Just keep it to yourself fella

Peter Langston | February 26, 2023

Whilst the passing of my father just prior to Christmas in 2018 cast a wistful yet sad pawl over our family, it has also gave us space in which to share some of his stories. In a way its a form of homage to retell a tale from your Dad: an on-sharing which allows a piece of him to live on. Whilst it doesn't fill the hole left by this fallen branch in the family tree, it at least strongly suggests that living wood will go on. Of course, if its a good yarn, all the better.

My old man grew up in Kogarah, having been born into the heart of the St George area in 1925. Even though he crossed the Georges River in the early 1950's and spent the next thirty years in The Shire, he remained solidly a Kogarah boy all his life. To the end, the tape that draped about his neck holding the few keys he needed at 93, was a St George 2010 Members lanyon. He never accepted amalgamation with Illawarra (he'd be upset I named them). He and his brother Brian used to call the Dragons, St George The Third ... StGeo-Ill ... and he would quickly remind me of my predestined need to be a Dragons fanatic. He and Brian went to watch St George beat Balmain in the final of 1956 and begin that world record eleven year run of premierships. My role was my birth, preceding the victory by about five hours. After three daughters, I was the first son. To cap a good day, it was his 31st birthday!

When he started following AFL, it was more than parochialism that made him choose the Swans. Colour combinations played their part.

In the days of him being a young man, his passion for St George wasn't seeded primarily by football. In fact, although the Dragons won two premierships in the 1940's, it was cricket which was his major interest but not as a player. Dad would be the first to admit that he had limited cricket skills. Anyone else, even a casual observer, would say that was an exaggeration However, family members excelled at the game. Three of his mother's brothers, Uncles Bobbie, Lance and Allan all played First Grade with the Saints, ranging across the years from the late 1930's through to early 1950. A fourth uncle, Les Byrne, played lower grades and had a trophy named in his honour when he died tragically young.

Whilst Lance was successful, it was the youngest Allan or as he was known, Skeeter (front row, far left in the title picture), who was far and away the best performed of the Byrne brothers. Emerging into First grade after some big scores in 2nd Grade at the start of the 1940's, he established him self as the regular opener throughout the decade and would be later named by the Saints in the team of the decade for the 1940's. Not a bad effort considering the talent which played during that decade. Morris, Lindwall and O'Reilly and the legendary wicketkeeper Ernie Laidler would keep him company while the world played their own games.

A couple of those blokes feature in a story I first heard at a family bbq in the 1960: a story I heard told from both my Dad's perspective and Skeeter's.

In the late 1940's, Bradman had retired from Test cricket and a young crop of kids had emerged when domestic cricket resumed after the War and were joined by a group of players who had done their time in the services. It was a vibrant time for Australian cricket and two of the brightest of the youngsters were Ray Lindwall and Arthur Morris, both team mates of Skeeter on most Saturdays. Meanwhile, during working hours, Skeeter and Dad were running what today would be called a start up: a two man operation servicing the electrics on cars.

Deep into one Saturday morning, Skeeter turned up at Mum and Dad's rented flat, strewn with nappies from my eldest sister and Mum "somewhat pregnant" (Skeeter's description) with a second.

"Nebby," says a breathless Skeeter, "I need a favour. I've got a flat battery and I've got to get to North Sydney Oval. Do you reckon you could give me a lift?"

Dad took one look at the state of the flat, the state of his wife and quickly agreed!

"Thing is Neb," Skeeter went on, "I promised a couple of blokes a lift so would it be alright if we take them too?"

Through the curtains, Dad could see Lindwall and Morris waiting nervously on the footpath. They had been regular visitors to family events and Dad had known them since Lindwall was the leading batsman in the Green Shield and bizarrely, Morris was the leading bowler.

"No worries," said the old man, "but you square it with June."

In Dad's telling of the story, the snow job Skeeter pulled on Mum was the most remarkable part of the story.

They were soon off in his Standard Flying 8, looking like a mob of gangsters. Remember, these were the days of men wearing suits when they were out and those stylish Fedora hats.

As they drove along, Lindwall piped up.

"Les, do you reckon we could stop up here and pick up a mate of mine? Its just, we are playing against him today and I'd hate him to miss out"

Dad, driving to a deadline and with Skeeter constantly urging him along "short cuts" and to "put the gas to her", was already feeling a tad irritated but how do you say no to Australia's premier fast bowler.

Where they did the pick up was the reason for a suspension in the story when I first heard it, as Dad and Skeeter named different locations, both with compelling evidence, although I learned over the years that the old man rarely got such facts wrong. However, when the narrative resumed, Skeeter described the unknown stranger squeezing into the already crowded back seat to warm welcomes and the discussion in the vehicle turning inevitably to cricket and the current Australian side.

Now you'd think that Dad, sandwiched into a car with four First Grade cricketers, some of which had already answered a higher calling, might have minded his p's and q's but as he was providing the transport and felt comfortable in the company of Lindwall and Morris, I guess he felt entitled to comment. In general, Dad was never shy in giving an opinion, even then.

After a series of comments about selection and certain players, the new bloke in the back chipped in with a question just as they left Sydney's famous Coathanger, on the Miller's Point side.

"So Les. What do you think about Keith Miller?"

"Huh!!!" Dad exclaimed, happy to have a chance to spray forth on a favourite topic. "Bloody show pony. Not a patch on Ray. Spends all his time wiping the Brylcreem through his hair and showing off for the ladies."

"Really? So you don't see any value in Miller then?"

"Oh don't get me wrong. He's a good player but if it wasn't for Ray, he wouldn't look so good. Gets most of his wickets because there's a much better bowler on at the other end." Dad looks knowingly at Skeeter and added, "spends most of his time on the grog, I hear."

There was silence in the car as Dad pulled up at North Sydney Oval. The players jumped out with earnest thank you's and Skeeter slipped Dad a few quid for petrol. It was only then that Dad noticed the big grin on his face.

"Les?"

The voice was coming from beside the driver's window. Lindwall's mate, the North Sydney player, was standing there, the brim of his hat dipped to obscure his face.

"You might be right about Nugget but ..." the brim lifted to reveal Keith Millers unexpected face, "... but I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell everybody!" He dropped five quid onto Dad's lap.

You know, I reckon I must have heard that story told twenty times since that afternoon in 1960's, at BBQ's and family gatherings. I told it myself to a nephew a few weeks ago at Dad's funeral. Good stories are worthy of retelling.

It's just a matter of who you tell them to.