There are serious numbers out there regarding men’s health, and of course the stats of the unmentionable which affects farmers are still bad despite those numbers heading down.
There’s no levity when discussing suicide as we have all been affected in one way or the other; so/however/forgive me, I want to bring some mirth to the remainder of this column’s life in the name of prevention.
Back in late September, this correspondent was invited to play the season’s final game of Masters AFL for the Goulburn Valley Giants.
My kids still call it ‘old-fart footy, Dad, really, still? At your age?’
Regardless, I survived the Wednesday night training and pub wind-down afterwards and made the trip up to Wodonga to don the GV Giants orange and mission brown (*gags), took my gorgeous WAG, and had a laugh.
Here’s the message: it’s incredibly important to muck in with mates after you hit middle age.
What goes on footy trip stays on footy trip and these blokes made an overnight effort to really have a lot to shut their traps about when they returned home.
Some of them have never played the game before and I commend coach Steve Tate (Tatie to us) who takes the time to teach basic skills to beginners both before training and mid-game!
The loudest, most vivacious, tallest and possibly heaviest player spent most of the game on the bench berating others for their uselessness.
He had never played the game until this year. Hilarious.
The team psychologist (every club has one) shows more interest not in what you might let slip in such a semi-vulnerable environment, but he lets you know afterwards: “It’s what you didn’t say ...” then laughs as he runs onto the field.
They gave me number 40 and as I ran on, I turned to the bench: “Do you think my age is showing?” Tish-boom.
But the tenderness between these guys is rich, genuine and healthy.
The club this year honoured an award to another newcomer who had invented the club ‘hug’ and as I approached the kitted-up team, late, and dressed nefariously in my three-piece denim (yet to get my strip), they lunged.
“Come here, Doc!” and I was thrown into the middle of a 21-big-guns salute, so tight that I was grateful for the special post-prostate surgery undies.
The humour starts early when my opponent scruffs me nostalgically pre-bounce and says “Don’t get either of us hurt, okay!’, then when someone’s young daughter runs on with water, he sips, hands it back and asks for one with bourbon in it.
And so it begins, but I’ll spare the game report lest I sound like I’m brag — actually I won’t.
Thus: popped my right hamstring with my first touch, which involved some candy, a spin, a handball and falling over. Second touch was just falling over. Third one involved a one-handed grab, a bounce right in front of the WAG (she was texting at the time so missed it), the ole ‘one-two’ with said psychologist who turned it into a ‘3-4-7-8’ as some form of Freudian test, by which time I had fallen over (getting used to it by then) and popped my remaining hamstring.
Post-game and we hobble about mingling with opposition and I’m talking knee transplants with my opponent over a cold ale as he shows me his eight-inch scar, in exchange for my tiny keyholes.
And finally the best-and-fairest voting is done with each player writing down a name on a chit.
“Doc is spelt without a ‘k’, ” I remind them.
Then to cap it off, given that said gorgeous WAG had joined us after Wednesday training in Shepp and was now in Wodonga, coach Tatie goes round the room with a season-concluding accolade for each player.
He gets to me, the new guy: “And Doc, is that the same lady you had on Wednesday night?”
Quick as a flash: “Twins, coach.”
Thanks to Andy Wilson for making us laugh, cry and think for the past two years. He’s jumped the fence and headed to fresh pastures, leaving Country News behind in the dust. We wish him well as he gallops off into the sunset.
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