Whole Wild World (25 page)

Where are Sticks and Harpo? They've bolted. I can't hear them calling me to run to safety, my eardrums ringing from a sonic boom and jeers.

Bam. Again. Again.

It's a biblical assault. I've offended the Gods. The communication lines have been cut between head and body. I'm on my knees. He's stopped, I see, because he's lost one of his thongs. I'm watching him fetch it, I can't move. This is a natural pause. Please let it end. But he kicks me again. Only kicks. He has a single target, the head. I put my arms up like a boxer, Ali on the ropes, but I'm not winning here. It's Harpo, grabbing my arm, dragging me free.

I still feel as if I'm being kicked. The eyes won't adjust to more light. Can't walk straight. Mind and pain are coalescing. I hear familiar voices, but faces are blurred. The undamaged body is recoiling from the head's field of pain. Now I know. This is what getting the shit beaten out of you means.

Other boys in our year, who'd come to see their mates play, saw what was happening from a distance, had no idea who was caught in the whirlpool of kicks. All of us on horses would be no match for a mob that big and, most likely, vicious.

News reaches Supercoach that there's been an incident, but not the details of how I'd been bashed. He doesn't say I deserved it, for I was straying outside the gym, but I feel his censure. We play the late game. I sat on the bench, unable to focus or compute the state of play. A barrier of pain and disorientation separates
me from the world. Shame settles in as I realise I was a kicking bag for a short-arsed thug. Irrational thoughts seep in. Did I actually cause this by opening my big mouth? Did my mates really abandon me? Is that all I am worth to them?

I slept until lunchtime the next day, telling Mama I didn't feel well. My body ached, taking some of the load off the head. I started counting the small lumps, all over the back of my head and neck, four or five around each ear, top of my head, places I don't even remember being kicked; there were two dozen lumps, give or take.

Did he really kick me that many times? It's just not possible. Can you bring up several lumps with a single blow? I could barely move my jaw to speak, stiff in places that were untouched, my eyes puffy and vision blurry. I helped myself to painkillers. This is what it must be like to be Dallas Donnelly after every game.

We had training at Dulwich Hill. I'd promised to meet Harpo at Belmore station. When I called his place, he'd already left. I didn't want to leave him stranded so I packed my gear and set off. On the train, we went over the previous night's attack.

‘We kept calling to you to get away,' he said. ‘But you just stayed there getting kicked. What did you say to him?'

‘Nothing. He stuck out his cock and kept saying “Come and get it”. I said “No thanks” and kept walking and suddenly he kicked me in the head, and kept kicking me. He was a lot shorter than you. I'm amazed he could reach that high to kick me here.'

I was anxious as we walked to the gym, going a longer way to avoid places where groups might be gathered, although it was unlikely during mid-afternoon. While we were training in the gym some guys turned up, said they wanted to use the courts, and Brother Jeff asked them to leave. Suddenly we heard a thundering sound as rocks and bottles landed on the gym's metal roof. I told Brother Jeff about the bashing and he locked us inside the gym. We didn't know if they were some of the same guys
from last night or how we would get out. Brother Jeff had parked the mini-bus at the back of the school. In a dressing room we removed several glass panes from the louvred windows, climbed out, then made a dash for the bus. It was less chaotic than the evacuation of the US embassy in Saigon, but no one was left behind. Brother Jeff dropped us off at Dulwich Hill railway station and then reported the incident to police.

I dwelt on the bashing for a long time. Often I thought I'd brought this on myself by not keeping my mouth shut. I couldn't tell my parents, for fear of losing my nocturnal liberties, such as they were. Sam was doing his final year of high school and, besides, what could he do about it now? Wally and Frank suggested a vivid and violent course of retribution when we were older and stronger and had getaway wheels. Milk and refereeing money couldn't get you a posse of vigilantes.

Yet, in my mind, I'd failed a big test: too gutless to fight, too stupid to run. I could see no middle ground. There was no use wallowing in pity. It destroyed my previous confidence in the street: my sense that I could read situations, avoid danger and look after myself. There must be something soft in the way I appeared that brought the short man to me and not to anyone else that night.

I willed misfortune on to my assailant, hoped God would call him on it, that the short man would one day fight the wrong guy. But I also had to take care of myself and push through the fear. I vowed not to be so vulnerable or to depend on others. I'd wobbled, stumbled, but it was up to me to find the courage, to stay on my feet, like Dallas.

That year I was school captain of St John's. In my time, there had been an illustrious lineage of all-round good guys and I wanted to leave my mark. Even though Sam had done the job two years
earlier I wasn't aware of all his duties, caught up as I was in footy, basketball and the business of running a medieval kingdom.

Typically, I anticipated the prestige. That lasted a week. I wasn't a monarch who could order people around. The role was about service, and it was humbling. I worked in the tuckshop every day and coached sporting teams. There were numerous speeches to make and receptions to attend representing the school. At a couple of funerals, I was obliged to offer condolences to the widow on behalf of the school. I'd escort guests on school visits and on weekends help out at working bees and charity drives – I'd not lost my zeal for knocking on doors and asking for money or the curiosity to see what kind of people lived in the house with three wrecked cars in the front yard. Leadership was also serving by example; there was pressure not to put a foot wrong in class or away from school. It was toil and self-control, ego in abeyance. This all-consuming experience at fifteen would help to make, and unmake, me before I became an adult.

A blow to our
It's Academic
aspirations came at the end of Year Nine when Mr Fernandes accepted a position at another school. Even though he hadn't been hands-on, his mere presence and solidity would count when we were doing the real thing. Did Mr Fernandes detect something lacking in our makeup?

Supercoach stepped in. He'd be equally hands-off, yet wily, cool in any crisis, with a nose for the big occasion. The team had been settled the previous year: David Maher, who was captain, Anthony Schwab and me. We may not have been the best students in our year, but were avid readers, interested in the world, and had abundant general knowledge for our age.

As well, we brought quirks to the quiz table: Dave was an excellent speller and knew history, Tony was strong on literature and science, and I was up with current affairs and geography, even though I'd never been anywhere. Dave and Tony were from Punchbowl, the Anglo end of our school zone in those days. I enjoyed
their humour and company. Having spent a year preparing for our moment under the studio lights, we were a harmonious team.

At Channel Seven on the morning of our first show, Supercoach had a quiet word to the floor manager. One of our team members was hard of hearing – news to us – so would it be okay if our team sat closer to the host? No problem.

Given the layout of the studio it meant we would have a slight advantage in beat-the-buzzer because Harwood would be facing me directly. In our year, the competition had been reformatted, with NSW and Victoria combined and broadcast in both areas. I was seated next to a boy from a selective high school in Melbourne. He was self-assured when we spoke; I was the opposite.

‘Where's Lake-emba?'

‘It's in Sydney.'

‘Oh, whereabouts?'

‘It's in the western suburbs, near Bankstown. Which footy team do you go for?'

‘I don't follow the VFL.'

In previous years, St John's teams had worn black blazers, a garment that had been phased out years before I started. Blazers had to be dug out of safekeeping from the mothers of old boys. We were now in a blazer-free era at school, so for the show we turned up in plain blue short-sleeved shirts and blue jumpers. The school hired a bus, so there was a good crowd from St John's that morning.

Harwood explained the rules and we were away. A girls' team would be first up, answering questions from one of fifteen envelopes on a board.

‘Pick a packet please, David.'

‘Number thirteen please, Sir.'

David was hamming up the drama by choosing the unlucky number, knowing the audience would respond with an ‘ooooohhh'.
It made no difference as the girls hit a perfect round, giving them 50 bonus points: 150, runs on the board.

This would be a tough assignment. David did our spelling; I did maths; the three of us in unison for most of the rest. By the time we got to the final round we had not made a mistake and were on 450 points, with a decent buffer on the other teams. I was jumpy and quick on the buzzer and we scooted away to win with over 600 points, a kind of benchmark for gun teams.

During the last round whenever I buzzed in, the boy next to me said the wrong answer in my ear to put me off, David said. Spellbound, crouched low as if the task was to leap the desk if Harwood said ‘jump', I could not hear what he was saying as I had another soundtrack in my head – facts tumbling out in an even flow.

Over the next few weeks we won three in a row, near perfect in the three one-minute rounds and on fire in beat the buzzer. Once or twice you'd catch a wave in these lightning rounds, answering every question. I found myself pressing instantly, the answer popping out on cue; once an answer (the symbol for one of the elements) came out of my mouth I didn't even know I knew. It was pure instinct, scary at the same time.

In the series final we attracted a big audience. One of the prefects had organised for seven younger boys to sit in a line, each holding a placard. It spelt out W-O-M-B-L-E-S. The cameras caught it.

‘Who's WOWBLES?' a girl from a school in country Victoria sitting next to me asked during a break. I was mortified, not least because boy number three had his sign upside-down.

‘I think it must be one of their mates at home,' I said.

We were now in the state final. While the stakes got higher, we were also more familiar with the show, and so became more relaxed; gone were the jumpers and we now competed in basic blue shirts, workers getting on with the job at hand. We found
ourselves in a tight game with Patrician Brothers Fairfield and it came down to the final beat-the-buzzer period. The coaches sat in the front row of the audience. Supercoach was impassive, a poker shark in Vegas. The Pats' coach was dressed like a priest, with a white collar on black shirt and pants. The Pats were on a roll when Harwood announced it was the final thirty seconds. Mr Fernandes once told us if another team ever got on one of these magical rolls to buzz in as soon as Harwood began the question. You'd be penalised twenty points, unable to answer, but you'd stop the other team's momentum.

We couldn't get a word in. Their coach was bouncing in his seat, riding to the finish on Cup day; Supercoach looked faintly bored. A horn sounded.

‘And that's the end of the show!'

Supercoach may have raised his eyebrow, a slight turn at the end of his mouth becoming a smile.

We'd won. The Pats' coach, having ridden hands and heels, slumped in his seat. We'd cracked the mighty 600 yet again and were now NSW and Victorian champions. The Australian championships would be in Sydney the following week. Harwood had seen the competition; in the euphoria, he told us we were the team to beat.

We competed in a complicated round robin, finishing second twice. In the grand final we ran into a rampant Brisbane State High School, captained by a quiz wizard who would a few years later be the grand champion on
Sale of the Century
on Channel Nine.

Still, we were champions of the two most populous states. We'd beaten many of the nation's most prestigious schools, yet were oblivious to such vast differences in wealth and class. Our reference points were schools in the district, the other kids in our year at St John's. We were pragmatic enough to know we had been primed to do well in a game, which depended on luck and
wit. And getting all your letters in the correct order!

M-B-O-W-E-L-S. Really, kids?

There was no travel abroad for us, but there was a fuss and recognition in the local press. Being on TV seven times at fifteen was its own reward. Our prize was \500 each in a Wales Savings Bank account. That was a month's pay for an adult, enough to buy a second-hand car or used as a nest egg for later in life.

I sat on my winnings for years, earning 3 per cent per annum. David was the youngest in a big family, the only one at home, his mother a widow. He used the cash to help with household expenses. Tony was the eldest of three and needed to assert a standard of material wellbeing for his brother and sister to aspire to; he blew his dough on a long, marvellous spree at the tuckshop and made small, strategic investments, buying both the double- LP soundtracks to
Saturday Night Fever
and
Grease
and was among the first to own a pair of disco boots, which he wore to school, ahead of our semi-formal ‘night of nights' with the girls from MacKillop.