(Hong Kong Sevens, 2007)
At the ripe old age of 18 I’d had a few games for Randwick first grade and was steadily finding my feet. As you might remember, I didn’t play much rugby growing up so this Sevens stuff was newer to me than laundry day.
Glen Ella was the Aussie Sevens coach at the time and he offered me a chance to trial. With all-new kit and a guaranteed feed three times a day if I made the tour, my arm didn’t need any twisting.
But my first day training was more of an eye opener than a Mike Tyson uppercut. I’ve never trained so hard in my whole life – beep tests, followed by heavy contact training sessions. It went on and on.
There were times when I felt like pulling the plug. But like a leech to a human testicle, I stuck at it and found myself on the plane to Hong Kong. You beauty! No more laundry.
Now, I’d done a few trips in Australia but this overseas thing was out there. What the hell was a passport?
But I’d heard the stories of the Ellas, Campese and other greats who’d had the honour of being booed by 40,000 half-charged mad bastards. Now, it was my turn. I couldn’t wait.
We trained hard every day. I’ve often thought since then that Glen and Carl, our trainer, wouldn’t look out of place as Game of Thrones taskmasters in the galleys of ships bound for Westeros, flogging the hell out of those poor bastards rowing and then water-skiing behind, demanding to go faster.
But all that hard work was rewarded – with a bounty of food fit for a king.
Remembering as a young bloke living out of home that I survived on two-minute noodles and uncooked rice, the tour was a relative Aladdin’s Cave of delights. Suffice to say, I hooked in hard and fast, to the point where Glen would make me sit next to the manager, who checked my consumption.
Competition-wise, we’d won a couple of games on the first day and weren’t going too badly. Our sweeper, Tim Atkinson, was excellent. I always rated him as a very good player and unlucky not to go further.
Anyhow, come Sunday we’d made it through to the quarter-finals. And while we didn’t finish in the medals, we had a go and had reason to be pretty happy with our efforts. We left the field in a jovial enough mood and one bloke asked for an autograph. I was happy to oblige. Then he pulled out a pen and paper and asked me what I would like him to write . . . Smart bastard.
It was a pretty funny scene all around. Come to think of it, there was more action off the field than on it.
If you’ve been to the Hong Kong Sevens you couldn’t help but remember the southern stand. It’s dress-up heaven, and every year there are the usual assortment of nuns, superheroes, gladiators and various villains.
One bloke in a Batman suit was in an argument with a bloke in a Superman suit – Marvel v DC. Finally, Batman threatened to jam kryptonite up Superman’s arse. It was a weird scene. Bloody glorious really.
On the final day, two giant penguins leapt the fence and ran onto the field. These weren’t your standard penguins, these were big buggers. The coppers and security guards tried to arrest them, but the penguins worked together swatting away Hong Kong’s finest. After all, penguins mate for life and nothing comes between them.
Finally, two coppers jumped on the back of one and gradually dragged the big unit down onto the deck. It wasn’t long before the second monster was dragged to his knees.
Just when all seemed cool, a large nude man leapt the fence like a drug-crazed gazelle and decided to cross the oval.
The crowd were right behind this rooster and cheered madly as he ducked and swerved his way through security. He had skills and was really looking the goods.
He made the other side of the field and leapt the fence, where his mate had clothes for him at the top of the stairs. But it wasn’t over. Halfway up the stairs he stopped to moon the crowd and that’s when the coppers struck. In one awful movement they had suitcased him into the police van to join the penguins. Those boys were in for a big night.
That was Hong Kong nine years ago. Pretty soon, I’d be battling it out in the 2016 Hong Kong Sevens. This would be an entirely new challenge.
Hong Kong party crashers
I was away from home, doing it on my own, and life couldn’t be better. I felt like an adult.
Then, back at the hotel after the first day of play, I heard a knock at the door. And in they came, my brother Nathan, the old boy and his usual entourage of old shaggers – Russ and Chris. They were quick to chew my ear off.
They had arrived Friday night and after finding their hotel decided to get sorted in their room, before moving into the lobby bar to refresh themselves.
Now, Dad’s mate Chris was a diabetic and had to take it easy. But he didn’t. Approximately halfway through the conversation he went wheels-up. On account of a number of knee reconstructions, which limited his ability to bend his legs, Chris’ legs were deadset stiff in the air like a roast chicken as the poor bastard passed out. The old fella raced to the bar fridge and poured a can of cola into him. After a few minutes, Chris was back. And Dr Mark Cummins was 1–0.
They lifted Chris up into the cot and he said he’d be fine.
After assurances he was okay, the boys rocked down to the lobby and it wasn’t long before Dad’s mate Russ was as full as the last bus and proceeded to pass out on the lounge. Most people didn’t mind because it ended his gibbering, but the snoring was unbearable – like a bull elephant on heat. So Nathan grabbed a wheelchair and the boys loaded Russ in and roared towards the lift.
The other people in the lift were rightly concerned about this unconscious man in the wheelchair. They believed he was ill until between floors seven and eight he ripped one off that would bring tears to your eyes. It was an ungodly sound followed by mass hysteria, as these unsuspecting victims struggled for breath.
Mercifully, the doors opened on level nine and the gasping victims staggered out off into the night. Russ was wheeled into the room and placed carefully on top of Chris, who was resting comfortably after his recent collapse.
It was about 3am when it happened – the entire floor woken by the blood-curdling screams of Russ and Chris, who had woken up on top of one another and were entangled like two crabs in a net.
Now, let that be a lesson to you, kids. Don’t drink.