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Forty-four seasons of rugby. Twelve grand finals. Not one bloody premiership. You'd think one might fall my way through luck, incompetence, or a clerical error at the Rugby Union Headquarters. But no. Apparently there's a policy. Its my grade twelve grand final in particular, that still gives me the shits. We'd had a bastard of a season. Half our blokes missing, ring-ins from other sports, the rest held together with tape and a casual disregard for personal safety. Clarence had nearly killed us in the semi. Those dirty bogan pricks punched in tackles, skinned us at rucks, and squirrel-gripped anything that looked remotely reproductive. We won, somehow. The referee remained blissfully unaware that a crime had occurred. Then came Friends. The Quakers. Or, as we called them, the Faking Quakers. Unbeaten all year. A fine school where attendance was apparently optional, provided you could tackle. Half their side seemed to be at university. One looked old enough to be teaching there. Quakers believe there's something of God in everyone. Their flanker spent the afternoon trying to locate mine with his elbow. Our coach was Rex. Named after a lion. Temperament: kitten. His one tactic was to shout, "Pass it!" We ignored him. And that day we played! Not beautiful rugby. This was Tasmania. On a good day the standard rose to the dizzy heights of mediocre. Our forwards, half murdered by Clarence, went into every ruck like someone had hidden beer money underneath. The backs tackled above their weight, which in several cases wasn't difficult. The Quakers unbeaten confidence began to look distinctly negotiable. Their ages had looked negotiable from kick-off. Two minutes left. One point down. Ten metres from their line. We were rooted. They were rooted. The referee looked ready for a counter meal. We went again. Pick and drive. Another ruck. Bodies everywhere. Then, with seconds remaining, the ball squirted free. Someone gathered. Out through the hands. And suddenly, there it was. An overlap you could drive a bloody tractor through. Out wide stood our winger, the state hundred-metre champion. Unfortunately, he'd dropped two balls already.His legs were a national asset. His hands were under investigation. Our bloke had the ball. Saw the winger. Saw the space. Saw the line. From the sideline, Rex roared, "Pass it!" We ignored him. And somewhere in that teenage skull a committee of complete dickheads convened an emergency meeting. He dummied. Kept it. Went himself. And bugger me, for one glorious second he looked like a genius. Through the tackle. Arm out. Ball reaching. I was already celebrating. Then the grass. The bodies. The whistle.&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Two inches short. Two. Fucking. Inches. Friends were premiers. The Faking Quakers celebrated another triumph for secondary education. Our winger stood out wide, with half the paddock to himself and the fastest legs in Tasmania. And there I stood. Having never won a grand final. Again. I've replayed that moment for years. In pubs. At barbecues. I've used beer glasses, saltshakers and several innocent bystanders to explain the overlap. I've considered the physics. The angles. The probabilities. The mental state of the ball carrier. I've explained, with considerable authority, that I'd have passed it myself. Mind you, I wasn't carrying the thing. I've even entertained the possibility that he made the right decision. The winger might've dropped it again. And we'd have spent the next forty years calling him a useless bastard instead. I've lived a fair bit since. Had children. Loved women. Made money. Lost money, mostly by keeping the ball. Survived a few things that make schoolboy rugby look like a sensible pastime. But sometimes, three schooners into an evening, I'm back on that Tasmanian paddock. The ball comes loose. The winger's free. Our bloke shapes to pass. And forty-four seasons, twelve grand finals and a lifetime of bad luck come down to this: Surely, just once. I know he might drop it. I know. But pass the bastard the ball. I'd at least like to see him try.<h3> F.S.F.</h3>

The Worst Two Inches of My Life

A Precious Bundle of Joy

She keeps the gate unlatched. She has spent years staking other people's tomatoes, watering whatever leaned, tying broken stems to sticks and calling it a garden. Her own small patch went politely wild. Now a peach has appeared. Warm on the branch. Softening without permission. She does not touch it. Touching it would make the thing partly hers. She inspects the leaves for grounds. A beetle underneath. One leaf browned at the edge. Three bees taking liberties. The fruit has ripened quickly. The branch will need a prop. The tree is becoming presumptuous. And if the garden fails to provide a reason, one can always plant one. By dusk the gate remains unlatched. The peach has not moved. Across its skin, a thumbprint. F.S.F

A Small Holding

A Dad in the States got a message one day:<h3>Dad, I’ve been arrested. It’s bad.</h3>Then nothing.No why. No what. No comforting fact.Just five little words and a small heart attack.He searched Brisbane news from the far side of Earth.There were fights. There were deaths. Nothing close to this mirth.“Oh Christ,” thought the Dad, “what has he done?” Meanwhile in Brisbane,the answer was:“Fun.”The students were making a film for their college.A cultural project. The flowering of knowledge.They wanted Scooby-Doo. They wanted some fright.Queen Street Mall became Scary Island that night.There’d be monsters! There’d be chasing! There’d be terror galore!Then somebody mentioned they shouldn’t wear drawers.“Nude is the baseline.”And nobody said no.Which tells you most things you should know about the show.Then somebody shouted:<h3>“SOX ON COX!”</h3>So Cox put on socks.Then Coxes wore socks.There were Coxes in socks doing laps past the shops.Socks high on Cox.Socks low on Cox.Cox chasing Cox around Queen Street blocks.Cox fleeing Scooby past startled shop clocks.Bare bums.Big laughs.Then came the coppers.The students cried, “Art!”and explained Scary Island from finish to start.“It’s Scooby!”“It’s college!”“It’s daring!”“It’s fun!”The police reached the viewthat Art still needs pants on. Back in America, Dad started to learn.Nobody was shot.Nobody did burn.“We were naked.”Good.“In the Mall.”Less good.“There was Scooby-Doo.”Worse.“And socks.”Of course.And now comes the day when the jokes meet the law.The students approach the great courthouse door. Dad paces in America, imagining clocks,judges,lawyers,and an evidence boxcarefully labelled:STATE versus COXES IN SOCKS.The students go in.Dad waits by the phone,with coffee gone coldand the morning half gone.At last comes the message.No prison.No shocks.Just fines,and a warning,for Coxes in socks.Dad reads it once.Then laughs to himself.Puts down the phone.Pours something else. <h3>F.S.F.</h3>

Sox on Cox

Patience is a stupid wordfor wanting someoneand having to pretendyour body has not already made the decision. I can be civil.I can be occupied.I can even leave my phone alone.None of this should be mistaken for calm. The problem is not waiting.The problem is imagination.It has hands.It has your mouth.It has already invented roomswe have not been inand remembers them fondly. This seems procedurally unsound. I have filed an objection.The part that wants youhas read it,declined to comment,and is proceeding anyway,citing precedentnot yet established. F.S.F.

Pending

The trouble with nearly dying is everyone expects improvement.A clearer sense of purpose. A tender regard for mornings. Perhaps an interest in birds.Instead, I woke up older, apparently assembled in haste, with several screws left over and no instructions.Still. Mustn’t grumble. The original warranty has expired.The lungs are aftermarket. The heart has been serviced. One knee predicts rain with greater accuracy than the Bureau.Some components make noises the manufacturer insists are normal.Parts for this model are becoming difficult to source.I now own reading glasses in numbers normally associated with cutlery, none of which can be found when there is something to read.This, apparently, is recovery.The children remain unimpressed.They have correctly concluded that surviving catastrophe does not exempt a man from driving them somewhere.Nor does it confer authority.One recently threw a set of bathroom scales from an upstairs window.Not, as first suspected, as a feminist critique of body culture.She was just pissed off.This distinction seemed important to several people.Still. Mustn’t grumble. The body has suggested a period of consolidation.The brain has ignored this.It is currently building businesses, writing books, and trying to persuade a quantum computer that several hundred trucks are really just an interesting maths problem.I have therefore taken up yoga. The human body is wonderfully adaptable.Mine appears to have been supplied with a narrower operating range.Nothing teaches humility quite like a woman half your size placing both feet behind her head while you negotiate with a sock.Mustn’t grumble.Much. There was also, for some years, the question of women.I had retired.Quietly. With dignity.No farewell tour.Then one appeared.Which was bloody inconvenient.Suddenly I was looking at my telephone as though it contained military intelligence, wondering whether three dots constituted affection.At my age.A grown man.Children. Degrees. A respectable understanding of compound interest.Three dots.I had thought she was the difficult one.Wild. Independent. Always disappearing over the hill just as you got close.Except she hadn’t.She had come towards me.She had been open in ways I had trained myself not to recognise, and I had mistaken my own hesitation for evidence about hers.There is nothing quite so irritating as discovering that the theory you built to explain another person is mostly about yourself.That required some reassembly.Not replacement.There is a difference. I am not interested in becoming the man I was before.He had useful qualities, certainly, but customer reviews are mixed.Better to inspect the surviving pieces.Keep the daughters.Keep the curiosity.Keep the ridiculous projects that begin with someone saying surely that can’t be done.Keep the ability to laugh when the body declines instructions.Keep the part that still wants to make a fool of itself over a woman.Keep the scars without requiring them to teach anybody anything.Feed the cat.Make coffee.Look for the glasses.They are on your head.The instructions are still missing.Several screws remain unexplained.The finished item does not closely resemble the picture on the box.Still.Mustn’t grumble. <h2>F.S.F.</h2>

F.S.F

Writing, Poems and Rants

The Worst Two Inches of My Life

A Precious Bundle of Joy

A Small Holding

Sox on Cox

Pending

Some Reassembly Required