I have loved
Eastwood Rugby Club ever since I can remember.
My maternal grandfather played for them after the war. In fact, he died while watching them play in the ABC television match of the day from his home in Mudgee.
One of my earliest childhood memories I have is of running around on the grass in front of the club house at TG Milner field (above) as my paternal grandfather made a daisy chain for me from the aluminium pull rings of his empty beer cans. I remember the general murmer of grown men, the smell of beer, the warmth of the sun that bathed the field and the players in gold, and the old tree leaning over the fence by the scoreboard.
Heading down to TG Milner on Saturday to watch "The Woods" run around was a weekly ritual in my family. It wasn't just a match of rugby. It was so much more than that. It was the end of the week. It was Saturdays. For my parents, I'm sure it was a welcome refuge from the week that was. For my Mum, perhaps it provided a furtive connection to those times she had spent at the ground with her own father.
Each Saturday afternoon had the same familiar liturgy. We arrived at the ground in time to watch 3rd grade. That way, Mum and Dad had two games of rugby in which to let the worries of the week dissipate before the arrival of 1st grade. Mum would lay the tartan rug on the wooden benches in the grand stand opposite the club house. We always sat on the half way line. At half time, my dad would stand to stretch his legs and gaze pensively across the field at the clouds behind the clubhouse, or the trees on the other side. Mum would reach for the 1972 green thermos, and would somehow instantly produce a cup of tea or coffee for whoever was there. There were biscuits too (iced vovos, tim tams -the "special biscuits" that we weren't allowed to touch during the week), or an apple, or a home made cake, all lovingly prepared at home by Mum for the afternoon. Our spot in the grandstand became a regular meeting point for friends and family. They would drop by unannounced to catch up. No need to arrange ahead. We were invariably always there.
I can remember the early players. Space Housten. Tim Dalton, Tony Carter, Steve Tyneman, Marty Roebuck, Ian Williams, Niel Tyler, the great Daniel Manu, Travis Hall, Scott Fava, Scott Staniforth, Matt Burke, Graeme Bond, the freakish skills of the Miller brothers, Tim Donnelly - these magnifiscent men stride around the field of my memory as superhuman versions of themselves - great, decent, blue and white striped childhood heros.
I can remember the bloody battles with famous foes, most of them with Randwick but more recently, with Sydney University. Each club we played had its own unique associated memory. Away games at Manly would end in fish and chips on the beach at Dee Why; games at Sydney University in complaints at the distance of the grand stand from the actual playing field; at Southern Districts, the distance of the drive home was particularly long after a loss; Randwick, the nasty one eyed nature of the supporters; Gordon, the silver tails from the north shore, would spark arguments about why my Dad ever left his well paid job in taxation.
I remember that when the game had finished, we drove home and I would spend what was left of the Winter light replaying the match by myself in our back yard. The jacaranda tree suddenly became a corner flag. The camelea bush doubled as the base of the scrum. The azalea shrub was personified as the imposing second rower from some hated foe. I would chip him to score the winning try of the match. Sometimes, I'd even provide my own accompanying commentary. "There's seconds to go, he chips the fullback, and... oh he knocks on over the line... but that's ok because amazingly there's still some more time, so he regathers the ball, chips again, sidesteps the sandpit and that's a great try to Eastwood, just next to the BBQ!"
I remember that sometimes, when I closed my eyes to go to sleep on a Saturday night, I would still see images of the game, with faceless shapes in blue and white jerseys running out onto TG Milner field, as if it were all playing out on the back of my eyelids.
I have loved Eastwood Rugby Club ever since I can remember.
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Club song (to the tune of those magnifiscent men with their flying machines)
La, La La, La La La La La La Hey !
Those magnificent players from Eastwood are here,
playing their rugby and drinking their beer.
They win in the tight play and also the ruck,
and if they don't score well they don't give a... damn!
See them go for a try -
heads down in the scrum and their arses up high.
They're all frightfully good,
those Magnificent Men,
those Magnificent Men,
those Magnificent Men who shout,
Up the WOODS !
WOODS WOODS WOODS!
I got a voice mail message from my sister Fie and my two and a half year old niece Anna yesterday (yep, that's them above). It went like this:
