The View From Connor's Hill (31 page)

DEAR READER
, how patient you have been. I guess by now that most readers would like more detail about the term ‘the Gap' that I keep using. Its use is a tradition that's been associated with the Omeo Shire for as long as I can remember. Old-timers told me it was used from the days of early settlement — and that was in the mid-1830s.

The Omeo Shire consists of high country and lower land that physically looks like a step, and to get from the lower Tambo Valley to the Omeo region requires a drive up a long, steep winding road called ‘the Gap'. The Omeo area has quite severe winters; it's only an hour's drive from the snowfields of Dinner Plain and Mount Hotham. On the edge of the farming area is a large cattle station called Cobungra, which is just below the snowline.

During the summer, after the snow has thawed, good grass is available here for stock. For many years, the cattle grazed higher up in the bush on the open plains. Then, as the winter snows closed in, there would be a muster, and the cattle would return down to the station. This custom was common throughout the Omeo–Benambra area. The only cattle that grazed on the plains below the Gap were out from Ensay, up onto the plains behind the Nunyong Tablelands.

Initially, early settlement was all based on grazing land. Then gold became a major factor in the increase in population, particularly at Omeo and Cassilis, or Tongio West — both towns were very large. These new towns boasted large schools, libraries, and numerous stores and other businesses. They satisfied the human desire for knick-knacks, better living standards and, of course, the quenching of thirst.

Horse races regularly held at Omeo and other towns were well attended. From this larger population came sporting clubs, including athletics and bicycle clubs, and football and cricket clubs, just to mention a few. Along with this came rivalry — mainly between those bastards above and below the Gap. It became folklore. In the high country, as a youngster, I witnessed this in school sports and many adult games. In school sports, above-versus-below was a real conflict. To lose was to inflict shame and to cause a sense of disgrace, and reprimands were expected. Put simply, a bitter rivalry separated those above and below the Gap. Over the years, I've asked many an old-timer where it came from; apart from them raising their eyebrows at my ignorance, their replies were usually along the lines of, ‘They're just ignorant and stuff, you know,' or, ‘They're all inbred, those Benambra buggers, you know,' or, ‘Bloody alcoholics, those Omeo bludgers. Why do you think they've got so many pubs?' or, ‘That cold climate up there shrinks the brain, you know.'

Obviously, I only asked people from below the Gap for their opinions … they were of my ilk, so to speak. My guess would be that it's the same as what happens to AFL footy supporters. If you barrack for the Bombers, well, naturally — for no other reason — you loathe the Magpies, or vice-versa.

The whole scenario reminds me of the Irish. I remember someone explaining the reason for all those years of violence in that country:
they do not know what they want, but they will fight for it anyhow.

Yes, the term ‘above' or ‘below' the Gap is real, but it's based on nothing.

As mentioned, the obvious place to witness this ill feeling was sport — mainly on the footy field. My decision to play with Ensay instead of Swifts Creek was disloyal, but accepted. Had I played for Benambra … well, I would not be writing this book.

However, there were many other subtle undertones at work, too. Rarely would you see people from below the Gap marry someone from above, or the reverse. In my own lifetime, I've witnessed controversy erupt when golf clubs pondered on amalgamation, or when the high school located at Swifts Creek served the entire shire; the rumblings can still be heard to this day, and that was four decades ago.

People from all around the Tambo Valley would drive to Swifts Creek to watch the movies on Tuesday night. No one ever drove down the Gap. There were movies at Omeo … but I never attended them. That wasn't right. Yet it would have been quicker to drive up and down the Gap for many people.

The only places where I saw these sacred rules softened was in the pubs. Their doors were open — particularly after the footy or cricket — to anyone. This was very noticeable when it came to cricket matches. At Omeo, the ground was just across the road from the Hilltop Hotel. When one side was batting, the other players waiting to come in and bat would have more than a few beers … usually longnecks (big bottles). If the opening batsmen were doing okay, getting a few runs, kids would go across to the pub to return with a few more bottles. It didn't matter if you were from below the Gap; the publican obliged.

DUE TO MY SELF-INFLICTED INJURIES
, even apart from the ripped knee, I didn't play a lot of footy in 1964. The season was almost over by the time the large scar across my knee had healed and toughened enough for me to bend the knee fully. I played only a few games towards the end of the season, and I hung up my boots for the following year.

Then something very exciting happened. By the luck of winning a ballot or draw that involved many country footy teams, our team, the mighty blue-and-gold Ensay, would be going to the grand final in Melbourne as spectators. The grand finalists in 1964 were Melbourne and Collingwood. What a thrill. I could hardly wait.

Unlike most, I'd been to Melbourne and I'd even been to the MCG — the arena where the game would be played. Several years earlier, the RSL had sent all the Legacy boys in Victoria, including Robbie and me, to meet the English cricket team, captained by Peter May. I was still in primary school at the time. We met them in the team rooms at the MCG.

The Ensay team would be going down to Melbourne — the big smoke — in the school bus. For the tiny, isolated community of Ensay, this was a major event. Now, a bus-load of country blokes heading to Melbourne was a guarantee of certain things taking place: quite a bit of drinking, and a lot of slagging-off and camaraderie, leg-pulling, and exaggerated yarns. Furthermore, young people like me usually believed their stories. However, something unexpected happened because these blokes were generally out of their depth when it came to the city.

The bus trip to Melbourne was great. We had a team song sung to the Beatles' tune ‘All My Loving'
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and we chanted the chorus line, ‘Come on Ensay, the yellow and the blue', for most of the journey. As we approached the outskirts of the capital city, the Caulfield football oval came into view. It was beside the Caulfield Technical College, and it boasted a large pavilion or grandstand at one end. One of the blokes commented, ‘There she is … the MCG. Look at that, fellas.'

About half the bus cheered and called on the driver to stop. It was hilarious. After a lot of laughter and jibing, we continued on to Melbourne past the real MCG … wow. This time, there was silence.

We would be staying in a hotel. That night, we gathered at a rather posh restaurant for tea. The blokes called it ‘flash' and ‘classy', and made comments like, ‘Christ, this is 'phisticated!' and ‘Hope we git a good feed.'

Then, after perusing the menu, there was serious concern expressed all round. ‘No bloody mixed grill? Come on, for God's sake!' … ‘Shit, at least you'd reckon there'd be some bloody chops. And what the hell is chicken-frigging-Maryland?'

It was like my first night at the farm … almost comical. The swearing was like morning tea in a woolshed. I noticed that most of the patrons were not very impressed.

But what really separated us Ensay blokes from the rest of the patrons was our dress. Admittedly, some of us had suits — 1940s pinstripes, and the like. Others simply wore their ‘good clothes' — un-ironed shirts with appalling ties, checked shirts with the top button done up, cardigans, pants with patches, dirty riding-boots … now, I could relate to that.

Then came the highlight of the evening. One of our blokes was a bit deaf. Let's call him Chas. Being off a farm, like many, his language was colourful. That was okay; however, it was also loud. I noticed several waiters loftily tutt-tutting and consoling other patrons. We sat at a large table, and Chas, tongue-loose due to the amber fluid, was in full flight. I might add that he was still wearing his farm hat. It was a stained, sweat-brown colour, probably 20 years old. Then it happened. Possibly under instruction, or on his own initiative, a waiter approached Chas and asked to take his hat. Chas couldn't hear a word; he was stone deaf. Again the waiter inquired, and again Chas replied, ‘Can't frigging hear ya, mate.'

The poor waiter raised his voice and shouted in Chas's ear. He replied, ‘Oh shit, sorry, mate. You want me frigging hat, eh?' With that, Chas jumped to his feet, took off his hat — revealing a snow-white, bald head — and jammed it down on the waiter's head. The cowboy hat, being far too big, covered the waiter's ears and eyebrows. The flustered waiter turned and walked off. The entire restaurant roared with laughter.

As the evening progressed, there was a lot of mingling and frivolity. People came across and introduced themselves, bought the odd ale, and loved the country atmosphere we introduced to the restaurant. It was a memorable, fun night.

SATURDAY
was the grand final. We arrived early at the MCG and had good seats near the boundary. Being an Essendon supporter, I was keen to watch the game, but had no interest in either side — Melbourne or Collingwood. Admittedly, the privilege of watching football heroes like Barassi, Dixon, Massie, and Mann, for the Demons, and Potter, Tuddenham, and Gabelich, for the Magpies, was something I was very excited about. After some early entertainment from other teams, the game started. It was everything I'd hoped for. I admired the speed of Brian Dixon, an incredible stab pass from Ron Barassi that nearly knocked Doc Roet over, and the determination of Ted Potter. The toughness of players likes Tuddenham made me wince. By the end of the first quarter, like many impartial supporters at the ground that day, I'd lost all sense of normality and had turned into a fanatical football supporter — cheering at spectacular marks, screaming at umpiring decisions, and offering endless advice to the man in white. I had turned into a frenzied, wild-eyed Demons supporter.

The game seesawed; at the last change, Collingwood led by eleven points. On reflection, the seats given to us that day were a godsend. During the last quarter, the Magpies' captain, a huge ruckman named Ray Gabelich, performed a minor sensation. Late in the quarter, with his team behind, Gabelich did a 50-yard run right in front of us, kicked a goal (finally), and put the Magpies in front. The noise — I had never heard anything like it. Gabelich played to the crowd … people cheered, bowed, and celebrated. I think most people applauded his individual effort. It was an incredible sight to watch this man fumble, stumble, hesitate, start to slow down, and finally produce that remarkable goal. It was almost in slow motion. Even the Melbourne players appeared stunned at what had just happened. The most unlikely player on the ground had not only produced a long, slow, nail-biting run as he'd tried to bounce the ball, but he'd also kicked a critical goal — the Magpies were in front by two points.

The crowd not only went bananas … in a flash, Gabelich had acquired hero status. Ned Kelly was about to be challenged as Australia's greatest. The out-of-place country hicks from Ensay went crazy. Everyone was standing up, and the Collingwood supporters were jumping up and down. The Melbourne supporters had their hands cupped around their mouths, screaming support and coaching moves that would see the Demons get home … it was the most exciting moment I'd ever experienced.

‘Come on, Demons!' I was screaming insanely — no way should those bloody Magpies win.

Then, some time later, towards the end of the last quarter, the most remarkable thing I have ever witnessed in a game of football happened. I can still picture it as if it happened yesterday. A player by the name of Neil Crompton went one better than Gabelich. A Melbourne back-pocket player, he'd apparently followed his man up the ground, and ended up near the Melbourne goal. The next thing, Crompton had the ball, and he kicked a goal. Yes, the back-pocket player. The siren sounded, and Melbourne had won the premiership.

Like many, we remained at the ground for ages. It was an awesome experience. In fact, today it is recognised as one of the most memorable grand finals of all time … and I was there, in a perfect seat.

The next day, I could hardly speak. All that screaming meant I'd lost my voice. The trip back to Ensay was wonderful. Time after time, we repeated the story of the tank-like ruckman and the dashing back-pocket player.

Perhaps the other highlight was the yarn told to us by one of the young bucks in our team, who'd had a date while we'd been in Melbourne.

Now, Peter had bragged all the way down on the bus about a female called Monica. Apparently, she was a corker — yep, a stunner — and she'd invited him around to her parents' place for tea before he took her out to a dance. He'd met her at a Young Farmers' do earlier. He'd promised her that if he ever came to Melbourne, he would arrange an outing.

As you can imagine, we were excited to hear how Peter had got on. So, not long into the trip home, some blokes asked if he'd scored, whatever that meant … perhaps the blokes thought the two of them had gone ten-pin bowling? To be honest, Pete looked different somehow. He was sort of swollen and bruised about the head. He was quiet — that wasn't like Pete. Finally, one of the blokes asked him about the lump.