When I played junior footy in Brisbane there was a kid on the team who was the best. His name was Dale Nolan. There were lots of strong players but Dale was class. Long but agile, lean but strong, skilful and smooth. I also remember him having a cool hair cut.


Don’t get the wrong impression though, Dale was the best, but he was quiet and humble. He stood out because he did the right things not because he said the noisy things.


Dale’s brother Ricky was a fair bit older and he played in the open age team, he was a gun too, swollen with strength. Their Dad though, he was shocking. Mick Nolan played over 100 games in the VFL in the 70s, he was the biggest person anyone at our club had ever seen. The biggest person we could actually imagine. He played at 194cm and 135kg. I shook his hand once, I still remember the crush.


It all added to Dale’s aura, one day he could be as mighty as his father. We kind of thought if anyone was going to make it far in footy it would be Dale.


On night before training a few of the boys were hanging around the fence next to the car park. Dale’s mum parked and as he was walking towards the team she called out the window “have fun possum.”


The name Dale was never said aloud at footy again. He was permanently and completely changed to Pos. On the field during play we called “Pos!”, at the end of training people said “see ya Possum”. When the coach showed us the team list and positions, the first magnetic name tag up in the centre of the ground was Pos. It almost took on a double meaning over the years, an abbreviation for Possessions, the number of times each player marks or passes the ball. Heaps every game in Pos’ case. He was still a gun, still humble, just with an adorable nick name. The best footballer I ever played with was a kid called Possum.


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In our U13 season we made the grand final. The club brought in Mick Nolan to talk to us before the game. He surged into the dressing room making every 12 year old, their parents and even the room itself feel small. He rumbled some phrases in a voice that shook my organs and we ran out in pursuit of our own little moment of glory.


It’s scary, the moments before a big game. Disaster and achievement come and stand so very close to each other. Little things you do tip you violently towards one or the other. On that day 30 years ago I felt good. Our team was going to be alight. We had Pos with us.




It’s Grand Final day. Up the Lions.

In Sydney there a quite a few quaint and beautiful cricket grounds. Green ovals of turf wrapped in white picket fencing. Often these fields are embraced on one side by a grass hill with trees and sometimes even an old rotunda. The Camperdown Park version of this space forms the social centre of the suburb. Parties, picnics, practice and promenades. This is where the community comes to do it.


Today there was a cricket match on the field. The usual family soccer games and picnic spreads were hustled aside so the hard leather ball could be whacked around unimpeded. I watched from behind a take away coffee on the lawn outside the fence. With a sausage dog lead in one hand, and balancing a dormant e-bike against the impending, clambering 2-yr-old generated fall, I watched and wondered.


The cricket was some kind of masters match. Every player looked like they were probably good at cricket 20 years ago, and probably even better 30 years ago. The speed had changed, the bodies had changed, the skills had rusted a little bit and the all-white waist bands had a lot more work to do that back in the day. The element that stood out in stark contrast to this cascade of maturation was the sound.


The cricket game sounded exactly the same as I’d heard before. The sharp crack of the timber bat on the ball bounced off the hill. The batsman’s talk of “wait, wait, yes!” echoed down the wicket. The shared voices of 11 players appealing to the umpire filled the space. I imagined exactly as they had always done since the cricket oval was built.


I was struck by the disparity. Everything in the game looked like it had softened and slowed. But the cheer at a dismissal had not. The feelings hadn’t changed. Joy, achievement, togetherness and victory. All these lived inside the players. It came out filtered and wobbly in the length of the throws, speed of the steps and grace of the slides,  but it came out clear and pure in the voices. The sounds spoke of a reality that endured in tandem and contrast to the reality that had changed. ​

- Credit to Anson for capturing this chance at redemption. 
- The chance at redemption was 8 years ago. 

The nearly 2 year old slept until 6am. win
The nearly 6 year old wanted a cuddle when he woke up. win
The nearly 2 year old brought me her shoes and asked to put them on. win
The nearly 6 year old put shoes on without being asked. unheard of win
Getting jackets on only took a brief negotiation. neutral
When we walked down the street, nobody fell over or veered dramatically towards the street. win
Everyone said thank you when their coffee or baby chinos arrived. community win
When the blackboard sign proclaiming “$12 coffee and bacon-egg roll special!” got knocked over, it only fell 25 degrees before it caught on a nearby chair. No-one was hurt. relative win
Most of the drinks went in rather than on the drinkers. win
I was given the second half of the bacon-egg roll. win
When we got home, the 16 year old (dachshund) was still asleep and not barking. neighbourhood win
The nearly 2 year old said her first sentence. “shoes and socks off.” win
Her first sentence was an imperative. Not sure if this will be a win going forward.
Mum’s home tomorrow. golden win


Go Firetails.

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