Peace 9 - Bruny Island

Richo – Martin Flanagan

Tonight it’s ‘Dreamtime at the ‘G’ – a game of football – a game of Aussie Rules footy to be exact – that is as almost as significant as a game can possibly be in our country. Only the ultimate contest of the year and the Anzac Day match can rival it. Within my mind, at least, the other two occasions struggle to do so. For the Dreamtime match celebrates the culture of the First Australians, and specifically their immense contribution to the game. This includes, with marngrook, the fact they more than likely invented it. This significant event on the AFL calendar is always played between the Essendon Bombers and Richmond Tigers. It is epic in proportion as it is epic in meaning.

Aboriginal footballers bring flair to a game that, these days, is often accused of blandness – but not when these fellows are on the ground. Their individual feats, their magic, bring the punters to the games in droves. Where would the mighty Hawks be without Franklin, Rioli or Burgoyne; Essendon without Ryder; Carlton without its mosquito fleet of Betts, Yarran and Garlett? North has Wells and Thompson, the Eagles ‘Nic Nat’ and on and on we go – the aforementioned players being only the tip of the iceberg. Then there are the black heroes of the past – Polly Farmer, Syd Jackson, Michael Long and, again, on and on we go.

This week has also been particularly memorable as it is the twentieth anniversary of an amazing photograph – the sporting equivalent in the story of reconciliation in this country to the iconic snap of a Prime Minister pouring red Wave Hill sand into the hands of Vincent Lingiari. Of course this is image of St Kilda’s Nicky Winmar, pulling up his jersey, pointing to his skin in response to the rabidly racist brayings of Collingwood supporters after his team defeated them at Victoria Park. It symbolised the distance between our nation’s two cultures – the imported one contrasted with that that has been here as long as the stars of the Southern Cross. It also stands for the first steps taken to close that divide. A president of the same team that opposed Winmar’s on that day reflected soon after, that he had no problem with indigenous players, as long as they behaved in the same way as whites. So it is all credit to the Magpies how the racial slur inflicted on Swans champion Adam Goodes was handled. To see television coverage of Eddie MacGuire charge into Sydney’s rooms immediately after the game to apologise to the Sydney captain demonstrates how far we have come in our collective thinking after two decades. Then, as we all know, Eddie undid all this with some imbecilic attempt at humour at Goodes’ expense on his radio show. To the Swans’ credit is the fact that he named – or at least pointed – and shamed. The photo of him doing so may, in time, become as significant the Wayne Ludbey image of two decades ago.

Front and centre celebrating ‘Dreamtime at the ‘G’ and the Essendon great’s Long Walk, this weekend just past, were the sporting columnists at ‘The Age’ newspaper. Carolyn Wilson, their doyen, wrote of the quiet work that is going on behind the scenes at Richmond and Port to eradicate the continuing blight of prejudice, based on colour, from the game. Gary Lyon told tales on his former Melbourne teammate ‘Wizard’ Farmer; with Martin Flanagan scribing of the importance that a ‘war dance’ has become to the culture of indigenous teams before taking on the opposition.

Throughout this journey, in recent times, our First Australian players have moved from fringe curiosity in the game to mainstream stars. The last listed journalist, Flanagan, has charted the course, in very readable layman’s terms, through these years. He is still able to do so in language that graces and glows. He’s been to their homelands and he has introduced us to their practices - often strange to whitebread Aussies. By the time a particular column is devoured, as a result of his insight, the strange becomes positively logical. One just has to come at it in a new way. He has enlightened on the magic, unpredictability, passion and humility of the Aboriginal footballer. But each of those adjectives could equally fit a gangly, left field individual that came from the fecundedly green pastures of Tasmania’s North West to grace his old man’s team, the Tiges.

It was only fitting that the writer chosen to chart the course of this loved, impetuous player’s rise to champion of the game status should be the same Martin Flanagan. It is a non-linear account, not a hagiography – more of a lament that we may never see his likes again. This being stated, it seems his successor at the Tiger den, fellow islander ‘Jumping’ Jack Rievolt, is heading some ways towards ‘Richo’ status. Matthew Richardson, on field and off, wore/wears his heart on his sleeve, often receiving copious brickbats as a result. A couple of his supposed tantrums have been falsely lifted to folkloric proportions.

For this particular reader a secondary joy of the book were the chapters on the local football of my neck of the woods - of that fertile north western coastline of my island to the south of AFL city. This is where ‘Richo’ had his start. It was also Flanagan’s old stomping ground - thus seeing him weaving tales of some of its legends – ‘The Doc’, (Darrel Baldock); ‘Gypsy’ Lee and our hero’s own father, Alan ‘Bull’ Richardson. Back in the day thousands would flock to see Burnie take on Cooee, or Devonport (‘Richo’s’ team) play their cross river rivals East. Although my island still produces champions, sadly local football is just a shadow of its former self, being victim to the digital pulling power of AFL.

Martin Flanagan’s writing is, as always, full of nuggets pure joy to peruse. When a former teammate of the champ, Wayne Campbell – an interesting fellow himself – is asked to comment on what it was that made ‘Richo’ so unique, his simple but telling answer was ‘Tasmania’. This leads the author off to riff on that notion. Perhaps the game’s greatest eccentric, Brent ‘Tiger’ Crosswell came from the island, and there are many more from here cast of a different cloth. You can see it in the way Mitch Robinson canons around a ground, the way Jarrad Waite still employs the Glasgow kiss in this oh so politically correct day and age – and they are just the Taswegians in one team! Then there was Johnny Greening, a contemporary of mine at a Burnie high school – what a legend he would have been had he not been cut down in his prime! And, to please this reader, Robert Murphy gets a chapter to himself, even if he is neither Tasmanian nor a Tiger.

As much as crowds loved ‘Richo’, it seems opposing players had a similarly high view of the man. As relayed by Flanagan, they are glowing in their tributes for, as bewildering as he was, only an Eddie Betts goal celebration could come close to his sheer visual enjoyment of the game when on song. That ‘Richo’ now has a successful media career is a fitting postscript – it would be sacrilegious if this man was taken from our view.
One does not have to be an aficionado of the Richmond Football Club to be enchanted by this tome. I wear my brown and gold heart pretty proudly, but the Hawks have never produced anyone remotely resembling this lanky, seemingly uncoordinated, powerhouse of a forward. When he was shifted up the ground in the twilight of his career, at odds with standard practice, we all finally realised just how athletic the big man was. I loved this book. Flanagan doesn’t have to present ‘Richo’ as larger than life. He simply was/is. If you adore the game, please take on this rapturous, riotous read. You will not regret it.

Peace 8 - Bruny Island

The Muju Spirit

The never-ending feud between Muslim and Jew over the rights to the Holy Land continues unabated. The result of this is tragic outcome after tragic outcome, with no winners – and it has been like this since the creation of Israel in 1948. It’s intractable and seemingly insolvable.

Occasionally, just occasionally, we get little glimmers of hope and trust between the sides – small nuggets probably, almost unnoticeable in the big picture – but they are there nonetheless. Suburban Melbourne is eons away from the surrounds of the Wailing Wall, but with the Muju team – get it; Mu = Muslim, Ju = Jewish – taking out the Unity Cup in 2012, harmony between diametrically opposed sides can occur. That competition to win the silverware is in the magnificent sport of Aussie Rules, featuring teams from the Yarra City’s polyglot of ethnic groupings. As is his wont, the Age columnist Martin Flanagan wrote beautifully of the culmination of the event in June last year. This occasion came on the heels of a combined Jewish/Muslim team from the Biblical lands itself, fighting it out for the game’s International Cup, part of the AFL’s intent in spreading our marvellous football code world wide.

Another infusion of the same hope, perhaps equally unexpected, comes with ‘The Other Son’ – a movie again where humanity supersedes intolerance. The basis of the film is not a new ‘what if’ idea - what if newborns are given to the wrong parents. Television series (eg US ABC’s ‘Switch at Birth’) and movies (eg ‘Mistaken Identity’, ‘The Town Went Wild’) have mined the potential mother lode of dramatic or comedic possibility in this situation previously, but I would argue, not with the same degree of sensitivity as this effort by French director Lorraine Levy.

In ‘Le Fils de L’autre’, to give this feature it its French appellation, a hospital evacuation is the reason for the mix up – an evacuation caused by where the film is set – in the cauldron of Israel’s ongoing Jewish/Palestinian conflict. The Arab baby goes to a Jewish home, and visa versa. This engaging film examines acutely what happens when the error is discovered much later, when the babies - two boys - become almost men. In the Israeli family a young Dylan lookalike, Joseph (Jules Sitruk), grows up the son of a serviceman and is about to embark on national service himself, thus the discovery. On the West Bank, the real son Yacine (Medhi Dehbi) has just returned from Paris to the adoring arms of his family, after successfully completing his baccalaureate. Then the bombshell hits.

The initial engagements between the two families are understandably fraught, but eventually there is a developing simpatico in the relationship between the two mothers, with the two lads in question, after their initial distress, becoming pals. The problems that do occur are with the two fathers’ refusal to accept, and the intentions of Yacine’s radicalised brother.

In the film religious tension is constantly palpable with gun toting soldiers present throughout, especially at the persistent check points. This casts an uneasy air over what is essentially a family drama. At any point the audience is given to feel that violence could intervene – and it does, but not from an expected source.

Levy had several possible options open to her as to how the film could pan out in the hotbed of distrust that is the background to her scenario, but she went down the same path the AFL Muju team trod. This is a heartfelt, quite lovely response on her part to the ongoing crisis in this part of the Middle East. It can only be hoped that people of import in this region get to see how two functional families have their worlds turned upside down. Through tolerance and patience, however, they reach a sane conclusion. If the angry men of the Jew/Muslim divide viewed this maybe their hard hearts would defrost a tad. The movie deserves all its garnered plaudits, so if it comes your way, give it a looksee. And, please, let’s trust that with more Muju Spirit in the world, ‘from little things big things may grow!’

Martin Flanagan's article = http://www.theage.com.au/afl/afl-news/a-band-of-brothers-give-peace-a-chant-20120615-20fmj.html

New York Times review of 'The Other Son' = http://www.nytimes.com/2012/10/26/movies/the-other-son-about-the-palestinian-israeli-divide.html?_r=1&

Peace 6 - Bruny Island

Willie at 80

Willie
You octogenarian you
The cheering has died
The back slapping abated
And still that timeless voice
Plays to the masses
Who endlessly adore, want more
Even as Willie’s body
Defers to the grandfather time
That cinderfies us all
His songs, that remarkable voice
Defies all

Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground, Georgia on My Mind, Always on My Mind

When the time for fingering
And fretting of strings
Has passed
When that venerable, ancient
Guitar
Takes its final strum
We’ll celebrate a life of
Outlaw nose-thumbing
A life of scribbling ditties
That even now
Are folkloric

City of New Orleans, Stardust, Pancho and Lefty

 Meandering in the ether one day
 I chanced to google Willie and wife
 Like Old Shakey’s Pegi
The Boss’ Patti
In image after image
She, Annie d’, was beside her man

On the Road Again, Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain, Crazy

 I wish old Willie
At the end of his days
Knows the soft words, and
Even softer caresses
That salve my own dotage
So these can allow
The words still to come
And even more
The Red Headed Stranger’s
Voice
 To shine eternally

My Heroes Have Always been Cowboys, Good Hearted Woman, Seven Spanish Angels

Peace 5 - Bruny Island