Field Guide to Falling in Love in Tasmania

Currently showing posts tagged sport

  • A Sport of Season and Landscape

    A Sport of Season and Landscape

    I grew up on a five-acre block in Beaconsfield, a parcel of inherited land that was inconveniently lumpy and swampy, but gave us plenty of space. There, my brother and I first began to take our lanky shapes. I have lately wondered if our bodies didn’t grow rangy to accommodate the landscape.

    Dad was always going introduce his two sons to Aussie Rules, but that version of footy was the ideal game for our paddocks. Even when we moved to a house on the edge of suburbia, the first thing we did was test out the backyard for our one-on-one matches. It had a 45-degree slope; it was nevertheless perfectly adequate.

    We played for the South Launceston Bulldogs. The ovals were suddenly flat and green, although given that we the opening bounce for our games occurred at 8:15a.m. on Sunday mornings, they were frequently silver with frost. And in fact, since it was winter, they were often brown with mud too.

    Bright red was another important colour – have you ever had your little schnozz hit with a leather ball when the temperature’s zero degrees celsius? I had countless blood noses.

    At one point during my teenage years I started to push footy away. It was at that stage of life when a young man starts pushing all sorts of things away. Footy came back to me, though,
    and now, when adulthood and its associated behaviour is supposed to have me in its vice-like grip, I am entirely enamoured with the game. I like the ball’s thud, its wobble and its spin, the way it bounces as if by its own volition. I like my body’s arrangements, the poise of my muscles, the silent measurement of my eye and its communication through the brain to my bent leg.

    Anyone who has met me in the last year will know I played on a gravel oval in western Tasmania last year. I’ll have shown them the scars. Perhaps I prefer the odd surfaces. As a child I imagined a large-scale sport like footy that took place in eucalypt forest, in which players had to adapt to the landscape as much as competitors.

    Some have argued that Aussie Rules was invented after whitefellas observed an Aboriginal sport of this kind. It’s a theory I tend to believe.

    This sport occupies space. It favours the flexible, and the foreseers. It is a game for totems, won by devotion to the invisible.

    That’s what I’ve taken from growing up with it anyway. I kicked the ball as high and hard as I could, and I saw the blossoming wattles shake, and my body felt as if it had full to the brim with magic.
    On some days, bushwalking gives me the exact same sense.

    I spent most of this
    winter away but came home the other week and went to watch my cousin play a finals match at Invermay Park. It was twilight, and the colours on Ravenswood Hill were resplendent. They deepened into dark blue and finally winter’s night black. The ritual football was heaved around, and the crowd gasped and cheered and groaned. A bunch of blokes, whose lives normally pass before almost no-one, soared. It was a hard-fought game and the evening grew taut with drama. A player fell before us with a sickening knee injury. At my side, my auntie’s mood fluctuated severely. The boundary umpire fell to the ground with a strained muscle. With seconds to go, the timekeeper started hamming it up inexplicably. Auntie Karenne cursed him. Finally, he blew the whistle. My cousin’s team had won by five points.

    I’m aware that others aren’t, but I am mesmerised by the milky sheen on spinning ball in the silvery afternoon light, by the players’ shadows warping and contorting as they gallop. I am deeply satisfied to see rosellas and galahs streaking in garish colours across the field. Most of all, though, I like to feel myself move, in the midst of a trivial but entirely meaningful activity, beneath the home ground of these southern skies.

    And it’s another means of measuring seasons. Spring now looms. An openness beckons, verdant and wide as a football field.



    "It was an idea not without its complications." Reflections upon returning home three years ago.

  • The 29th Annual World Ploughing Championships

    The 29th Annual World Ploughing Championships

    Where were you on June 14 and 15, 1982?

    If your answer is not the Christ Church on Illawarra Road, just outside of Longford, Tasmania, then I can assure you were wasting your time.

    For on that winter weekend, the 29th Annual World Ploughing Championship was taking place there.

    A lovely bluestone church surrounded by golden paddocks and poppy fields, the Christ Church is a site of pilgrimage for art aficionados. Australian painting innovator Tom Roberts is buried there next to his second wife, and some of the altar decorations were designed by contemporary artist Arthur Boyd.

    Edward Dumaresq was born in Wales in 1802, and followed a standard upper-crust military educational trajectory, via the Royal Military College in Sandhurst and a cadetship with the East India Company. After serving on several continents, Dumaresq was relocated to the Antipodes, his sister having married the Governor of New South Wales.

    In 1825 he was made the Surveyor-General of Van Diemen’s Land; after that, he worked as a revenue collector, and a police magistrate. He obtained property outside of the settlement of Longford in 1842, named Mt. Ireh, and on it he built the Christ Church, with thick walls and Baltic pine rafters.

    Dumaresq moved to Kew, Victoria; travelled back to England; and had his wife, Frances, pass away. A Mrs. Charlotte Fogg was briefly the partner of what Dumaresq himself described as ‘the fatal act of a second marriage’. He returned to Longford and lived out the rest of his years – a quite substantial amount of time, his obituary declaring him dead ‘at the extraordinary age of 104’. He was claimed to be the oldest justice of the peace in the world.

    Which is quite an achievement.

    But the church remained standing. Architect Alexander North added the tower and the asp in 1910, four years after Dumaresq died. And of course, the farm went on to host farmers from twenty countries and they ‘steered their tractors straight and true up and down Mt. Ireh’s flat-as-a-pancake paddocks’. Longford joined the esteemed company of locales such as Peebles, Ohio and Wexford, Ireland and Kaunas, Lithuania as one of the hosts of the World Ploughing Championships.

    For those keeping score, Ian Miller was the Conventional Champion of that year, the second New Zealander in a row to get up (Alan J. Wallace had triumphed in Wexford). A Kiwi took second place as well.

    They reckon 40,000 people braved the wind and rain to watch the action that weekend. But were you there?

     

    Tom Roberts, the great Australian painter, was buried here at Longford.
    Last week, we wondered about the fate of the Tasmanian tiger.

  • Jack Badcock's Moment of Glory

    Jack Badcock's Moment of Glory

    As a teenager, my best mate lived in the town of Westbury. In his paddock, in summer, we strung up a long white net to act as the wicketkeeper, and played one-on-one for hours on end. One morning I scored 249 from 252 balls. My poor mate was working hard.

    These giant stumps commemorate the rich history of cricket in the town of Westbury, although my exploits in the back paddock in Adelaide St. are not recorded. Instead, the honours go to Clayvel Lindsay Badcock – better known as ‘Jack’.

    Born in 1914 in the nearby hamlet of Exton, Jack Badcock was the descendant of Cornish free settlers who had come to Van Diemen’s Land almost a century earlier as agriculturalists. Jack began playing for his state at the age of just 15. The bushy-eyebrowed batsman flashed the blade for Tasmania for several seasons, before moving to South Australia, taking up a job as a furniture salesman.

    In 1936, Badcock was called up to the Test team to take on England. His first games were poor; dropped, he recovered his form in the domestic league, and was brought up to play against the old enemy once more.

    It was the Fifth and final Test of the Ashes series, February 1937. The series was levelled 2-2. Jack Badcock, despite his brilliant statistics in the national competition, had only failed at Test level. But in this decisive encounter, he rose to the occasion: scoring 118, he became the first Tasmanian to score a Test century.

    Australia won the match, and the series.

    It would be great to paint Badcock as an underdog hero who eked out a win for his country, but truth be told, Australia smashed England in that Fifth Test. When Badcock stepped onto the wicket, Don Bradman had Australia well and truly in front. Badcock was one of the three century-makers, and Australia’s bowlers made short work of the Poms.

    Badcock’s 1938 tour of England was equally insipid, and he never played again. While he averaged more than 50 in the domestic competition, in his seven Tests, he scored 160 runs, at an average of 14.54. 118 of his runs, had of course, come in one innings.

    Nevertheless, he got to bat with the Don, one of Australia’s greats. Bradman described Badcock as “a lovable and completely unspoiled personality.” Sciatica getting the best of him, Jack Badcock retired from the game and returned to his family’s farm in Exton, having gone a long way for a simple Tassie lad.


     

    Westbury has also had connections with the famous Nant rebels.