Jack McMahon was a good five eighth.
At the Eveleigh Carriage Railway Workshops he was also the Ironworkers Union delegate. And on the Shop Committee executive. And the Central Council. And Party branch Secretary.
I never saw him play but if he did it as well as doing his other jobs he MUST have been good.
We, him and I, were sinking a few as we sometimes did in one of those backstreet pubs in Newtown. Some of them are gone now. We were talking as we often did about the job, sort of unpaid overtime. Things like how to get the boneheads off their arses to have a go. Or the lack of imagination of some of the Comrades, their timidity. You know, the usual things.
I was whinging about not getting anywhere. Always running into brick walls. How you line something up and then its gone. Getting outsmarted.
Jack started talking football. As I said he had a bit of a reputation when he played and could have repped but something went wrong. Grog maybe.
He was saying how he had been picked for some preselection trial and on the short list for a top representative game. The future beckoned. By halftime he hadn't taken a trick. He dodged the coach and headed for the splash tray. As he stood there feeling sorry for himself, bad enough to be crying he said, the ref comes in and squares up alongside of him. He said nothing until he had given himself a shake, then he turned to Jack.
"The trouble is, son," he said, "is that other number six is getting outside you every time. He can step off either foot. When his half feeds him, move to his open side. Even if you miss him you drive him back into your forwards and they'll clean him up for you. That's what the big bastards are for. Teamwork man. You get nowhere running into a brick wall."
Jack took a long draft of his schooner. I said. "Yair? So?"
"I had a blinder in the second half," he said.
At the Eveleigh Carriage Railway Workshops he was also the Ironworkers Union delegate. And on the Shop Committee executive. And the Central Council. And Party branch Secretary.
I never saw him play but if he did it as well as doing his other jobs he MUST have been good.
We, him and I, were sinking a few as we sometimes did in one of those backstreet pubs in Newtown. Some of them are gone now. We were talking as we often did about the job, sort of unpaid overtime. Things like how to get the boneheads off their arses to have a go. Or the lack of imagination of some of the Comrades, their timidity. You know, the usual things.
I was whinging about not getting anywhere. Always running into brick walls. How you line something up and then its gone. Getting outsmarted.
Jack started talking football. As I said he had a bit of a reputation when he played and could have repped but something went wrong. Grog maybe.
He was saying how he had been picked for some preselection trial and on the short list for a top representative game. The future beckoned. By halftime he hadn't taken a trick. He dodged the coach and headed for the splash tray. As he stood there feeling sorry for himself, bad enough to be crying he said, the ref comes in and squares up alongside of him. He said nothing until he had given himself a shake, then he turned to Jack.
"The trouble is, son," he said, "is that other number six is getting outside you every time. He can step off either foot. When his half feeds him, move to his open side. Even if you miss him you drive him back into your forwards and they'll clean him up for you. That's what the big bastards are for. Teamwork man. You get nowhere running into a brick wall."
Jack took a long draft of his schooner. I said. "Yair? So?"
"I had a blinder in the second half," he said.
