Sportsmanship at Marist Bros. Lismore

As best as I can recall Marist Brothers Lismore did not have any formal sports competition. None the less our physical education was not ignored. At lunch recess and on Thursday afternoons in winter we played rarefied ball games on the vast recreation grounds just across the creek, known to all as The Recs. At lunch recess up to a hundred boys would be thrown an old soccer ball and a rule-less game, not unlike that played by Mongolian tribes with a dead goat, would ensue. The object was to get close enough to and kick the ball, preferably into someone’s head. Refereeing and teams were eschewed in favour of a warlord culture were strongmen bullies prevailed. Play would range over several fields the only real rule being to keep it out of the creek, as that held up the game.

On sports afternoon a more formal game, that for the want of a name I shall call Rugby League, was framed on a field with goal posts and pick up teams. There were always far too many boys and far too few balls so sides tended to swell well beyond the traditional thirteen though this was tempered by what I call the enthusiasm factor. Those who saw they’d never get close to the ball or found the ground a little hard (there was always a concrete cricket wicket in the middle) would slough off to play with reeds in the creek, leaving only thethirteen or less tough guy crowd to fight it out. Personally I have to say I played in both sides. I recall football boots of mysterious origin (some may have been dated pre war or even of the great depression judging by the thinness of the soles). I remember the sprigs making a lot more impression on my feet than the hard earth and the nails, that’s right nails, that held them on often protruded on the inside.

In summer lunch recess, as tradition demanded, we played a sort-of cricket. Willow Cricket bats, imported from India, must have been very expensive but pick handles, of Aussie hardwoods, were not. An issue of handles and cricket balls, again too spare for the potential volume of players, was made and sides sort of picked. The rules were the same as those taught to us by our winter soccer comp. You’d be lucky to get one bowl unless you were considered very good or one of the 'warlords' friend which was the same thing really. As for the bat, err handle, there were only a few chosen who could handle that. Naturally there was an abundance of fielding positions one of which was wicket keeper’s keeper, designed mainly to curb time delays from overthrows (byes weren’t counted, in fact little was) I was fielding this position that fateful day that the batsman took an almighty swing and lost his grip. The keeper, attentive to the game, ducked but the keeper’s keeper girlishly watching pigeons mate, was not, and bravely stoped this flying club with his head. When I regained consciousness someone took me to hospital to stich the gash in my forehead and the game progressed with the new rule that letting go the bat was out. I may have felt a cricket bat during those years, Brother Emile had a special use for one on boys bums during spot mental arithmetic tests, but I don’t recall ever having touched one. Later at school in Sydney I was considered too old to learn new tricks and wasn’t about to argue. It wasn’t till my mid twenties that I became involved only once in a proper match and felt the fear as some lout bowled that hard ball as fast as he could – at me. Mercifully I didn’t last long.

Summers Thursday afternoons were miraculously (by some divine intervention I suspect) turned over to swimming at the local pool, in Spinks Park, adjacent to the library on the banks of the mighty Richmond River. I say miraculously as no particular pressure was applied at these times to do anything but bombs and associated horseplay, I have no recollection of swimming carnivals. I guess this was in keeping with the laissez faire
sports philosophy that good came with bad so just put up and enjoy. I certainly lapped up (no pun intended) this ‘sporting’ experience, going home in that lazy daze that water activities induce, directly from the nearby bus depot where it was possible to get a prime seat rather than at our school stop where the Publicks had already occupied all the best spots.

As time went by and I was in my intermediate year I learnt that the brothers were inattentive on sports afternoon and it was possible to slip off the radar and head up town to admire the Triumphs and the grotesque new Honda Dream in the windows of Bennet and Wood. I spent many of these afternoons at the library ogling black breasts in National Geographic after dropping past my bank, the NSW, to withdraw two shillings for sweets. This behaviour had the added advantage of securing a seat on the bus at the depot just as on swimming days.

Obviously this background left me with no particular sporting skills though that did not mean I had no interest in sport. It’s intriguing that without ever having witnessed a proper game of football I was able to enjoy listening to games on the radio. Maybe it is a credit to the announcer that he was able to create a word picture that I could visualise and follow. Nowadays I’m a keen armchair sports person, my favourite of all being Test Cricket which one needs to be on holidays for at least five days to watch, has a wonderful sonorous hum that is easy to sleep to and features from my viewpoint (the lounge) so many replays that nothing will be missed.