In
Memory of Larry
In
Memory of Larry
Thinking of Larry, or “Lobby” to his friends, I have to go back to our school days. My most vivid memories however, are not of Larry at school, probably because the academics Mt Scopus demanded just weren’t him.
Rather, when I think of Larry, one memory stands out above all – our Saturdays together at the football. Undoubtedly, the highlight of our week was watching our beloved Saints, particularly when we played at Moorabbin.
I would usually go to Larry’s place. He would be dressed in his weekend uniform – Adidas runners, Lee jeans, Miller chequered shirt with pearl studded buttons and denim jacket. The packet of Peter Jackson cigarettes would quickly come out of his breast jacket pocket the minute we left the house.
By 10.30 or so we would leave for the train trip down to Moorabbin. Then the long walk to Linton Street and on to the ground. We were always early so we could see the Reserves play. Often we’d hang around the cheer squad – a motley bunch of skinheads and scrags with the combined IQ of a retarded peanut. However they treated us as one of their own because of our common love for St Kilda. A kick on the ground during breaks was always on the agenda. Larry loved taking the occasional speckie. I never worked out how he always had a cigarette in his mouth whilst going for a mark without burning others or himself. Quite a skill.
By the time the main game started, the ground had filled up and we had taken our usual seats in the stand. Whilst St Kilda was already starting to show the early signs of a declining dynasty, there were still thankfully more wins than losses in those early 70’s,particularly at Moorabbin.
We would sit there watching the greats – Cowboy Neil ridin’em, Big Carl hitten ‘em, the silky skills of Ross Smith and many more. We had unfortunately gone over the peak of our earlier years of brilliance and the cracks of mediocrity were starting to appear, pure class now being replaced with the hardness the likes of Jimmy O’Dea – we loved it all.
At half time we would congregate with many other friends downstairs, grab a hot dog that had been floating in luminous red hot water for who knows how long , hear Jiff complain about the cold meat pies after sticking his fingers in 5 others before being told off, working out Saturday night social arrangements and so on.
The last quarter was usually the ultimate highlight – St Kilda would inevitably be behind and then the chanting would start. Old ladies would put down their knitting needles and join in. Kids would run to the back of the stand and start banging on the aluminium clad wall. Everybody would clap in louder and louder rhythm, shouting out “St Kilda” in between every third clap and bang. The whole ground would literally shake as we reached a deafening crescendo that drove fear into the opposition as they capitulated to our onslaught and we dragged our spent players with a final burst of momentum across the line. We were truly out there with the team in those last minutes. Utter exhaustion mixed with euphoria was shared by all as we jumped for joy when the siren finally sounded.
Larry and I would eventually leave the ground and start walking ,no longer seeming such a long distance back along Linton street, reminiscing every highlight of the day’s action and talking excitedly about the team’s challenge the next week.
I shall always remember Larry at his happiest in his youth when life was uncomplicated and our biggest concern was St Kilda winning – a memory I shall always have of being with him.
Mark Gandur
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