Bobby - a gentleman, a saint, and a sinner

Tim Ebbeck | January 23, 2023

I recently wrote about how fast bowlers swear a lot.

And it made me think about a former ND’s player – let’s call him Bobby.

Bobby played a lot of cricket for the club and was part of a number of premierships in different grades.

He was a senior player as I was coming up through the grades and we played a couple of seasons together in 2nd grade, initially under the great Neil Marks and then under another great man, Dave Glasson.

Bobby was one of those classic cricketers of the era. Big droopy moustache, shirt open Chappelli-like, hairy, aggressive, talker, and a bloody good batsmen. Bobby was good at most things he did. He played golf off a low single figure handicap, had a wonderful sense of humour, was always attractive to the ladies, and was always beautifully attired. He worked in a men’s clothing store in Eastwood and chose himself as the model to display their best fashions. Resplendent indeed. True Gentleman.

He came from a very respectable family. And in front of his parents his elocution and diction were always perfect, if not a little nasally. “Thank you mother”, “Indeed, father”, “thank you Minister”. Very proper. Very straight-laced. A parent’s saintly child.

And there was the side of Bobby we saw at cricket. His diction and respect for the English language was not always apparent when his parents weren’t in attendance. And he had a great love for the amber fluid. Loved a drink Bobby. Like most cricketers, so did I. So, we got on well.

Playing a Saturday / Sunday game at Waitara one year we fielded on day 1 on a hot day and everyone had a lot of drinks after the game as we tended to do in the 70s and 80s. Phil “Feather” Blazey and Phil Potts put on a great BBQ and we ended up at the ground rather late after having had a few too many beers. Bobby and I were the last at the ground at about 11pm and had been charged with locking up the ground. We walked to our cars giggling, told a few more jokes, then I hopped in my car and drove the 1km home to my parent’s house in Wahroonga. I made it home. I awoke the next morning feeling pretty good, and always keen to be one of the first to the ground. Bobby and I had a little side bet about who would be there first. I turned into the parking area at Waitara and froze – I’d lost the bet. Bloody Bobby’s car was already there! I parked next to him, jumped out and got my kit bag out of the boot and walked around to his car. He was sitting in the front seat with the radio on. He loved jazz music and assumed he was listening to some Tommy Ticcho. When I bent over to talk to him, he was snoring. And the engine was running. And I realised he’d never left the ground the night before.

Bobby was also a lover of afternoon tea.

One afternoon at Petersham, Bobby had compiled a beautiful 96 and played a classic cover drive to bring up his 100, but to a ball that was probably a little short.

He played it on. And it was the last ball before tea. Unlucky.

Now, we who knew Bobby realised that he was never happy when he got out. And he always threw his bat. We all left the changing room. We knew what was coming.

In those days, the ladies making afternoon tea had to be passed by as one entered the changing rooms at Petersham.

Bobby walked off the field to applause but was cursing badly. The language could be heard at Randwick, Penrith, and in some parts of Gosford.

And every second word started with F.

It was a torrent that continued as he left the playing surface, walked across the terrace, walked through the afternoon tea area and got worse as his bat shattered when he threw it into the changing room. Ok, good dig but understandably upset at missing the ton.

However, the ladies making the afternoon tea were not impressed.

As I poured a cup of tea (having wisely left the changing room before Bobby entered) one did comment to me “That batsmen’s language was completely unacceptable and you should all be ashamed of yourselves.”

I took the hint.

I waited until after the game had resumed and Bobby had tubbed and cooled down. I went into the changing room and sat next to him.

“Well played mate.”

His reply was classic Bobby: “F%^& off Timmy. It was a $#@% of an innings. What sort of &*(% gets out for ninety-^%&*(%$-six on the last $%#@*(& ball before %^$&*^% tea!”.

Fair enough.

“Bobby, I get your upset but I think you owe the afternoon tea ladies an apology. One of them reminded me of your mother and you wouldn’t want her hearing that language, would you?”.

Masterstroke.

“%^&$ off Timmy, your %$^&#&* right. I‘ll go and apologise.”

So off he went.

He appeared in the afternoon room where the lovely ladies were finishing the washing up.

He walked up behind one of them and said: “Ah, excuse me, ma’am.”

She turned and, looking down her nose, replied: “YES!?”

Bobby said: “Well about what I said before…well..umm..well…I’m F%^&$# sorry!”

Good man Bobby. One of life’s true characters!