Match of the day

Match of the day

The Sun has billed it as the match of the day – University, the underdogs, facing off against Saint George.

In my mind's eye, I catch a glimpse of my father Bede on that morning in February 1932. He is walking from Hurtsville Station, down the frangipani streets, past the new red and brick tile houses. With his canvas bag slung over his shoulder there's a spring in his step, as he makes his way towards oval.

Thousands line the streets leading up to the oval; while inside, the ground is full to bursting point. Young fans clutching autograph books hang like monkeys on the fence.

In the humid confines of the change room, Bede has started to sweat. His team mate, Tom Parsonage, paces up and down.

'How about that crowd!'

'They're not here to watch us, mate,' Bede says. 'You can be sure of that.'

Saint George wins the toss and elects to bat and are off to a rapid start. On the first fall of wicket, when the number three batsman appears, the crowd erupts. Two young boys clamber over the perimeter fence. A police officer intervenes to stop them from grabbing Bradman by the shirt.

Bede's bowling is not up to his usual standard and he doesn't manage to dislodge Bradman, who eventually falls leg-before-wicket to Parsonage for 50. By the end of the day Saint George has amassed a total of 304 and, in the dwindling light, Bede and Tom Parsonage stride to the crease, to open the batting for University. The match will continue on the following weekend, when University will try to equal Saint George's batting total.

There were 8000 people at Hurstville for that Saturday's cricket match. My father had to content himself with the hope that next season he might have another crack at taking Bradman's wicket.


Trove Reference
Corbett, C. (28 February 1932 ). Bradman's crowd, The Sun, p. 35.

Hunger winter

Hunger Winter The Canadian Army slogged north through the harsh winter of 1944-5. Before them, the Germans had fled, leaving behind a population, reduced to squatting like rats in the rubble. My father Bede was with a field ambulance team in late 1944, when they approached a bombed-out town in northern Belgium. One of his jobs was to inspect the town and establish if any medical or other supplies had been left behind by the enemy. Snow had piled up beside the road leading into the town and two ragged bow-legged children were scrabbling in the rubbish, fighting over an apple core. Bede recoiled at the sight. The army trucks growled to a halt in the centre of town and Bede and a fellow officer jumped off. As they entered a side street, they caught a nasty whiff of stale urine, but the town seemed deserted. Half-way along, they found a boarded-up shop, displaying a sign that read: "niets in Winkel, alles in Kelder". The other officer looked at Bede. 'What does that say?' 'It means something like – "there's nothing in the shop, it's all in the cellar".' Bede pushed open the front door. 'Let's take a look.' Down a wooden ladder, they entered a basement where a frail old woman stood in the gloom. When she recognised them as Canadians, her face brightened. She pointed to a couple of dried-up potatoes on a shelf. Bede shook his head. 'Nee, danke.' The woman gestured, putting two fingers to her lips and blowing out. Bede rifled through his pockets, handed her a cigarette from his packet and bent over to light it for her. Their eyes connected and she gave him a wide grin, showing a row of nicotine-stained teeth. They nodded a farewell and started to back out towards the ladder. Outside, the two hollowed-out children they'd seen earlier were standing in wait. They must have had followed the convoy into town. Until the Army set up camp, they had nothing to give them. In the years to come, that time in Belgium and Holland would be referred to as the "hunger winter". My father never talked much about what he had witnessed there. Instead, he would berate us when we refused to eat our food and remind us of the starving children in war torn Europe.

A description of Bede

Day 8 in the Family History Writing Challenge is looking at using the sense of sight to describe an ancestor.

The exercise

"Sit down and for 10 minutes write a description of your ancestor that is your viewpoint ancestor for February.  Write as much as you can interesting descriptive phrases or full sentences if you like. Use only sight as your sense to describe him or her. Now don’t go dumping all of this into one big paragraph into your story.  Save it. And when the time is right insert bits and bobs into your story at just the right moment."

This description of my father is based on photos of him as a young man and my memories of him when he was middle aged. He died when I was a teenager.

My description

With his broad smile, full lips and straight, debonair moustache he had a Clark Gable look about him. The black hair was thick on top and cut short at the sides, displaying his prominent ears. There was something about the strong cut of the jaw, the pale skin and dark blue eyes that hinted of his Irish heritage. His smile revealed a straight row of teeth and he took particular care to keep them clean.
In his rugby team photo he stands erect, arms folded, smiling, looking straight at the camera, as though ready to pounce. A lifetime of playing sport gave him the easy agility of an athlete, despite his imposing 6 feet. He exuded the confidence of the first-born in the family, like a leader of the tribe. The rest of the family all looked up to him and, if there was dissension in the ranks, I certainly never heard about it.