September is always a good month at the Yarras. Everyone’s keen and nobody’s played; a few of us haven’t even cleaned our whites from last season yet. We wonder aloud whether this might be our season. Disillusionment can wait until after Round One at least.
But before a ball can be bowled in anger—or in tranquillity—there must be meetings, further meetings, and meetings about the need for further meetings. This can be tiresome, as the Yarras committee traditionally finds no issue too minor for interminable debate; choosing the cordial flavour for drinks breaks has been like negotiating the Treaty of Ghent. Talk is cheap—making it one of the few activities in which we can freely engage.
A few years ago we had a president I shall call Lombard—Lots Of Money But A Real Dickhead—who insisted that every aspect of club affairs be regularised in a series of charters: committee charter, players’ charter, captains’ charter, selection charter et al. In a fit of misplaced whimsy, I proposed a barbecue charter and lengthy deliberations ensued about a gas bottle roster and maintenance of the burger tab. It was like joining the People’s Front of Judaea.
Our first confab of 2001–02, though, is different. The state-of-the-Yarras address by TB, our president, departs from tradition with the announcement that he’s had a vasectomy that morning and remains in some discomfort. For the rest of the evening, time-consuming detours in discussion are arrested by his reminder: ‘Pain, guys.’ Seven pairs of legs cross and uncross in sympathy.
TB is an able president: wise, benevolent, a soi-disant ‘schmoozer’. In civilian life, he’s a marketing executive at a computer company, which is sometimes detectable in his language. ‘Can you action that?’ or, ‘Can you take ownership of that process?’ he’ll say. But he also has a strange capacity for talking you into things. For all I know, the vasectomy may be a cunning ploy to expedite the committee process. On second thoughts, no: he really does look like a man trying to hatch an egg.
Under this new dispensation, planning our first social function is a breeze. We’re holding a traditional Australian festive occasion—watching the Brownlow Medal telecast. Pub or club rooms? Club rooms. Big TV or little TV? Big. Beer or beer? Yep. ‘Let’s go up-market,’ suggests Panther. ‘How about we order pizzas?’ No anchovies? Motion carried; one abstention (president in toilet).
Next item: chairman of selectors, i.e. who will be this season’s sucker? I squirm a little in my seat, having been last season’s sucker, and having announced my unconditional, irrevocable and perpetual non-candidature in a ‘You-won’t-have-Nixon-to-kick-around-anymore’ farewell address at our presentation night in April.
I’ll explain. Being Yarras’ chairman of selectors is like hosting a talkback radio program where you actually have to do something about the callers’ problems rather than just tell them to shut up, get a job or write to their MP before hanging up on them. Because their problems are yours.
Consider a standard conundrum: Bill can only play every third Sunday or else his workers’ compensation insurers might guess that he’s not paralysed from the waist down; Bob can’t play every third Sunday because he’s having an affair with Bill’s wife, who’s sick of her husband pretending to be paralysed. On second thoughts that’s easy: they can take turns playing, with the club, and with Bill’s missus. But you get the picture.
Hey, hang on. All eyes have swivelled in my direction. ‘The president might have had a vasectomy,’ I protested, ‘but what makes you think I’ve had a lobotomy?’ Too late, I’m surrounded. ‘Yeah,’ I grumble. ‘All right.’ Mulva, unanimously elected as club secretary a few months ago while holidaying in Bali, enters my unanimous election as chairman of selectors in the minutes with a satisfied smirk. Fat Tony the treasurer asks, ‘Where did you get that scar on your forehead?’
One of our most distinguished ex-players, Fat Tony then reports on club finances. This is always a bit of a strain. We could fund our club on the loose change in Steve Waugh’s pockets. But to do so, we would have to find his dry cleaner, apply for a job, work our way up to a level of responsibility in the organisation so that we were trusted with Steve Waugh’s suits, then rifle his pockets in search of the copious coinage he doubtless possesses. And this plan fails on a number of levels—such as that none of us likes ironing.
Fat Tony’s report sounds like an inventory of Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard; our financial limits seem perfectly limitless. I study the uncomfortable grimaces round the table, not least TB’s—leaning forward out of more than eagerness to grapple with the issue.
‘The situation’s a bit worrying,’ says Fat Tony, which is worrying in itself. Fat Tony usually takes a Micawberesque view of the club accounts: he only intervenes when the bar credit reaches three times consolidated revenue. But as he explains, while having no money is merely a bummer, having association registration fees of $600 due at the same time is a major bummer indeed.
Womble, our delegate, points out an irony. The association is offering $1400 interest-free loans to clubs purchasing new covers. ‘Pity we bought our covers last season,’ he laments, describing a rare instance of committee foresight.
Expressions change. ‘An interest-free loan?’
‘Yes, for a year.’
‘And all you need is covers?’
‘Yes, which we’ve got.’
‘That sounds like a win-win: we’ll borrow the money to pay the association from the association.’
Suddenly, we’re geniuses again. It’s the sort of accounting entrepreneurship that made the Skase and Bond empires great. Better still, we’ll have a spare $800. Punting money. A club jacuzzi. A Scandinavian masseuse. And new players. ‘We’re going to buy a premiership!’ announces Panther.
Proceedings close with debate over whether Adam Gilchrist or Glenn McGrath will make the better recruit. Like I said, September is a month of hope. It’s gotta be our season.