The Name Game

Tony Munro looked out on the cliff, his cliff. The premier grade coach looked out over the rolling sets as a cool southerly whipped his concerned face. Passers by may have taken the look on his face to be his objection to the wind. His wife sat in his house, staring at him staring. She knew his gaze was because he had organised a luncheon to announce a team he didn’t have. She was angrier at him than he was at himself. He had brought his work home with him all summer and as a result she had made him sleep on the couch. Likening her to Lady Macbeth, some people even thought she was the driving force behind his ambition.

The burden of expectation was crushing him. It wasn’t so much the pressure of the luncheon. That was taken care of. Tim Wolfe, the batman of Merewether Carlton, and his Boy Wonder - Tim Partridge, had worked tirelessly around the clock to deliver what would prove to be an event worthy enough to befit the Merewether Carlton Rugby Club. Tim Wolfe had executed everything to perfection, while, the boy wonder was his perfect lackey.

The problem Munro had his team. He had failed in his first year and had spent all summer tossing and turning, unable to sleep on the couch his wife had made him sleep on as punishment for his shortcomings. He had accepted this punishment like a submissive gimp. He had no plan, he had no team to name. The Greens Development Squad, or GDS, should have been renamed the Gay Dance Squad. It was this group of young men who were supposed to lift and be ready for the season opener against their cross town rivals. They were supposed to be the pride of the club. They were little more than the Pride of Erin.

As Munro stood there gazing blankly, a female, blonde, tanned and sporting a Brazilian cut bikini that could have doubled as a watermelon carrier was showering herself in the communal shower near the stairs. In normal circumstances he would have afforded himself the guilty pleasure of having an extended look. However a vibration of another kind in his pants caught his attention. It was his phone. He looked at the message. The name of the sender came up Merlin. It was Jack, his assistant coach. Munro immediately hit the delete button. Without reading the message, Munro new it would have been a pathetic attempt at a joke he had probably already heard.

Throughout the summer Munro had tired of Merlin. Not living up to his name, he was no magician. Munro had realised Jack would never be able to pull a rabbit out of this hat. He was that dismal, pulling a hair out of his arse would have been an effort. Merlin had contributed nothing in his first year tenure as assistant coach, other than the fact he had leant the young Merriwa halfback a pair of his decade old unwashed plumbers undies. At this stage of the year, Pete Ryan was looking like a better option than Jack. It seemed he knew absolutely nothing about the game and always seemed to walk around clueless, like an intoxicated garden gnome.

It had become that bad with Merlin, Munro had resorted to having dinners with lowly trainer Bobby Harrison. With Bobby’s plank like personality, it was going to be tough. Munro chose his favourite hangout, the Bar Beach Bowling Club. Bobby’s eating habits were as weird as his training methods were outdated. Munro didn’t mind having 45 seconds to eat his entree with a 40 second rest. He just didn’t realise he’d have to have four of them though. He did think, 60 seconds to do 6 mains with a minute recovery was a little excessive. The gasses at the end weren’t compulsory, but Munro had a second wind so he took Bobby up on it.

The reminiscing was getting Munro nowhere. He had two days to name his team. He turned around and looked back at his house. His wife was in the window looking down at him. He knew if he went home with no answers, it’d be another night on the lumpy couch. He started walking a slow slightly limped walk and came to Empire Park. He sat down in the stands to regain his thoughts.

His concentration was muddled and his sweat was cold. As he looked out onto the ground, it took him back to the General Manager of the NHRU. He couldn’t quite remember his name, but he was sure it rhymed with Fool. There was a rumour in local Rugby that the G.M wanted to develop empire instead of NO. 1 sports ground into a multi -purpose sport centre with a rugby ground its main stage. It made sense. However, the board of the NHRU were even more out dated than Bobby’s training methods and Jacks underwear. They’d never agree to such a brilliant proposal. It seemed that in this case you can’t get a fool to lead a pack of jokers.

Empire Park wasn’t giving Munro any answers to his team selection. It was Sunday and his head was pounding. He needed advice. He couldn’t turn to Bomber, first grade manager. Bomber was the strong silent type. He was rarely around, but that’s the way it worked and it worked well for them. He was good to go watch a movie with, but bad on advice. Munro knew people spoke about them behind their backs, thinking their relationship was a little “different.” It was different, but no different to other first grade coaches’ idiosyncrasies. Tim Chidgy had men in ice baths, Wayne Baggs had his Rodney Dangerfield syndrome, Scott Coleman had his lolly pop fetish and Al Barker picking his son every week. They were all there, with their idiosyncrasies, weirder than him and at the moment better than him. All with at least one premiership.

It occurred to Munro that Sunday was in fact the Lord’s Day. One man who could give him advice would be Stephen Gall. Munro ran across the road and jumped into his Clarke Rubber van. It was no bat mobile, but he was no Tim Wolfe. He certainly didn’t have Tim Partridge to be his boy wonder. Stephen Gall was easy to find. Cleaning the prayer mats at the local new age Christian Church, Stephan looked up as he saw a frantic Tony Munro burst through the glass doors of Stephen’s Pentecostal place of worship. He came to Stephen and collapsed, a bubbling mess, he was on his knees clutching at Stephens legs, tears streaming from his face.

"You are lost my child?" asked a godly Stephen. "I know the answer, for I have been there too." A glowing eminence was radiating from Stephens voice. Munro looked into Stephens eyes and saw that he had his answer. "You must pray, Tony. Pray." And with that he reached to his wrist and took off his "WWJD", bracelet and handed it to him. "This will give you answers Tony. Now go." With these words, Tony strapped the bracelet to his arm and seemingly floated out of the door. Hillsong music filled the air and he felt obliged to leave $1500 in cash in the donations box. There is a lot of money in Rubber.

As he was driving his van back to his cliff, Munro took a moment to look at the WWJD bracelet, while stopped at the lights. The letters kept churning over in his head. Then as the light in front of him turned green it hit him. The letters churned from milk to butter. Thinking that WWJD meant "What Would Jesus Do?" Tony had realised he had got it all wrong. The band had another meaning. "What Would Jimmy Do?" The answer was there. Jimmy Thievious. The Greek Rugby coach and baklava expert. The rubber mats went flying as Munro expertly u-turned on Tudor Street and made his way to Jimmy’s Adamstown resident. Jimmy was the last man to win a premiership with the Greens, and his story was remarkable.

Born from Greek immigrants, Jimmy grew up in Hamilton. His father was a fruiterer, his mother a concreter. Jimmy’s yard growing up was typical of the area. A couple of statues, concrete yard, a tabouli tree and some soccer goal posts. Jimmy was a natural with the round ball and his father was proud. So proud, his father bought him the biggest gold chain in the street, and after each goal he scored, he’d get a vine role. When he won goal scorer of the year, he got a big 3 finger gold ring just like his dad’s. However Jimmy had a secret. Soccer was played on Sundays after mass. Rugby was on Saturdays

Jimmy had been kicked out of his Greek orthodox school the year before for trying to sell the oil from his hair to the canteen lady. He had made some new friends from over the hill at Merewether at his new school. He thought they were strange looking, with their blonde hair, blue eyes and dry skin. They played in the water for fun and not to catch fish. Their sandwiches were square and ready - made to eat. They also played a game called Rugby. His father had told him to stay away from these boys and he had tried, until the day he saw a boy pick the ball up with his hands. From then on Jimmy snuck away every Saturday after his fruit market shift was done to join his friends play Rugby. At the end of season he won the encouragement award for his enthusiasm and crooked throws.

He took it home to show his father. He was beaten so hard his souvlaki from the night before repeated. He vowed from that moment on he would never kick around ball again. So he grew up a mediocre rugby player who should’ve been a great soccer player. He should have coached Hamilton Olympic, instead he coached the Greens. Through hard work, he won a 1st Grade title. It was here at Jimmy’s Adamstown house Munro sat in his Clarke Rubber Van. A statue of Adonis greeted him at the front door. He rang the bell. Jimmy answered in typical Greek fashion. A kiss on both cheeks and an ethnicised "Come in mayte."

Jimmy took Munro into his home made Sauna. Greg Williams and Dennis Shaw were sat there, draped in nothing but loin cloths. They served as Jimmy’s unofficial minders. Munro dropped his Ruggers and explained to Jimmy his predicament. Greg and Shaw chuckled at his predicament. Jimmy sat in silence, looking for an answer. It finally came. "Mayte, what you gotta do Mayte, is this Mayte." Munro was transfixed, listening avidly. "You gotta tell these boys to toughen up mayte, get rid of the sissies mayte, blokes that wanna talk back get rid of them mayte and find a leader mayte."

Munro was aware of this but he let Jimmy continue, hoping an answer would fall from his mouth. "You wanna know what I think Mayte? You wanna know mayte?" Munro nodded, looking Jimmy in the eye. "You gotta start with a captain, mayte, a good boy, maybe even a Greek boy, you know mayte. This will get you going mayte" Munro’s eyes lit up, he knew of a Greek boy.

"Then mayte, you gotta get someone, crazy, stupid, aggressive not from here. That Jamie Lind, he’s no good anymore, he lost his ass and gave it to Dan Gardner. I don’t know, go to a mental home or something, he’s gotta be a forward though mayte. That’s the two people you need mate, a captain and a crazy." Suddenly Munro’s team appeared to him in his head. He jumped up abruptly and thanked Jimmy.

As Munro drove up the driveway of his cliff home, he repeated the team over and over in his head for the 20th time. He ran up the steps and went straight to his son in law, potters desk and grabbed a green crayon and paper. As he wrote down the last name he turned around in his swivel chair to see his wife looking at him, wearing nothing but tracksuit pants and a skivvy. "Looks like your done then, Munza." It was her pet name for him. "Want to come and see what’s under the skivvy?" She was trying on seduction, and she had read it in her latest Danielle Steele novella. "Remember what I promised when you had finished in your first step to glory. Your team."

Munro replied, "No honey, I’ve realised today, its Merewether Carlton’s team and what I do is represent tradition in unison. People work together to create greatness darling and that’s why I love this club, that’s why I love this team." His wife was stunned, she was wearing her best skivvy. She gave him the look. Saving himself from another night on the couch he replied, "I wouldn’t mind trying out some ELV’s though darling."

The Team According to Tony

1. Lachlan Hornsby: Not the biggest boy in town but definitely the stupidest. He easily fits in well at Front row. Tony is of the opinion that last year the front row was way to smart and it definitely needs to be dumbed down.
2. Hooker: Dan Garner: The only man qualified in the club to carry out Tony Munro’s complex mathematical equations in the lineout’s. Dan is a math teacher with a crooked throw. He recently traded Jamie Lind’s ass for his own dignity and would definitely be at front row if it wasn’t for his smarts.
3. Adam Nolan: See point 1. Except add the adjectives thick, dense and slow. May also be a little light weighing in at 60Kg, however the IQ comes in at under 60, so he makes up for it.
4. Barney McKenzie: is the crazy that Jimmy spoke to Tony Munro about. Straight out of Morriset Mental Home, and credited for punching Liam Potter in the face, he belongs in a circus but ended up at Merewether.
5. Rohan Garner: is there purely to stick up for Dan when he is getting his head punched off. Quite a lazy footballer really, however Dan is the only one who can add up without a calculator for line out calls and Rohan is the only one who will stick up for Dan.
6. Ben Finnie: Named purely for fans to bag out on the sidelines. Its a wonder he can actually bind on to a scrum as his shoulders are non - existent. Local aboriginals from dongdingalong, near Kempsey where Ben was raised actually think he was born from dream time and his original form was a snake. Try holding your knife up at lunch in front of your eyes and pose the question "Where’s Finnie?" The guy no one really likes.
7. Webber Su: To offset the hate shown towards Finnie, a fan favourite had to be slotted in to the other breakaway position. This former front rower, nicked named "terror mi Su, Su nami, Su mo, Su perman." Cheer this kid on all year.
8. Chris Walsh: Wasn’t actually in the GDS (could be a good thing), but has left his committee duties to concentrate on his blossoming Rugby career. Tony Munro has seen his potential that so many have missed over the last few years.
9. James Bertsos(c) The Greek saviour. He only has the c next to his name because he is Greek. Munro now sees him as a lucky Greek charm. He’s slippery without Vaseline and quick without hamstrings, though some may argue that his hamstrings are definitely attached to his heart strings.
10. Mick Gill: He will keep moving from the outside – in. Throughout his career he has been trying to emulate his role model Ruff Garry. Will no doubt end up in the front row just like him. Proof that short and fat people aren’t taken seriously.
11. Nathan Foreshaw: After losing 20kg in the off season and a further 40kg in the pre season, he has to be named on the wing for sure. Is also looking to change his last name to Honeysuckle as he is now only a small area, not an entire foreshore.
12. Bec Anderson: Hasn’t got the balls of some of the other players but definitely proved she has heaps of.... Country selectors backed her up when representing Australia. Women’s Rugby, while it may be a farce, Bec can easily mix it with the men.
13. Jay Strachan: Picked here for his excellent relationship with Bec. Forged at the crescent head sevens, his instructions to the nearest shop were taken on board and they have known what each other is about ever since.
14. Sam Norton–Knight: Absolute rubbish in Super 14 level. Tony Munro is pleased to announce our newest signing. Will probably be remembered as the worst player to represent a Green Jersey 1st 15 on the wing since Peter Ryan’s cameo in a final some years back.
15. Jason Toby: Going through a mid–life crisis, Jason has recently traded his Daihatsu for a Harley and his slacks for skinny leg jeans. He hasn’t spoken to Munro all pre season in a bid not to cloud the coach’s judgement and prove his legs could handle the load. Stating he wants to show former club, Easts that you can actually come out of retirement without a minimum of fuss, he is the old head among some young faces. He will be signing autographs at the Prince of Wales on most Friday nights with his 20 something mates.