The First of Many Seasons
The first game of the 2003 season was at Encounter Bay. I’d stepped back from several years of footy club commitments – committee member, A-grade Team Manager, Vice-President and President.
I was looking forward to hanging out on the sidelines, having a few beers and dishing out slurred advice to the coaches then, during the quarter and three-quarter time breaks, taking a cup of port to Barty behind the goals. The big fella was born with a pair of fluttering flags in his hands and a liking for a syrupy red.
‘I’ve allowed to have one vice, Al. It’s a cold and lonely life being a white maggot.’
My dream of retirement was short-lived.
‘Al, we’re desperate for a water runner. Can you help out?’
I said ‘No’ but obviously not with enough conviction. The next thing I knew someone had thrust water bottles into my hands, showed me which end of the bottle was ‘Up’, and pointed me in the direction of the oval. And a bloody big oval it is.
I wasn’t appropriately dressed: my flannelette shirt and Blundstone boots were more appropriate for milking cows or felling trees. I can’t remember if I had any help. Probably not. Didn’t matter. I got through the day and was trudging off the oval when one of the players ran over.
‘Thanks for running water, Al.’
Another player approached. Then a third. I’d never had so many ‘Thank Yous’ for doing what I considered was so little. Eighteen seasons later I continue to run the water (some have said that ‘run’ is too strong a word).
Thankless tasks by volunteers at all levels of any club should always command ‘Thanks’. It’s the gift that keeps on giving.
PS
Barty’s friend Harry took over my port-running duties and did it admirably until the big fella hung up his flags.