Devotees of sporting cliché will be familiar with the phrase ‘a great side on paper’. Its definition is subtly different at the Yarras: for us, a ‘great side on paper’ has meant eleven names plus a few phone numbers should anyone go fishing or suffer a twinge in their punting muscles on Saturday morning. But times are changing.
It didn’t happen all at once. At one early selection meeting, Pete Macca proposed that numbers ten and eleven in the Seconds be occupied by ‘Ian, Josh’s mate’ and ‘Justin, Josh’s mate Ian’s mate’, on the basis of a fleeting appearance at training by the former, and rumour of the latter.
On the receiving end, Dave Macca looked suspicious. ‘So what does Ian do?’ he asked. ‘Bowls medium pace,’ replied his brother, an assessment based firmly on imagination. ‘And Justin’s very talented. Could be anything.’ It was like watching one brother try to convince the other that the raygun he wanted to play with wasn’t that cool, and that the Play-Doh was much better.
Neither IJM nor JJMIM was available to play, as it happened, and neither was heard of again. For reasons little understood, however, new players continue to rock up weekly: talented young players, too, shaving about ten years off the average age.
For the first time in memory last week, we adjourned a selection meeting without needing to call anyone. More players were available than places. Reading the teams was an emotional moment. I fleetingly imagined myself a real chairman of selectors, rather than a glorified paging service. I fantasised of counselling my colts: ‘If you want to scale the giddy heights, boys, you’ll have to make sacrifices. Fast women and slow horses have nipped many a career in the bud. As the Don once said to me—yeah, we were old mates—“Cricket is about respect. R-E-S-T-E-C-P. Especially for my bitches.”’ Fair dinkum. The Don never missed ‘Ali G’.
Assimilating this new playing talent has imposed strains financial, social and cultural. And one important implication required prompt attention—we faced an acute shortage of nicknames. That selection evening at a nearby pizza joint, an ad hoc sub-committee for nomenclature was constituted: Moof, Womble and Tragic (that’s—how shall I put this?—me).
Nicknames matter. A name merely reflects your parents’ tastes. A good nickname reflects an aspect of the way you are now, Moof and Womble being cases in point. Moof’s handle began as a play on his surname, but fits his goofy gusto. Womble not only resembles one in physique, but in the garrulous fussiness with which he cleans up after us (an added benefit is that, having never watched ‘The Wombles’, he has no idea what we’re talking about). Tragic I’m not going to comment on. It’s my book.
The ad hoc sub-committee ruminated on great Yarras institutions of the past. We recalled the likes of Twang (named for the loudness with which his hamstrings used to explode), Whispers (inspired by the sound of his baggy tracksuit pants as he ran in to bowl at practice), and Humphrey (for his soundless appeals). Then we set ourselves the target of sufficient new nicknames to cover my cigarette packet. It filled rapidly.
Some are unprintable. Some should probably remain etymologically obscure: Space Cadet, Normal, Penfold, Kodak, Tripod, Wonder Dog Two, Hot Dog, Chilli Dog— Moof and Womble were getting hungry by this time. For one club man the name Gunner was floated—he’s always gunner do this and gunner do that. For another, the name Moo came up—apparently his wild and reckless days involved an unsavoury incident with a cow. Funny what you learn about teammates over a few beers. Wonder if his wife knows?
In other cases, we built on existing foundations. For the last couple of years we’ve had a very slippery hippy fast bowler who, thanks to his ponytail and luxuriant beard, has become known as Castaway, from the Tom Hanks film. His brother, new to the club, has now been baptised Wilson, after Hanks’s only companion on his desert isle: this makes him the first player in Yarras history named after a volleyball.
Twenty new nicknames had been coined by the close of proceedings. Some may stick, others may not, but a solid start had been made. While we may revert in time to our old definition of ‘a great side on paper’, Moof and Womble had helped select a very useful side on my cigarette packet.