Hard Cuddles. James Harding
and he would do everything in his power to make sure I was always safe. A special bond, more friends or mates, than father and son.
We arrived at our local GP, I am not entirely sure Dad had completely grasped of how severe this attack was. When the doctor removed the tea towels and revealed the bloody mess of what was once my calf, now a mangled mess of pink flesh and muscle sinew, he was repulsed and said ‘This dog needs to be shot.’ The doctor stitched the bottom of the wound to hold the calf to the leg, a temporary patch up, until I could get into surgery. A call was made to Doctor Graeme Southwick, a specialist plastic surgeon and I was raced to Cabrini Malvern, then transferred onto the Avenue in Windsor. Doctor Southwick walked into the room with an air of cool grace, ‘I am Doctor Southwick the best plastic surgeon in the country and I will be operating on your leg’ and just like that he took control of what turned out to be a disastrous afternoon for all concerned. Poor old Jerusalem Joe must have felt terrible.
Not long after that, we sued the pants off the owners of the dog and received a tidy little pay day for myself when I turned eighteen. For the record the dog was not put down, the law at the time was a dog had to bite three times and I was the dog’s second victim. Blood and guts no longer held any fears for me, once you have experienced something like that, you get a new perspective on life.
VICTORIA PARK INTIATION
‘There was something about the place…Everyone, from the players to the supporters, walked taller there, felt more confident and brash there.’
— Peter Daicos
The first time I went to Vic Park was 1991. It was a cold, overcast, winter’s day and from the moment I stepped into the black and white sarcophagus, there was an overwhelming smell of beer and urine steaming from the old fashioned piss troughs, I just loved the joint.
I was just ten years old but I can recall the day like it was yesterday. My old man had lined up some tickets with a Greek bloke at his work. The deal was we were sitting next to the Sherrin Stand, in the old fashioned boxes with Peter Daicos’ parents. Daics is, and always will be, my hero, so you can imagine what this meant to me. The old fashioned boxes consisted of a veneer chipboard partition with a door on hinges and a latch to lock it. Ridiculous, because it didn’t separate you from anything, the box only went up to chest height. But any Collingwood supporter reading this will laugh and know exactly what I am talking about. The Greek let us down, my little heart was broken. I had prepared an autograph book and was severely disappointed when Dad broke the news to me. Mum pulled him aside and told him in no uncertain terms, ‘You better take this kid to the footy, now Chris.’
So off we went, caught the Frankie line into the city, which was exciting enough. Then we changed platforms to catch the connecting train out to Victoria Park station. Now for any opposition supporter brave enough to come out to the cauldron to face the Pies on our home ground, you have my upmost respect. No words can describe the hostility. To give you an example, some years later I was chatting with a heavily tattooed English bloke out the front of the G while having a smoke. I asked him how he ended up following the Pies, he told me that he happened to go to Vic Park by chance and when he heard the noise and hatred of the opposition by Collingwood people, he said it was the closest thing to the soccer crowds back home and he fell in love.
When you walked down the platform and made a sharp left near the petrol station, there was a guy cooking hot snags, bread and sauce on a barbie. The smell hit you when you got off the train. Dad grabbed me one of them, then he grabbed me a record, sixty cents back then, we entered from the old gates at the corner of Lulie St and Turner St and headed to the other end, where all the ferals would stand and get blind drunk.
As we made our way to the other end, under the stand the noise reverberated around the ground. It was like nothing I had ever heard. The swearing alone was sensational. Dad was always strict with the colourful stuff when I was young. I had no idea you could string so many swear words together. Matt Preston, from MasterChef, who is a full blown Collingwood tragic recalls being taken to the chandelier bar at Vic Park. The chandelier bar consisted of a fluoro light under the stand. It was just chaos, the overpowering smell of beer and fast food, the game hadn’t even started.
We took our position behind the goals. Dad pushed me up to the fence with all the other kids so he could watch me, I nestled in behind the point post with my record and waited for the Pies to run out.
As I looked around at the people through a haze of cigarette smoke, barely able to see over the fence, I could not help but feel I belonged to something special. All the supporters were tense and anxious with excitement, smashing down beers and waiting for the mighty Magpies to run out onto the hallowed turf. As they ran out the noise level intensified. Opposition players within earshot of the boundary were bombarded with insults about their mothers’ carnal activities. Can you imagine a ten-year-old listening to this? I fronted up at primary school on Monday with my newfound vocabulary, I had my peers eating out of my hand. People would say to me you have the gift of the gab James. Wrong, wrong. I was in the outer at Vic Park when I was ten years old, you cut your teeth there and you can survive anywhere. It must have been an amazing feeling to be a Collingwood player running onto Vic Park. That day we were playing Richmond, our arch enemy from just down the road.
The game was a real shoot out. Daicos up one end going berserk and Jeff Hogg for Richmond up the other doing the exactly the same. This is when footy was pure; no taggers, no tactics, just see ball, get ball. Kick it long to a contest, put your head over the ball and, for fuck’s sake, keep your wits about you. Players were always splitting each other down the middle. This was a time when the hip and shoulder was considered a skill. I remember one passage of play in front of the Bob Rose stand. The Richmond defenders had Daicos hemmed in on the boundary and went to push him over. As they did he held out the ball with one hand, dropped it onto his boot and dribbled it through for a goal, his sixth for the day, from memory. The Collingwood faithfuls went off tap, the maestro in front of the social club went bang. I looked around and everyone was high fiving and hugging, I’m pretty sure I probably tried to high five someone, it was just exhilarating for a young bloke. Gee, Daicos was an out and out champion and he loved to play Richmond.
We ended up winning comfortably and there were joyous scenes as we all sung Good Old Collingwood Forever. Dad was rapt, he wasn’t a drinker but that didn’t matter. He used to get that merry after a big win, he may as well have been blind. The walk back to the station with the Collingwood faithful was always entertaining—grown men pissed, playing kick to kick and jumping on each other trying to take speccies. The overall vibe was extremely upbeat.
As we headed towards the city, we approached a station and that is when the fun really started. One pissed Richmond supporter had enough of the jubilant scenes and, against his better judgement, thought he would let the Collingwood-packed train know what he thought of them. The sneaky prick got off and waited till the doors looked, and I repeat, looked like they were about to close. Then he leaned into the carriage from the platform, popped his head in and yelled ‘All Collingwood supporters are fucked.’ An utterly imbecilic act by a desperate man. To this day I’m not entirely sure what he was hoping to achieve. Dad and I were close to the action. What I remember is seeing a hand shoot from inside the train to grab this Richmond moron by the scruff of the neck, dragging him back into the carriage. It was on. Dad managed to shield me from the altercation, but I still got to see this bloke get a fair old trimming. I was very young but I do remember seeing blood on the wall of the train. Jesus, he got a flogging. After this all calmed down, they dragged him off the train like the disgrace that he was. Dad tried to be diplomatic about not drinking too much and sending a message that violence isn’t the answer. ‘Fuck that’, I thought, from that day on Collingwood and me have been inseparable. Through good times and bad, my love for the Magpies has never wavered. What a great day.
And for the record I have met the great man Peter Daicos. He is one of the most beautiful blokes you will ever met, really humble and understated. Just a lovely human being.
THE RUNNER
‘It’s supposed to be hard… hard is what makes it great.’
— Jimmy Dugan from A League of Their Own
As a young bloke I couldn’t win