Australia’s Game

Award winning crime writer Peter Corris began his career as a lecturer and researcher, publishing his PhD thesis on Solomon Islands labour migration in 1973. In 1979 he became literary editor for the National Times. Then, after the success of his first novel, The Dying Trade (1980), he became a full-time writer, quickly establishing a reputation as one of Australia’s best writers of crime fiction. But while Corris’ crime fiction approaches 50 titles, he has also written historical fiction, two books about boxing, television scripts and co-authored the autobiographies of Fred Hollows and Ray Barrett. On Tuesday 6 August, Peter Corris joined Barry Oakley and Ross Fitzgerald for a discussion of Australian Rules Football in connection with the anthology Australia’s Game.

AUSTRALIA’S GAME

PETER CORRIS

Yes, I’ve written 38 books about a private detective named Hardy; the 39^th comes out in January 2014 and I’m half way through number 40. I’d like to tell you that Cliff Hardy is a passionate advocate of Australian Rules football, but I can’t do that. When I came to Sydney to write Hardy private detective novels, I knew they had to have a Sydney and New South Wales flavour and this was well before the Sydney Swans got here.

So I had a friend of mine take me to Rugby games, so that I could learn something about this game and maybe infuse the books with that. I was appalled by what I saw. And so, I’ve never been able to be an AFL fan but over the years I’ve managed to do a bit of subversive work, from time to time. Cliff has noticed four goal posts springing up on football grounds and makes a remark about them and, in the book I’m just finishing, there’s a former boxer who gets a job when he’s finished fighting with the Sydney Swans as a fitness coach.

At one point, Hardy describes Rugby as a “sissy” game although he doesn’t use the word “sissy” and I don’t think I have to use the word – you can imagine it. Hardy remains more or less supportive of the notion that AFL is a genuine game. I cannot abide Rugby; as for soccer, I’m reminded of doing a series of interviews with Bill Hunter, a great actor whom you’ll remember, and we were supposed to do an autobiography together. It never happened because once I’d written a draft, and Bill read it, he realised most of what he’d told me wasn’t true. Bill was an ardent Essendon supporter. He played for Ballarat in the central Victorian league and played against the original “Plugger” Tony Lockett. Bill he had AFL credentials.

Bill went to a few soccer games and he said that the game itself was “boring as bat shit”. But the atmosphere was great. I must say, when I saw Gerry Marsden singing “You’ll Never Walk Alone” at Wembley the another walk of land at with about a hundred thousand Liverpool supporters, I was moved. I’ve known one person who converted from gridiron American football to Australian Rules Football and became a passionate Carlton supporter. He would roar in his American accent.

I’ve known several people who converted from Rugby to Australian Rules Football. But I have never ever, and you can put this on my tomb stone, (which sometimes I feel is probably in the process of being carved now at age 71) – I have never known anyone to convert from Australian Rules Football to any other kind. I’m delighted to be in the company of the people I’m with in this anthology – the men and women in this book. And to feel, in these divisive, difficult times, the solidarity of one thing, at least. Thank you very much.

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Poem by Ross Fitzgerald

It is not shame this night, my father.

We have passed beyond all that.

I hold you, brave Magpie

comforting the wild horses of my asthma nights.

Proud, clumsy, gentle man –

The dark won’t hurt me now. No need to turn on the lights

or bring snowy near.

Yet where do fish sleep, daddy?

I’m in the team, my follower.

O to see you soar in the ruck for Collingwood,

both knees bandaged no teeth at all.

’Where I come from, professor,

we like to see things in black and white.’

I’ve seen you cry, old warrior–

Of my brother Roddy’s death.

The brightest star in all the skies,

Yet what does his gravestone say?

The dignity of your despair, my father.

How your silence thundered.

No tears are needed now.

Still I ask, was it all meant?

So much shame and hate and dark denying.

I’m beginning to define my needs from my wants.

The hours before midnight are the best.

I am my own man now, old friend–

I haven’t forgotten where I came from.

Do the fish sleep still, my father,

In such seas that ask neither condition nor recompense?

Love’s best sleep is sweet.

Be blessed then

and range well, big Woodsman.

There are many fields in which to reap