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Malthouse
A Football Life
By Christi Malthouse Allen & Unwin
Copyright © 2012 Christi Malthouse
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-74269-558-7
CHAPTER 1
BUSHY
'Michael, get out of the dirt and come home, now.' Marie had gone looking for her son when he hadn't returned home after school. She found him at a mineshaft.
'I've told you not to play here — it's dangerous,' she said, grabbing his hand and marching him away from the site at the fringe of the city. 'What will it take for you to listen?'
Clay stuck to the ten-year-old's dark hair, his short, square fringe framing a face full of freckles and a toothy grin. He was short for his years, and skinny, with knees too big for his legs.
'I was just playing,' he mumbled, though his mother's mind was already on dinner. She loathed cooking but her family had to eat. Chops and peas it would be, if her eldest child would stop dragging his feet and hurry up.
Michael Raymond Malthouse was often in trouble as a child.
His father, Ray, worked full-time with a local plasterer. He'd been born in Ballarat and raised by his grandmother Elizabeth after being abandoned by his own mother at birth. He never knew his father. He earned the nickname 'Hardy' for his bullish approach to a tough life. Ray had been forced to leave school at a young age because an extra pay packet was needed at home, so he lied about his age to get his first job, as a coal stoker at the Victorian railways. It was tough and dirty work, but to be earning a living gave him a sense of pride. Mostly he looked forward to Saturdays, when he could play football, firstly for Railways and then for North Ballarat. He loved playing football and he loved watching football, then he met Marie Canty and felt a different love entirely.
Marie grew up in Gordon, a small town of fewer than 500 people, 25 kilometres east of Ballarat. The middle child of three born to Timothy and Mabel, she witnessed death at an early age when her sister, Cathleen, passed away from meningitis. She looked up to her brother Jack and he looked after her. When she met Ray, though he was four years younger, she knew he was 'the one'. They married in 1952 and had their first child — a son — a year later, then their daughter, Gerardine. Their lives were complete.
Marie stopped working at the local Coles checkout when she had her children and motherhood took over. Michael and Gerardine, who was younger by two years, spent many hours outdoors each day.
They lived in Ballarat Common, an estate built by the Housing Commission of Victoria to address the state's shortage of homes for its growing population. The area would later become known as Wendouree West, but in 1963 it was considered the wrong side of the tracks. Ballarat is one of the original Australian boom towns, built on the nineteenth-century gold rush. Today it is still the fifth-most populated inland city in Australia. The Great Depression stalled Ballarat's growth and it wasn't until the post-war era that it recovered. Though not as prosperous and having lost status to Geelong as the state's second-largest city, Ballarat made a successful transition from gold-mining town to tourist destination in the late 1960s.
Michael attended the local primary school, Our Lady Help of Christians, and from his earliest days as a student, he walked through paddocks of knee-high grass to get there. In winter, his clothing would be wet through from the icy dew by the time he reached the school gates and he would spend the rest of the day trying to dry off and warm up. Ballarat is as famous for its bitterly cold winters, which chill you from the feet up, as it is for gold. The freezing wind blows in with autumn and stays until spring, and a thick grey fog descends over the city in the cooler months.
In winter, it was Mick's job to collect wood for the pot-belly fire in the kitchen of the tiny weatherboard home to keep the family from freezing. Summer or winter, Mick made good use of the large backyard, which was perfect for a game of fetch with his dog. The soil was good for worms so he dug for them among the plants whenever he knew his father was free for a fishing trip to Lake Burrumbeet.
School wasn't Mick's strong point, not from a lack of intelligence, but rather through a shortage of concentration and attention to his studies. He struggled early with reading, noticing that he was slower than the other kids to get through a book. He stumbled over words when he was asked to read aloud, jumbling up the letters and sounds. He was reprimanded for his sloppy spelling, rather than helped, and was often on the receiving end of the leather strap from the school nuns for disturbing his classmates. 'You have the devil in you,' he was often told and he believed it. He enjoyed maths and science and found those lessons a lot easier than his English studies.
His favourite teacher was Sister Austin, a young nun who had grown up on a farm and had the unassuming nature of someone who had spent her life working hard. She also happened to love football and frequently cut her classes short for a kick around in the adjoining paddock. To Michael, this was how school was supposed to be, for his interest in life was in sport. All sports. Any sport. Anything that allowed him to compete and apply his natural athletic ability.
Football was revered above all sports. On his bedroom walls, clippings of his footy idols from The Herald clashed with the floral wallpaper. It didn't matter which club they played for — it was their on-field flair that captured his imagination. Collingwood's superstar full-forward Peter McKenna and St Kilda ruckman Carl Ditterich were pin-up regulars. When he was lucky and there was enough money left over from the weekly bills, Michael's father would take him on the hour-long train trip to Melbourne, where they would get off at Spencer Street Station and walk to the MCG or the Lakeside Oval.
It was a special and rare treat for the Malthouse males, cherished by the younger of the two for the time spent alone with his father. Ray would help his son stand on an upturned milk crate so he could watch the game from the grassy banks of the ovals. Michael was inspired by the acts of courage, determination and skill he saw before him and he couldn't wait to get home to practise the moves of his heroes as they slotted goals from difficult angles and rode their opponents' shoulders for a mark. It's what he wanted to do when he grew up, he told his father on the long trips home.
Football took a back seat when Ray was struck down by the debilitating paralysis of Guillain–Barré syndrome and Marie took on the role of full-time carer. The twelve-year-old Michael and ten-year-old Gerardine were regularly shipped off to stay with their maternal grandfather, Timothy Canty, when their mother made fortnightly visits to the Fairfield Infectious Diseases Hospital in Melbourne to be by Ray's side. Michael adored his papa, who took him on long walks through the bush that surrounded his home and taught him to respect nature, so it felt like a sanctuary, away from the worry of his father's health and his mother's ability to cope without her husband. Papa was a kind and gentle soul, always reminding his grandson to slow down and be patient instead of running around without direction and getting nowhere fast.
But tragedy struck for Papa when his wife fell ill. He waited for her to recover from the stroke but she never did. Michael and Gerardine moved back home permanently, along with their grandfather, after Mabel's death. Papa took over Michael's bedroom, not that the young boy minded because he was shifted into a small caravan in the backyard. The caravan would become Michael's refuge, where he had privacy and too much freedom. (It would later be his children's cubby on their Ballarat visits.)
Ray was close to coming home, having spent almost a year in an iron lung to treat his condition. Barely in his teens, Michael would be the 'man of the house' and help his dad as he battled to overcome semi-paralysis and poor health.
* * *
'It's time for Mass, Michael,' Marie called out every Sunday morning. Her faith hadn't faltered through all the difficult times, praying for her husband to return home the man he was when they'd met: the town larrikin who charmed her instantly. She prayed that Michael and Gerardine would stay out of trouble. And she prayed for her mother, that she might rest in peace.
Michael was an altar boy at St Patrick's Cathedral. He didn't understand the Latin hymns and prayers that he was supposed to recite so he mumbled the words and filled in any gaps with language that hadn't been uttered in a Roman Catholic church before. He thought that Sundays really shouldn't be spent kneeling in a chapel wearing a white robe when he could be fishing at Lake Wendouree, or sending a ferret down a rabbit burrow to catch dinner, or riding his battered and muddy bike to the mine sites — or playing football.
Michael lived with his footy in his hands. A prized possession from his father, it was yellow and plastic, unlike the red leather Sherrins that were too expensive for his parents to afford, but he loved it like a friend and bounced it as he walked and aimed it between trees and at the neighbours' bins — anything he saw as a goal opportunity. He loved to kick the ball along the narrow corridor of his home, trying to put enough spin on it to send it through the bathroom doorway with a crisp bounce, just like Peter McKenna when he took a difficult chest mark and drilled the ball through from a tight angle with a drop punt for a goal.
He knew he was a good footballer; everyone at the Wendouree West junior football club told him so. But he was a pretty good cricketer, too, enjoying the feel of the heavy bat in his hands as he swung it to meet a ball bowled at him with speed. If he connected well, the sound was like a clean knock. If there was a low thud, he would run for his life to the opposite stumps, not daring to look at the umpire. He never took a dismissal well. Cricket was his summer sport; nothing took away from Aussie Rules in the winter.
As Ray gained strength in his legs, walking with a waddle now, he encouraged all of Michael's sporting endeavours, persuading him when he was nearly fourteen to apply his energies solely to Aussie Rules.
For fitness, Michael ran the seven kilometres to and from Mount Rowan, a small extinct volcano on the edge of the city. When there was no one to kick his football back to him, he kicked it against the side of the garage. Michael's mates from St Paul's Tech played footy with him but they were too interested in taking joyrides on the back of old utes to get too serious about it.
One day the local cop, Constable Lyon, paid Michael's parents a visit at home. 'I've seen your son around,' he said, 'seen the boys he chooses to hang out with, and I'm worried for him. They're trouble, those kids, and I would hate to see your boy headed the same way.'
Marie and Ray already knew this about Michael — they were concerned too — but he was a teenager and they just hoped he wouldn't get too influenced by the boys who drove cars dangerously fast and were already experimenting with cigarettes and alcohol.
The policeman, who was known to be strict but kind, continued: 'I'd like him to come and play for my team at North Ballarat, where I can watch out for him. Maybe we can use football to distract him from everything else.'
Michael was made to feel instantly welcome at his new club. When he was eight and first started playing football with Wendouree, he and most of his teammates played in school shoes because their families couldn't afford football boots; they walked home in their drenched and dirty uniforms, despite the cold, because there wasn't money to pay for a warm post-match shower. Football was a weekly thrill, a chance to beat an opponent to the ball and kick a goal and get congratulated by all of your mates, but when the game ended normal life resumed. At his new club, it seemed that perhaps his dream of playing VFL football wasn't such a distant hope after all.
He was encouraged to train hard, to practise at home, and to put his heart and soul into the matches he played every Saturday, when his parents and grandfather would sit on the sidelines and cheer him on. He found the battle irresistible and cherished every win. North Ballarat didn't lose a game for two years, but each time he walked from the field victorious, Michael grew a little taller and began counting down the days until he would be part of a team again, working together to be the best. Winning was never taken for granted.
He didn't realise it at the time, but his coach had become his mentor and was guiding Michael to a better life through discipline, responsibility, ambition and a clear direction.
Michael left school when he was sixteen, at the end of 1969, and started work at the Bank of New South Wales in East Ballarat as a cashier. He paid board at home to help with the family finances and the rest of his weekly pay packet was spent on sporting magazines, mostly about boxing. He didn't drink, he didn't smoke and he didn't gamble, so there was always a dollar or two to save. He'd too often seen the effects of alcohol around his hometown and didn't want any part of it, especially if it got in the way of his football dream, as he believed it might. Plus, he just didn't like the taste of it.
In 1970, when he was seventeen, Michael played in the North Ballarat Roosters' under-18 premiership. He was one of the best on the field and basked in the joy he felt at having achieved something so worthwhile. That success made him want more. He was elevated to the seniors the following year.
A few games into the season, there was a rumour going around town that Bruce Eppingstall, Golden Point's centre-half forward, was going to be picked up by St Kilda. He was the star of the local eight-team Ballarat Football League, and Michael didn't doubt that the Saints would be interested in this genuine football talent who happened to reside in their zone. This was the big time.
The two young men played in a Ballarat representative side together, so Michael quizzed his mate: 'Is it true? Have you spoken to St Kilda?'
'Yep. They're coming to watch our carnival in Melbourne, but I reckon I might be a chance,' Bruce said with pride.
Michael thought, I'm going to put on a show for them too.
An almighty show. He was judged best for the lightening carnival held at Moorabbin Oval between three metro teams and one country side. Every player there was from within St Kilda's recruiting zone and they were all equally eager to prove they had what it took to step up to the big league. Bruce broke his hand. Still, the St Kilda recruiters spoke to him, and when they did he slipped in a comment, as asked, about his mate Mickey. The recruiters agreed he could come along to some trial games too.
Michael drove himself to Melbourne in his banged-up Holden, which he'd saved hard for and bought second-hand the moment he got his driver's licence. By the time he arrived, his back was tight and sore from the long journey. He'd been injured in the last match of the season — after which he had been named runner-up in the North Ballarat best-and-fairest to Stewart Gull, who was going to South Melbourne — but he wasn't going to tell anyone in Melbourne about his painful back. No way would he jeopardise his selection now that he'd come this far.
He played in several Saints practice matches that trip, and he struggled. His back pulled every time he bent low to pick up the ball and he felt slow with it, like a large rubber band had been slipped around his waist and was attached to the fence surrounding the ground. After the last game he was by told by an official that St Kilda was declining him and he should go back to Ballarat. He drove home in disgust. He was so disappointed, but his overriding emotion was anger that he had let the opportunity of a lifetime drown with his performance. Michael vowed to redeem himself.
For the remainder of the autumn, he worked on getting his back right, which meant strengthening the muscles and altering his fitness regime. When he wasn't doing that he was working at the bank, watching sci-fi movies at the local cinema, fishing with his dad or his mates, or reading his sports magazines.
In the first game of the 1972 North Ballarat season, he was awarded best-on-ground honours. He got a call from St Kilda that same week. They were giving him a chance to train with the squad for the opportunity to be picked to play with the reserves team — or, better still, the senior side.
Marie was so proud of her son that she asked everyone at Mass to pray for his success. Ray shook his hand and said, 'I knew you had it in you.' His grandfather told him to stay sensible.
Michael packed up the Holden with his belongings immediately and moved to the city, where he joined some Saints rookies — all country and interstate boys like him, who had left home to make a career out of football — at a Moorabbin boarding house run by a middle-aged couple who crammed the bedrooms of their home with extra mattresses and served chops and potatoes for dinner every night. He was transferred to the Beaumaris branch of the bank, so it was just a short drive to work and then back to Moorabbin Oval. He didn't need to be at the oval every day, but he wanted to be surrounded by the sights and smells of a genuine Victorian Football League club.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Malthouse by Christi Malthouse. Copyright © 2012 Christi Malthouse. Excerpted by permission of Allen & Unwin.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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