Tag Archives: Kapunda Bombers

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Kapunda, Monday: A Drive Through the Quiet

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From the top of Gundry’s Hill, Kapunda lies soundlessly below — half-hidden in its jumbled valley.

The topography gifts this view — and encourages a certain kind of reflection. I consider how some of the nearby towns such as Freeling, Nuriootpa, and Tanunda are largely flat — perhaps a little reserved in their landscape. Our steeper hills allowed for a testing upbringing of bike and billycart riding.

Once, the surrounds of Gundry’s Hill were simply paddocks — rolling and empty. Now, a housing estate sprouts, improbably dense. There’s about twenty homes hounded in together — you’d struggle to swing a nine iron between them. However, unlike other locations further north, the population’s climbing.

Driving about I’m gladdened by the early-week industry. People on foot and in vehicles are moving about collecting and depositing stuff, accomplishing transactions, making things happen.

A blue sky presses down on Kapunda, dragged by an icy wind slashing at the trees and roofs. I remember days like these from my childhood. A friend once called it a lazy wind — ‘It doesn’t go around you, just straight through your torso.’ She was right.

I’m curious — profoundly invested — in the high school’s rebuild after the 2022 fire. Eringa now looks familiar and is regaining much of its grandfatherly glory. It’s reclaiming its place as the town’s reassuring heart. The croquet lawn lies beneath a compact row of building site offices and the apron sloping from the grand front steps is crowded with what I hope are temporary structures. The old palm tree stands noble by the basketball court.  

*

Idling through the Dutton Park gates I take a slow lap around the sporting precinct, passing the clubrooms where Claire and I had our wedding reception. I then see the sleek bowls club, tennis and netball courts, and sadly becalmed trotting track — remembering long, dust-kicked laps in the heat of footy’s pre-season. The encircling gum trees bend in the crisp June gusts.

I veer past the old Railway Hotel. Most of it’s intact behind some hopeful orange bunting. I wonder for a moment at what it could become. A motel? Café? Restaurant?  I then shake my head. It’s been decades since the pub fire and nothing’s happened.

Across the road is the Railway Station. It’s now luxury accommodation but I remember Mum taking my sister Jill and I to collect our monthly parcel of State Library books and cassettes. There was always excitement in pulling open the brown paper wrapping to see what’d made the train trip up from North Terrace.

I note mechanics garages all around town. A number have sprung up to service patiently waiting trucks and utes. Diesel motors have feelings, too. A boxing club’s in a shed across from Bald Hill.

The North Kapunda pub is shut although the forlorn loss is yet to drape itself glumly over the veranda and windows. I hope it reopens but Kapunda has probably always been overserviced by pubs. Smiling at the thought of Saturdays in there during the 1980’s — the rowdy white smear of a couple dozen cricketers and I hear, ‘Where are you goin’? You owe me a beer for the Schooner School!’   

In contrast, Puffa’s drive-through has been trading steadily since dawn and just over on Clare Road’s a flashing sign urging punters to drop by for morning coffee and afternoon delights. I love pushing through the front door into its cosy bar but before noon on a Monday’s not really the time. One day soon.

Turning onto Hill Street I spy the sporting mural about which I’ve heard much. I’m carried back to the past and beam at Rocket Ellis, Paul O’Reilly, Davo, and other portraits. Macca — iconic teacher and sportsman — is also there and he once told me, ‘You’ve got it arse about. You hit a cricket ball in the air and a golf ball along the ground!’

I smile at the adjacent mural more broadly acknowledging Kapunda’s story. Much-loved deli owners and revered citizens Eli, Brian, and Reg Rawady are at the rightful centre. I can still hear their distinctive voices, especially Reg’s bellowing baritone. A town that appropriately praises its people and history is surely a healthy place.

At Litl Mo’s bakery, I park outside the former Eudunda Farmers store. Inside’s noisy with older folks concluding their morning tea. As I’m ordering most amble towards the door — leaving behind their coffee cups, chatter, and crumbs. A murmuring din bounces around. ‘See you next week, Bill. Enjoy your golf on Thursday!’ It’s an encouraging hub for the town and a bustling café.

Deciding to eat on the balcony, I spot the dental clinic across the Main Street. It’s new although Dad later tells me it’s been open a while. After too many of Mo’s chocolate donuts, stride across the road to get your teeth fixed.

My sausage roll is excellent. Scrutinising it after a bite or two, I’m thrilled to spot that neglected ingredient: carrot! The taste is delicate and flavoursome. It’s not massive — no need to compensate for tastelessness or oily pastry. It’s a treat.

*

Monday mornings teach you things in a country town. I’ve taken a tranquil drive through memory but have also glimpsed something of Kapunda’s boisterous and bright future. There’s movement beneath the quiet.

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Our Annual Pilgrimage to the Greenock Pub

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Each of us studies the lunch menu like it’s a sacred text, applies some unnecessary critical thinking, and in succession — as anticipated — orders a schnitzel. It’s a collective declaration of mateship, and an acknowledgement of being deep into our sixth decade. Growing up in Kapunda, we’ve a lengthy and easy friendship.

Outside’s blustery but we’re in the pub’s cosiness.

With the dining room’s blazing fireplace, pot belly stove in the front bar, and rib-ticklers (for her pleasure) soliciting purchase in the toilet’s vending machines ($2 each) there’s still much that appeals. Happy groups are dotted about the tables amidst a humming Thursday ambience.

In a world hurried by notifications, noise, and busyness, the Greenock pub resists performative velocity. Storytelling is our afternoon’s purpose and theme, and we’re now less about bedlam and more about meaning.

Chris (Rohde) tells us of his recent trip to Europe and Berlin, of steins and asparagus, and staying a drop-punt from Checkpoint Charlie. Of Copenhagen and the Tivoli Gardens. We also hear more about Chris and Letitia Hayward’s golfing and post-golfing explorations of Ireland, Scotland and London. All described as, ‘magnificent.’  

A photo shoot’s happening in the neighbouring anteroom, and I spy etched glassware filled with wine the colour of ox blood, arranged in a pretty tableau. A silver reflecting umbrella illuminates the human and vino talent, and I nod into my ale at the prospect of a glossy double-page spread. It’s as deserving as any pub. I wonder if there’s a magazine in Germany called Schnitzels Monthly.

A log shifts in the fireplace, and there’s a scrape of cutlery. Easing my chair back, and with our beer rhythm wordlessly established, I fetch another pint of Coopers Draught for Lukey and a Pirate Life for me.

Chris (Hayward) continues his animated observations. ‘We found a great pub in Soho, and I thought that’d be our local for the week. But then we came across another that was even better!’

Our schnitzels arrive and these, too, are magnificent. Lukey says, ‘Good that everyone has a schnitzel. About time you all got with the programme.’ Pepper gravy sweetness wafts through the snug air along with the hot comfort of chips and steamed broccoli. These hearty plates — though probably not us — could star in the magazine shoot.

Talk accelerates to footy and the upcoming Kapunda Bombers premiership reunions. Teams from 1965, 1985, and 2005 will gather in the club. With this comes the mandatory story of Lukey’s stratospheric hanger in the 1985 grand final. It was a colossal mark but the sole VHS tape of the game is lost. I can see the back-slapping, and hear the bellowing laughter erupting above the din of the Dutton Park clubrooms. That the 2025 Bombers are struggling won’t matter one bit.

We consider relocating to the front bar but linger, preferring the stillness. I love how the Greenock pub is humbly and wilfully unrenovated. In middle life, competition yields to communion — and today and annually for us, this is a chapel. It hosts our companionship and remains a landscape for thought and gratitude.

This annual lunch is where we reconnect with younger versions of ourselves, even as we sit with our shifting adult responsibilities. It’s also a place to remember who we were — teenagers piling into dusty Holdens blasting Midnight Oil —   and to marvel at how this whole scrappy, beautiful mess is turning out.

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Sausage Roll Review: Apex Bakery, Tanunda

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It was my fault. I was late. It was 1.30.

Not an ideal time to visit a bakery and expect the full range of offerings.

I ask, ‘Can I have a sausage roll?’

‘We’ve only got the cheese and bacon ones left.’

‘Yes, that’s fine thanks,’ I reply although it’s not my preference.

It’s Wednesday and I’m in Tanunda, at the highly recommended Apex Bakery, just off Murray Street and on the way to the town oval.

*

As a Kapunda Bomber I played in an Under 15’s football final against Tanunda. It was close all match. The full back had kicked out well, and late in the last quarter we got a rushed behind.  As he prepared to kick the footy back in, I was on the mark just outside the goal square. There wasn’t much time left.

It was a fine late August morning and I put my arms up and to the surprise of everyone at Dutton Park the fullback miskicked it straight onto my chest! Still in shock I put the ball back over his dismayed head for the lead. Shaking his hand after the siren, I felt sorry for my Magpie opponent, but we’d won and advanced to the next week. We didn’t go top.

*

Taking my seat outside the Apex Bakery I slide out the lunch. It’s certainly had too long waiting quietly in the warmer. A lazy car eases past. My cheese and bacon sausage roll is sweaty, limp, and weary, like I imagine most of us would be! However, it’s the perfect size— not too big or small. Those with serious girth and length like an axe handle are making a feeble attempt to disguise the limited taste and aroma. I take a bite.

*

Growing up I had occasional Saturday nights at the Tanunda drive-in. I recall seeing—or not seeing— Wargames, Octopussy and Porky’s! But I also remember after it closed in the 80’s the site became the Barossa Junction, complete with railway carriages.

On Thursday nights there was free beer for a couple hours to entice people to the Junction disco. One summer evening a few of us went across from Kapunda in my mate’s old Alfa Romeo. We applied ourselves vigorously, but I don’t remember there being much dancing on those nights…

Before we knew it, the free beer nights were over.

*

My sausage roll was tasty with delicate smoky bacon flavours combined with gooey cheese. It had subtle filling but again it would’ve been best eaten around midday. I enjoyed it to a degree but knew it wasn’t at its best. It was probably like listening to a much-loved band’s new album but with only the left speaker working.

With memories of footy, drive-ins, and those fleeting free-beer nights swirling in my head, I head for Nuri, ready for a coffee with Mum and Dad.

I’ll return soon and try the sausage rolls again. We’re all entitled to redemption, especially underage Tanunda fullbacks.

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Dear Dad, on your 80th birthday

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Dear Dad

Remember the backyard at Stirling Street and that gnarly old lemon tree? Near the swing with the triangular frame? Every now and then you’d pluck one off a branch, halve it, take a bite and urge Jill and I to do the same. I’d screw up my face at a single drop, but you and Jill seemed to enjoy the taste and so keeping a safe distance, and united in our horror, Mum and I could only look on as you’d both munch a lemon like it was a lolly.

Running down the middle of the yard were parallel garden beds. They bisected the lawn and after tea with your quiet patience you’d help me with the hose and teach me to water the vegetables, saying calm, encouraging things like, ‘Make sure you give them a good drink. On a hot day would you only want half a glass of water? Well, it’s the same with the cucumbers and the tomatoes.’ And even now when watering our plants, I contemplate Dad’s wisdom, trusting I’m giving them a decent sip.

Then, there’s the image of you on your hands and knees, methodically making your way around the lawn perimeter as you edged the buffalo with those big, steel clippers. Of course, while you snipped away at the grass, Jill and I jumped on your back as if you were our very own horse. This was true multitasking, and from you I inherited my love of a manicured lawn. Out the back one-day Max gazed at me and said, ‘Dad, do you think of this lawn as your third son?’

After Kapunda Junior Colts footy games, I’d await your assessment of my performance. There was praise when I played well which was very, very often (Ed– we’re looking into this) but if needed you were direct too. One Friday night I went to a friend’s to watch a film on Betamax, possibly American Werewolf in London and the next day had a terrible game. In the changerooms your advice was clear, ‘You looked tired out there. I reckon from now on stay at home on Friday nights.’ So, I did.

Claire, you’ll be happy to know that morning before this game I called into Peter Moyle’s fruit ‘n’ veg shop and bought an apple and an orange which I ate walking along Hill Street and then winding my way down Baker Street. They didn’t help me at all. Obviously, fruit and football don’t mix.

John Schluter was my Year 6 teacher and Dad and I agree, a very smooth footballer. One spring morning JS and I had a chat at school that went like this-

JS: What do you think about your dad making a comeback to tennis?

Me: Yes, I heard. (You’re about 33 then) You don’t think he’s too old?

JS then helped me realise that how you see your parents is sometimes different to everybody else. He said, ‘Your Dad’s capable of very many things. You should remember that.’ I nodded.

You once and only once played in an oldies footy match at Dutton Park. Now, I was too young to have any real images of your playing days but was thrilled that afternoon as you kicked a bag of impressive goals. It was a clinic. Well, at least until half-time when you were injured, and for the following week hobbled around like you’d been kneecapped by the mafia. Or Mum. But I’m glad I witnessed it.

What about that summer holiday to the Berri Caravan Park? If I’m right, we came home early because it didn’t go so well. Now, I know that to this very day Jill’s sorry she caused all those fights with me. Since then, she’s grown up so much. See boys, it’s about learning.

We’ve a Barmera tradition in which every afternoon at 5pm we do a lap of Lake Bonney with a can of lemonade for the boys and for me a massively deserved Coopers Sparkling Ale. Setting off, each guesses the total number of cars we’ll pass on the Lake Lap. For example, Max might say 7, Alex, 5, Claire 3 and me, 9. Closest wins. Such excitement! And people say I don’t show the boys a good time. Thanks Mum and Dad for those Riverland trips as these gave me deep affection for the place and hopefully, I’ve passed this on.

In August, at the Tanunda Club, on the eve of the ’73 grand final reunion, Phil Jarman declared to Chris Hayward and me that for his height, Bob Randall is the best mark he’s ever seen. I was delighted to hear this yet again and Chris and I were so inspired we each had another six beers.

But among my cherished memories of you is another at Dutton Park. However, this occasion was not for footy or cricket, but the day Claire and I were married. Your speech was elegant and heartfelt and affecting. It told our story well and was about devotion and joy and family. Thank you so much for that.

Tonight’s also an occasion of devotion and joy and family so on his eightieth birthday let’s make a toast to Bob, Poppa, Dad. We love you. To lemons, lawns and love!

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Kapunda perspectives: Gundry’s Hill, the Duck Pond, and Dutton Park

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We’re doing a lap of Kapunda because it’s probably illegal to come home and not.

So, Lukey and I drive up to Gundry’s Hill. We’ll then swing by the Prince of Wales for a brisk beer before heading to the footy.

We hop out and wander around the grassy knoll. The sky is cloudless, and the rolling hills and crops are a reassuring green.

Glancing about I wonder does everywhere look better from a bird’s eye? Does it always provide a heavenly view? Ascending, do our earthly imperfections vanish?

What happened as we grew up in our town, nestled in that mundane, enchanted valley? Everything and nothing. It was hot and dusty, and cold and muddy. Can you be atop even the smallest hill and not become philosophical? Is private awe guaranteed?

Seeing the whole helps me remember the grainy episodes and to time-travel. I locate the spire of St Roses Catholic Church and it’s midnight mass and I’m an altar boy with lads who, for Father Moore, didn’t always behave like altar boys.

My eye finds the tiny primary school oval. I remember lunchtimes and my classmate Grant Dodman kicking what eleven-year-old me regarded as impossibly prodigious torpedo punts.

What do those from flat towns like Freeling do? How do they access a dreamy perspective?

With this elevated silence on Gundry’s Hill comes warming gratitude. I again gaze out across this modest, little town.

It becomes gentler and postcard-pretty.

*

Between the four pubs of the main street and the oval sits the Duck Pond. Although we knew the family well, nobody I know uses the official name, Davidson Reserve.

This ornamental lake was witness to youthful distraction. As with any locality on a map the geographical value is in the personal narratives.

Undertaking our compulsory tour of our hometown’s landmarks, Lukey and I pause and ponder by the water.

It’s suddenly our teenaged 1980’s.

I remember the cars we owned and can see them clustered conspiratorially by the Duck Pond. There’s Trisha’s Hillman Imp, all English and apologetic. Woodsy’s 180B in which one summer we did two ridiculous laps of Bathurst. My wife Claire’s (sadly our nuptials were a way off) little red and white mini, like an extra from Carnaby Street, London. There’s Lukey’s Alfa Romeo which aside from the then new Chinese restaurant in Nuriootpa, was the most exotic thing I knew.

The Saturday night vista is completed by a crowded used car lot of white HQ Holdens.

If I shut my eyes Stephen Trotta’s green Gemini has all the windows down and the Pioneer stereo volume up. A TDK C-90 cassette is playing. ‘US Forces’ by Midnight Oil blasts across the dark water and then we hear Mondo Rock’s moodily suggestive, ‘Come Said the Boy.’

As Dickens wrote, it was the best of times.

*

It’s a glorious late-winter’s day beneath the eucalypts at Dutton Park as the B grade footy concludes.

We’re here to see old friends and recount some well-worn tales. Woodsy, Keggy, Hollis, O’s. Fats and Chipper had called into Puffa’s. Whitey’s elsewhere.

Knots of timeworn faces huddle in front of the changerooms on the new wooden deck. Orange bunting separates us from the reunions of the 1973 B grade (Dad’s a member but can’t be here today) and Senior Colts premiers.

There’s something poetic about the equine term ‘colts’ for footy teams that’s much better than the numerical Under 17’s or Under 14’s. Looking over at the often less than sprightly reunionists someone says, ‘That’ll be us soon boys.’

There are folks I’ve not seen for decades like Kelpie Jarman and Peter Masters but the years melt away because we all lived in the same town.

I see three of the Mickan brothers in Goose, Drew, and Richie and have a quick chat with Macca. There’s much handshaking. By the canteen I bump into Fergy. In the morning he’s again off to Arkaroola and we share our experiences. Claire and I went there and to Hawker and Rawnsley Park on our honeymoon.

Early in the A grade Kapunda leads with three goals to two but then by quarter time it’s 13 majors to Angaston and not nearly enough for the Bombers. Nobody seems to mind for the air’s awash with nostalgia.

The first job, as always, when we congregate, is to organise the next event, so arrangements are made to visit Christmas Higgins’ brewery in Greenock. Before Christmas, of course.

I later learn that Morphettville race 9 is won by number 4. A seven-year-old bay gelding, its name is Angaston. And their team salutes too. By 25 goals.

But on the footy club deck it’s all chortles and familiar stories. Homecomings aren’t universally adored so I’m lucky to love these moments.

After the siren I drive south from this modest, little town.

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24 Hours in Kapunda

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Sleeping, dusty streets. Saturday afternoon like a still creek.

Kapunda.

Memories, rushed and gentle on every corner. Footy, cricket. Bikes.

A pasty each up by the high school lawns. Awash with grey Midford shirts. Roman sandals. Unfinished essays. The poetry of Gerard Manly Hopkins. Year 12 Biology and a vegetation transect on Banksias.

A cricket match shout from the oval. Share a beer and chat in the pub later with my cousin, Froggy. The captain. Rolled for bugger-all.

Visit our history teacher, Macca and his wife, Kerry. Discuss 1983 and everywhere since. Feel seventeen again.

Dinner around a big kitchen table with old friends, Woodsy and Sue. Happy collision of past, present and future. Not enough time to see others. Next time.

Sunday morning. Out to scan the golf club. Admire the lush fairways and nod at the greens which replaced the scrapes of my youth. Recall the handful of 21sts. White HQ Holdens lined up like butchers of West End. Hoodoo Gurus blasting into the cold night.

Drive back across the River Light bridge towards the city.

Back soon.

The footy club is a vast ark of memory. Always nice to see RW Randall on the board too.
No visit to the Duck Pond is complete without seeing (but not eating) a local duck.
Kapunda High School has a croquet lawn although some would prefer a croquette.
In 1980 we slept at The Pines on a bush-walking camp. Today, for the first time we returned, together.
Some call this a Pump House, but, of course, it’s The Turncock House. Don’t ask.
As law-abiding citizens we know a visit to the Prince of Wales pub is compulsory.
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“And see which one of us can tell the biggest lies”

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I’m not sure why it was chosen. Maybe, because it’s convenient and the tram runs outside the front door. The Kings Head on King William Street prides itself on offering only local beers and wine and its food is also sourced entirely within the state. Brilliant.

So, last night about a dozen old mates congregated in the pub. Congregate’s a good verb for we function as a congregation which, of course, means people attending worship. We exchange the important details. Home. Kids. Schools. Work. And then we get to the evening’s real agenda: the past. The stories tumble like a waterfall.

*

There’s the footy grand finals, and Lukey’s screamer at Angaston oval. There’s Bongo’s unlikely major from inside the goal square. There’s the boys all getting a hat like Rexy Ryan’s.

There’s the cricket grand finals. Where is Jeff Charity?

There’s schooner schools and the afternoon when Stef dropped four and owed 28 beers and had to drive back to She-Oak Log to get more money.

And then there’s Tarlee discos with Tony Clarke spinning the records and the lads still in their cricket whites.

There’s the boys at Adelaide Oval late in the day after lots of niggle with some rough-nuts further up the hill and someone retorting, “If I want shit from you I’ll squeeze ya head” and then it was on, and as the toll climbed there’s Lukey advising, “If you just lie there, then they won’t hit you” and then with our Spidey senses tingling, knowing to all meet up in a pub an hour or so after scattering.

There’s Chris on the boundary at Angaston and “Gilesy, you dropped an expletive lemon” and the rest of that ragged evening doing laps of Quodlings’ farmhouse with his Dad hobbling after him.

There’s Sundays at the Railway and opening the blinds around mid-morning with Uncle Mick Dermody and raspberry in our butchers.

There’s Mikey’s T-18 and Woodsy’s 180B and Crackshot’s ute and Lukey’s Alfa.

There’s Cathy Coppin’s sympathy when we didn’t have enough for a ‘goon ($2.20) and she said, “Here. Just take the bloody thing.”

There’s spoofy at Puffa’s and Whitey saying, “Good call.” And then he lost and had to shout anyhow. Again. But you already knew this.

There’s the Pines and the Duck Pond and Gundry’s Hill.

There’s Kapunda High and a HQ Holden opening up a rear gate and a Torana having strife out the front one Saturday after a cricket club show.

There’s a woolly-faced monkey (Puggy/Slide/Greg) buying more than one of us our first beer in the Clare Castle Hotel. When he was fifteen.

There’s the Kapunda Pizza Bar and Johnny Guzzo and getting kicked out from tilting his pinball machine. “Fungul! Out! Out!”

There’s Lumpy Nixon and Dobby and black duffel coats and black ripples.

There’s a bus trip to Coolangatta and all falling asleep in a nightclub watching Boom Crash Opera and missing “Onion Skin” after fifty cent Bundy’s.

There’s New Year’s Eve at Lukey’s and Dad saying, “You young lads won’t drink a keg” and replying “We’re already on our second.”

There’s Puffa saying, “Here you yo-yo’s take my radar detector. Buy me a beer when you get back!” And we drove all the way to Brisbane and returned.

There’s Whitey and the Lienert brothers and Beetle Teagle and Wally Moyle and Nugget Coppin and many others.

*

It’s a ripping night. There’s giggling and tears of laughter and stories. Just stories. No politics or work or superannuation. Just stories.

Christmas is off to a flier.

cch

 

 

 

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The View from Afar

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It’s a hot and muggy evening in Darwin for the footy. And it’s a hot and muggy evening here in Singapore too. Both cities are former colonial outposts, and I’m watching West Coast and Melbourne in an apartment fourteen stories up, and can see across to the famous suburb of Little India. After the game we’ll head down there for a Rogan Josh Kennedy.

There’s a boisterous crowd in at TIO Stadium, and a grassy mound behind the goals. Both teams get an early goal, and Melbourne’s playing with welcome vigour. Coming to the Demons from Glenelg in the SANFL Billy Stretch collects some early possessions. It’s also the suburb to which I’ll return next week after I fly from here. Today the Tigers won consecutive matches for the first time in, well, eons after last week knocking off current premier Norwood.

I’ll soon be on the Glenelg Oval terrace, or in front of Snout’s Bar, named for 1970’s cult Tiger John “Snout” McFarlane. My mate Bob coached twelve year old Billy Stretch in SAPSASA, the fabled week long carnival for primary schoolers. He told me then Billy would play at the highest level. He was on the field with thirty-five other kids, but playing his own game.

I’ve been lucky enough to watch the footy in some fun places. I saw my Crows get flogged by Essendon in Barb’s Bar in the east of Bali a couple seasons’ back. The highlight of that night, apart from Barb’s rissoles and chips, was Black Caviar’s win in the William Reid Stakes; shown at half time.

I was in Singapore’s Boomarang Bar for the Adelaide and Hawthorn preliminary final of 2012. This was Tippett’s valediction before homesickness forced him back to the Gold Coast suburb of Sydney. I was strangely relieved when Cyril got the Hawks home in the final minute as I was to be at a Hong Kong conference the following Saturday. Barely into my new job, I didn’t think I could be suddenly stricken by illness, and seeking alternative treatment in a Kowloon bar.

During the second quarter West Coast exerts their dominance in front of the vibrant Territory crowd. I think of my only trip to Darwin, again for a training workshop (No, I’m not just a conference attendee!). By the final afternoon I’d had my fill of multi-literacies and neo-Marxist interpretations of Hamlet, so headed out to the Adelaide River for the jumping crocodiles and termite mounds. How many chooks are annually dangled off boats to coax the reptiles to leap up like Nic Naitanui? I couldn’t pause for a Darwin stubby at Humpty Doo, but there’s always next time.

I’m always keen to see how Shannon Hurn performs. The prodigious kicking Eagle is from Angaston which is in the Barossa and Light league along with my home town of Kapunda. Shannon’s dad William was a solid footballer with Central Districts in the SANFL.

Angaston is the scene of my own football misfortune. The season after I finished school the association changed the age rules for senior colts footy. To be eligible you had to be under eighteen at the start of July. A premature baby, my birthday’s in June so, both happy and forlorn, I watched on as my mates won a flag on Angaston oval. I didn’t play in one ever. My friend Trev took what we still reckon is the best mark ever taken by a Kapunda Bomber. A lanky lad, Trev rose impossibly to the crest of the pack, grabbed it and it stuck! This got the loudest roar when the video was shown at their recent reunion.

I spent most of that season in the B grade. We hardly won a game. In the huddle at three-quarter time of the final match we were down by truckloads. Our coach’s address was less Barack Obama than drunken barracker. “Well boys we’re in trouble. Again. And we’re out of excuses. I don’t know what to say. Just go and run a lap. Or something.”

With the West Coast comfortable victors, the crowd spills out into Darwin’s balmy night. And we head down to Little India to continue our balmy night too. My last Saturday in Singapore.

This story was first published in Inside Football. For more go to http://digital.insidefootballonline.com/#folio=1

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