomed by an array of aromatic curries which had been patiently preparing themselves in that most spiritually comforting of appliances: the slow cooker.

      *

      One Hand Clapping is a new Paul McCartney documentary I saw one Sunday with Max and his mate Ethan. It includes songs recorded in the Abbey Road studios for Band on the Run and we witness him playing the guitar, the bass, the piano, and singing in his honeyed, jubilant tenor. He appears ignorant of his own seemingly easy genius and captivating enthusiasm, and I was reminded of this: when his former band split, McCartney was devastated for more than anybody on the adoring planet, he loved the Beatles.

      *

      Alex and his school friend Judd camped in the Adelaide Hills to make a found-footage horror film for which Alex wrote an 8,000-word script. A chief challenge over the three days would be keeping phones and video cameras charged at their powerless camp site. I overheard Alex explaining how to solve this problem they would, ‘go to the pub for a schnitzel and plug in their devices there.’ First words, first steps, first day at school. Add to the accumulation of milestones: first pub schnitzel.

      2

      The Last Moments of the 2024 Grand Final

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      Norwood swarms forward, and with a brutal bump at half-back flashy nugget Mitch O’Neill flattens Dr. Chris Curran. It’s ferocious but ill-disciplined and the umpire’s whistle arrests this menacing surge. For long, agonised seconds the gentlemanly Tiger is on the ground before he enacts the biblical instruction, ‘Physician, heal thyself,’ rises and takes his deserved free kick. In the Sir Edwin Smith Stand, we exhale.

      *

      Hunter Window streams around the eastern flank adjacent to the scoreboard and kicks, somewhat optimistically, for goal. Begging the ball to go through and confirm our seventh flag, we hold our breath. Glory sours to deflation as it sails mockingly across the goal front and out on the full. Despair! Norwood claims the ball and relaunches down the western wing. We again swing psychologically from the elated promise of attack to the gloomy duty of defense.

      *

      Reigning Jack Oatey Medalist, Lachie Hosie, had no first-half possessions, but we all knew this would change, likely in spectacular style. It did. Imposing himself late, he slots two goals and then with an athletic leap at the point of the pack, he grabs a rousing mark. It lifts the Tiger faithful. The final score of the season is this kick for goal but it wobbles off the woodwork! Is there a more theatrical moment in footy than the Sherrin crashing into the goal post? The narrative effects are multiple. The scoring side claims what could be a telling single point addition, but the ball is given to the opposition, who steal it forwards like surprised thieves. Minor reward is replaced by the torment of major risk.

      *

      There’s a menacing wave of red and blue as Norwood again flows through the centre square. Baynen Lowe launches the ball long and high. Like an American football kick, it achieves good hang time beneath the Riverbank Stand and both teams run on to it. We’re now inside the final minute and the execution of his disposal seems more prayerful than geographic precision. We need someone to scramble back and intercept this indiscriminate bomb. We’re five points up. And in what could be the concluding gesture of his 191-game career, Max Proud materialises miraculously by the goal square to rescue us yet again. With superior anticipation, he minsters customary relief. Norwood is thwarted.

      *

      Time stretches cruelly, advancing at a glacial pace. The ball’s on the members wing. A desperate Redleg kick—but Will Chandler smothers it! There’s an appreciative roar for this startling defensive action during which the ball is arrested before it commences its trajectory. On all fours, Chandler leaps up and across at the kick and there’s a near-catastrophic but selfless beauty in his diving at a violently swinging boot. In that brief space and moment, danger and grace co-exist but only one can prevail. It’s grace.

      The siren sounds.

      photos courtesy of the author and screenshots from Channel 7

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      You and I Colour in the Hours

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      The beach, our beach, lies serenely under the mild weather and is sparsely populated.

      Awaking early, you urge me to accompany you. We’d not been for months. Trackies and coats, and off we went. Coffee would wait and welcome us back home, warmly.

      Three D radio plays in the car and you ask about Classic FM. I reply that it’s most needed for the monotony of workday commutes.

      Stormy weather’s dumped seaweed along the sand, and you wonder if this is the culprit of your recent mystery (leg) bites. Shortly after, I feel a scratch at my ankle but it’s a false alarm or a sympathy sting. We survive.

      There’s a urine odour coming from the rocks by the ramp. Its stink is still there upon our return. We speculate about its origin: canine or (yuk) human?

      We see a woman named Sara and her dog, part poodle, part Golden Retriever. In its mouth is a tennis ball and not a nugget of gold (disappointing as they promise to retrieve gold).

      I’m pleased to have started this day by surveying our beach. It’s a treat.

      *

      I love how a Sunday can unfurl with only minor obligations and the buoyant opportunity during which you and I colour in the hours.

      There’s such domestic intimacy in the gentle rituals of coffee, oats, and toast (these last two a half-rhyme). Sharing breakfast with you is rich with subtext because of the closeness of dawn. I’m newly grateful that this is part of our morning.

      Our chat topics meander from Greece to the day’s chores including brasso and handles and watch bands (only briefly considered for ‘My Favourite Things’) to the Meg Ryan airport film we watched last night and the various personal connections we unearthed.

      There’s mostly affirmation and encouragement of each other. It’s a healthy and kind exchange as befits a weekend day before lunch.  

      *

      With ladder and baskets and Mum’s good scissors (similarly rejected by Julie Andrews) we tramp next door to Mrs. Hambour’s as requested by her son, Nick. You climb the ladder, and I steady you during your ascent. This, too, is a privilege for which I’m pleased. You flick open the latch and in we go.

      It’s still and quiet.

      Beneath the lemon tree, I pluck off some sizable specimens while you snip some camelias. It’s joyous foraging and a perfect way to invest some languid moments. The simple rhythm of our dual labours is meditative.  

      The tree has presented with a substantial crop, and I remark that we should return in a few weeks. You make the kind comment that the camelias would be nice for Mum’s birthday, but I suggest by then they could be finished. I note how like so much of what you offer others, there’s endless generosity in the promotion of happiness.

      I also contemplate my blessing in finding you here with me on this calm and tender morning. It’s miraculous and soaring evidence of how wonderous our little planet can be.

      2

      Three Moments of Beauty

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      Trundling along the murky esplanade, dawn was hiding behind the Adelaide Hills. To the west the ocean lay as if it too were asleep making me the sole speck of animated life. Some mornings are crisp and the world’s in sharp, razored focus. Today, the sky was fuddled and uncertain.

      A distant, descending plane hung silently; its light frozen against the darkness like a lamp. Looming over the seascape, the burning, off-white moon threatened as if in an old horror film. The ghostly glow illuminated my plodding path and connected night and day.

      Considering nature’s ravenous fire and the minuteness of human life, I kept running.

      *

      As is my happy habit I’m eternally re-reading The Sportswriter series and am on the final novel. The prose is often startling in its magnificence and makes me inwardly gasp. I forever find literary diamonds in these and Be Mine offers this scene at Mt. Rushmore:

      Just now, as if propelled from the mountain itself, a helicopter- tiny- materializes down out of the marbled heavens, high-tailed and insect-like, and for all of us along the viewing wall, soundless. It passes on string through the grainy air, tilts to starboard, seems for a moment to pause, then slides away, changes course and makes a dreamlike pass close to the presidential physiognomies, comes about again, tail swaying, makes a pass the other way, so that whoever’s inside get the fullest view up close.

      The author, Richard Ford, has a rare sensitivity to the splendor and joy of words.

      *

      Originating in Athens, Georgia, REM was primarily a guitar band, and courtesy of singer Michael Stipe’s lyrics, they presented the world opaquely. Their jangling sounds were, for example, sometimes accompanied by a mandolin and sometimes by arena-sized grungy bombast, but REM’s most gorgeous track is one of which acclaimed keyboardists, Elton John and Ben Folds would be proud. ‘Nightswimming’ is a piano delight, penned and played by the band’s polymath bassist, Mike Mills. The circular motif is at once fragile but also driven, serenely.

      It features on the album Automatic for the People, a meditative, melancholy record that gave opportune shape and meaning to my West Coast life when it was released three decades’ back. ‘Nightswimming’ is a prayer to nostalgia, friendship, and summer’s end. Spending time with the song this week, its embrace is that of a dear, old companion.

      Nightswimming, remembering that night
      September’s coming soon
      I’m pining for the moon
      And what if there were two
      Side by side in orbit around the fairest sun?

      2

      last swim

      |

      Life is boredom then fear.

      Or at least according to the poet Philip Larkin. Fear lurks just beyond the horizon’s curve with the crawling truth that eventually everything will succumb. I’m certain I’ve played my final game of footy and probably cricket too. These are aggregated losses, joining the ever-lengthening string of diminutive deaths.

      Instead, I now run thirty kilometres a week, partly driven by knowing of people whose knees or hips have called time on this. Every morning (lately under the cape of darkness) because I can, I stumble out onto the tarmac and trot beachward. I often wonder if I’m running towards a destination or from a spectre. The disquieting thought lingers: what if this is all halted? One day, of course, it will.

      It’s easy to spot the opening to a sequence. A baby’s first steps, a first ever goal in a footy match, or a first love. These are commencements we can celebrate.

      I love the first swim of the summer as the world opens up when the lengthy, lethargic days stretch out like a fluttering ribbon. While not endless, we sometimes pretend to ourselves that they might be.

      For some pursuits, the last in a sequence can also be simple to note. Grand finals, New Year’s Eve, our last day on holiday. But for other activities, how do we reconcile not knowing which is the last? I like to think there’ll often be one more.

      There’s always next year, until there isn’t, so I appreciate our beach. When I say swimming, not actual freestyle or breaststroke or anything as deliberate and exhausting as this. Just standing about in the greenish-blue shallows.

      Late March and under the slanting sun, towelling off on Glenelg North’s crunchy sand, I promise myself with the next temperature spike I’ll be back down in the ocean. And then abruptly, summer vanishes and exquisite as it is, autumn arrives but swimming’s done. Some years, that anticipated next time just doesn’t come and I look back with minor regret.

      To squeeze these moments like a ripe orange, I plunge in. Claire tip-toes along the sand and inches her way out, grimacing with every step. Waist-deep, we chat and look around us. My eyes dart about for stingrays and fins. I gaze north towards the West Beach Sailing Club and then south at the Marina. Flinging myself into a marching wave the salty stuff blasts by as, eyes open, I scan the corrugated floor.

      Upright with water cascading off me, it’s a phantasmagoric instant and once more the beach, that narrow, ever-pulsing connector of ocean and earth, nudges me into gratitude and tranquility.

      So, is adult life governed by fear? Only if we choose.

      2

      On the Glenelg Surf Club, Vampire Weekend, and Roast Beef

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      Surf Club

      ‘Just as we were amazed to look out at the sea on the Cinque Terre, people must come here and think the same. The view is beautiful,’ offered Claire.

      ‘I’m sure that’s true,’ I replied instantly, if a little ungenerously.

      About 5.30pm on Friday, we’d somehow snaffled a table on the balcony at the Glenelg Surf Club. The waters of Gulf St. Vincent were flat and dazzling and postcardy. To our south the squat jetty swarmed with folks and kids, leaping into the drink, from the pylons. I hoped some had on their best swimming jeans.

      Having established a theme, Claire pursued it with relaxed tenacity. ‘If there were tourists staying in the city, I reckon they’d really enjoy it in here. Don’t you think?’

      I love a surf club, too. They’re proudly local and chances are your beer will be served by a young, often uncertain, clubbie getting up a few volunteer hours. The prices are decent, the grub’s often excellent and you know your coin’s doing communal good.

      We then bought (unsuccessful) tickets in the meat raffle and this was also a petite joy.

      To celebrate this tremendous fortune, we had a bag of chips (not my idea, I confess) and then discussed how our British friends are probably wise to call these crisps to differentiate them from their direct-from-the-deep-fryer brethren. It would save us the frequent indignity of this conversation:

                      Shall we get some chips?

                      Sure. Hot chips or cold chips?

                      Cold.

                      Why don’t we call them crisps in Australia?

                      Yeah, like the Poms. Would make life easier.

                      Dunno.

      *

      Vampire Weekend

      After five years, one of my favourite bands dropped (nobody releases music anymore) two new songs, ‘Capricorn’ and ‘Gen-X Cops.’ The former is wonderfully atmospheric and reminiscent of their acclaimed 2013 album Modern Vampires of the City with its introspective lyrics about the past and our fragile hopes. Musically, there’s a lovely piano solo, string accompaniment, and a fetching melody that echoes some of their finest moments on tracks such as ‘Step’ and my desert island certainty, ‘Hannah Hunt.’

      Claire and I saw Vampire Weekend at Melbourne’s Forum Theatre as part of their Father of the Bride tour in January 2020. It was magnificent with 27 songs played across nearly three hours. About four songs in that night the stage lost power twice and we feared our night would be unhappily early, but the faceless electricians got the voltage happening and the show went on. On the third attempt, they got through the delightfully named, ‘Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa.’

      For me their music is literate and fun and smart. It connects to Paul Simon’s Graceland in style and execution. When it’s out in April, just after Easter, I’ll be all over the new album, Only God Was Above Us.

      *

      Roast Beef

      Although it’s February we decided to have a Saturday roast. It’d been months since our last, probably in winter and so we enlisted the appropriately named Beefmaster barbeque and utilized the indirect method (does sound like an unsatisfactory form of contraception).

      Is there a more comforting sound than that of a hunk of beef spitting and sizzling in the pan?

      Food often lacks an accompanying musical score, so this is always a welcome domesticated commotion. I find the challenge is to just leave it alone and not lift the lid too frequently. I treat the meat like a kind of culinary Schrodinger’s Cat, wanting to peer at it constantly as if it’s slow art, thus lengthening maddeningly, the cooking time. Preparing a roast is best done as a duet with Claire being the gently guiding Dolly to my slightly dazed and doddery Kenny.

      It was affirming ye olde fayre with the roasted cauliflower (is it really the poor cousin of broccoli; methinks not) and Belgium’s finest cabbage derivative, brussel sprouts, both emerging as unlikely stars and receiving a sitting/ standing ovation from us.

      At 6.37pm on the patio attending to the soothing symphony coming from under the rangehood and nursing a sparkling ale (me) and gin (Claire) all was (briefly) right in our tiny beachy nook.