The Weigh-in
The gravel crackled as the Holden Special station wagon slowly rolled to a stop in front a group of playing fields. Greenish fields with white goal posts stretched through a low hanging fog with a light frost still clinging to the shaded areas. At one end of the field stood a brick amenities block.
I got out of the car as Mum wished me luck and a strolled slowly across to the amenities block. Other boys from other schools, and some that I knew were milling around the entrance to the amenities block. I reluctantly entered.
Two men were inside both standing close to a set of scales. One was my coach. He looked at me and said, “Buller! Get on the scales!”
I stood up on the scale platform and the scale arm rocked back and forth until it found its level. The other man adjusted weights along the bar. The bar rocked back and forth then steadied itself. The two men looked at each other.
My coach looked at me and asked, “Did you have any breakfast?”
“Yes,” I answered
“What?” he enquired
“Porridge” I mumbled
“We do this every week and every week I tell you not to have breakfast!”, he remonstrated.
I stand silently on the scale platform looking at both men. My coach then instructs me to take off my football jumper and run around the amenities block 3 times. As I take off my jumper, I notice that I am chubbier than a lot of the other kids. I reluctantly half jog around the amenities block 3 times, hardly breaking a sweat. As I re-enter the block I am instructed to sit on the toilet. I go into a cubical and sit. Nothing happens, and I know nothing is going to happen.
We do this every week. To me it is a ridiculous ritual that makes no sense and has no meaning. The junior primary school weight division is 7 stone 7 ounces (44.6kgs). I know I am slightly over the weight level. I know that all the kids that play have to be on or under this weight.
I also know that I am the closest spectator to the game and that my efforts will make no difference to the outcome of the game. I also very aware of the fact that they can’t have the game without me because my team just does not have the numbers.
Every week we go through the same process, and every week we end up with the same result. Understanding why is beyond the reasoning of a 10 year old boy. Eventually, they agree that I can play, as they do every week.
So why don’t these 2 men just accept the reality that I am not missing my breakfast for them and their silly little ritual of looking concerned and making out that my weight is a big deal. No amount of running around the amenities block or sitting idly on the toilet is going to change anything.
Why can’t they simply say to one another, “here he is again, and he’s slightly over the scale again. No big deal! Off you go Buller”.
Instead, I am faced with troubled looks and concerned discussions of whether they should really let me play.
I attend a small rural Primary School. At this stage of my life my school probably has between 20 and 25 students. There are a number of these small schools servicing the surrounding farming areas which encircle a small country town of 4,000 to 5,000 people. All the small schools band together under the banner of the one Rugby League club, sometimes referred to as the Villages. Every week our rag bag of a team plays the town primary school. They have one or 2 stars in their team, so every week we get soundly beaten.
I am scared of the ball, I am scared of the running players. I am scared of being tackled and am too scared to tackle. I stand on the field and run from one play to the next looking like I could get involved, but never getting close enough to get involved. I am literally the closest spectator to the game.
At training sometimes our coach will not even recognise my existence, at other times he will unexpectedly throw the ball at me. I will either drop it, in which case he will make some remark about me always being “asleep” or it will bounce off my head. Whatever the case at this point I withdraw from all activity, walk rather than run, and generally try not to get involved in any of the training drills.
I love watching Rugby League on the television. I support South Sydney and wish I could be as tough as John Sattler and run as fast as Bob McCarthy, but on the field, my fear over-rides any dream or desire.
The fog slowly lifts as we run onto the field. We clap the other team on and shake hands before the game begins. Its cold and the grass is wet. I try not to get involved. The game goes as it does every week. At the end of the game my white shorts are clean as is my maroon jumper. I jump in the car to go home knowing that next week will be the same, but not really understanding why.