The Glory Years

Our opposition: East Camberwell’s “Easties”.

Eric Raven Reserve, home of the Glen Iris Gladiators, lies at the bottom of the bend of High Street in Glen Iris. Gardiners Creek winds itself emptily along its periphery. Here I would walk Wembley – named after the Fraggle, not the stadium – with my older brother, Thomas. We would walk him and he would swim in the creek eating the bread that had been thrown to the ducks. Wembley, Golden Retriever, would come out of the creek bloated with bread and water. On days when there was no bread in the creek, we would throw stones for him to chase. He never did swim fast enough to catch them, but, he was happy to follow the ripples. Often he would disobey our wishes and swim to the other side of the creek and entice us into an impatient chase to bring him home. We would return home in the half-darkness with Wembley steadfastly dragging his feet up the hill. Dinner of course would be ready, my parents probably happy to have had some time together without juniors and dog.

***

When Daniel Jackson played for the Glen Iris Gladiators as a junior, it is unlikely that he saw the name “Andy Fuller” written up on the honours board. I played two seasons for the Gladiators. The first ended in misery, finishing last. The following year, we finished on top at the end of the season, only to be bundled in the finals. But, finishing on top, was something like winning the EPL; there was glory in itself, another glory for winning the finals series. During the season in which we finished last, I was placed in one of the forward pockets – left or right – it hardly mattered. The coach put me out of harm’s way. Now and then, the ball would come down my end. Probably once a quarter. We would finish games having scored one or two goals, a few points. I had nothing to do with them.
The following season, in which the Gladiators miraculously turned everything around, I was shifted to the back line – once more safely out of the way. With little chance of interfering with the game. Gary Gatehouse, legend of a coach, was clearly following the advice of Chris Anderson and David Sally, the authors of The Numbers Game: keep your worst players away from the action. I had such a distant experience with the action that I only found out recently that one of my friends, who I have known for 25years, was the leading goal scorer for the Gladiators.

My main memories of ‘playing’ for the Gladiators of standing stock still trying to work out the action that was taking place at the other end of the field. Sometimes I got dragged: only the genius coach knew what I had done wrong. Perhaps I had poor posture and he thought I might need a sit down: a break from all that standing around doing nothing. At least on the bench I would have some company. Nonetheless, being dragged was at least a sign that he knew I was out there. I probably jogged off, full of intent: slapping hands with the oncoming player. The other main memory I have is of crying with happiness when the team won the final game of the season to ensure that we finished on top. I think it was against a team called Hawthorn Citizens. I finished the game on the bench (the coach really did want to keep me away from the action) and I remember running on to the ground probably jumping up and down with the other under-twelves. The local media was not there. But, if anyone were to listen, and no doubt our parents had no choice, we would have told them, ‘this is the greatest experience ever. This is the best day of my life.’
Despite my enthusiasm for watching footy, I finally realised that playing it was not exactly my fate. This irked me as my co-ordination was okay and I could kick the ball well. Well, short distances for sure, but, at least it would spin the right way and follow a nice trajectory. I ran cross-country for most of the years in high school and then signed up for footy in year 12. Again, the coach(es) quickly spotted my lack of talent and sought to remove me from wherever the action might be. My highlight came when, in the pre-season I somehow made it in to the firsts team. But, I think there must have been a school excursion that day and half the usual team were out at a museum or something. Reality bit hard and I played the season in the seconds.

Before I knew better: imaginings of Leon Baker

My highlight while playing for the high school team was when I successfully stopped a player from scoring what had initially seemed to be a certain goal. A friend’s father, had apparently remarked, ‘oh, that’s the kind of thing that Andy would usually stuff up’. I kind of appreciated this rather backhanded compliment. Even if it was couched so negatively, at least it was a compliment. Another day, I scored a goal, just on the tick of ¾ time in one game and smiled the whole way through the break. I don’t remember if we were miles ahead, or getting thrashed. What mattered was that I made the umpire perform his salute, wave the flags and send the ball back to the centre.

But, my most persistent memory is of being driven to our games by my father or mother, too early on a Saturday morning off to some seemingly nowhere land where we would play against teams from schools that were beyond my familiar zones. I would line up in my position, probably not even bothering to run around to warm up, to make a show of it. Probably adopting my statuesque stillness so finely honed while playing for the Gladiators. And the players from other teams would get in a few cheap shots: bumping me, jostling me about, sledging. I felt like responding with a peace offering: ‘I’ll just keep out of your way. I’m just here to observe. Go about your business, score some goals, just don’t injure me.’ I had joined the team to see what playing footy at high school was like. Every time I got near the ball though, some other player would shift me from my position with what could hardly be described as a bump or hip-and-shoulder. I would find myself being bounced from player to player, not being heavy enough to hold my ground.

***

The ball is oval.

Thomas, elder brother, had a more successful career as a junior: playing with the more consistently winning team, East Camberwell. My parents had thought it best that we play for different teams, perhaps to shield me from the reality that I wasn’t half as good a potential footballer as he. His physique was stronger and he was more determined about making the ball his. He probably played the role of enforcer – but, I don’t remember ever really seeing him play. At high school he was also a consistent member of the better team, until, he was struck down by the mythical knee injury. He turned his efforts to squash, where he became team captain and later real tennis – the archaic antecedent of modern tennis. Footy lost its interest for him and he became interested in the more global beautiful game of the round ball. Footy was something that had injured him. But, there were other things to dislike about it too: macho posturing, false bravado, gratuitous violence. Despite my inability, I would dream of being a player: for one moment to baulk and get around a lunging tackle or to project the ball towards a team mate, being one link in a chain of a seamless movement from one end of the ground to the next.

Domestic footy card.

***

Wembley has been dispersed into the sea of Flinders and Gardiners Creek is almost empty. The park remains and the club house has been renovated. Eric Raven is still an expanse of green for the young to run around on and dream of themselves as players. If only Kurt Vonnegut’s statement were true: ‘you are who you imagine yourself to be’. And as failed players, many of us become professional watchers: watching those who play professionally. We remain somewhat jealous of their ability to play the game for nice money. They remain children, but, they live their dreams and our own dreams. And then we abuse them when they don’t play perfectly: they age, they mis-kick the ball, they drop a mark. Who cares. They play well one year and then poorly the next. We regard their failure – perfectly normal, typically human, failure – as being a betrayal. It ain’t; it’s life. Come on you Tigers – we are ready to dream once more.

All photos from Michele Fuller’s archives.