‘Pretty sick.’ Stevie sniffed and rubbed his nose. ‘Cancer sick.’
‘Huh,’ I said. ‘Right.’
Ice ages came and went.
‘Twice,’ he continued. I stopped. Stevie didn’t, but turned and jogged backwards. He said he’d got leukaemia at fourteen but didn’t die, and then he got non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma — the bad one — when he was seventeen, and still hadn’t died.
‘I’m basically just looking forward to playing.’ He grinned over his shoulder as he trotted into the sheds.
I followed and sat down furthest from the heater. I didn’t hear a word the coach said. There was a roar in my ears that wasn’t a crowd. Twice I looked across at Stevie and once he looked back at me with a tight smile and held out his hand, palm down. It shook a bit. He was so grey he was blending into the atmosphere — the concrete sheds, the steel clouds and the blade-like cold. The coach called his name, welcomed him to the team, shook his hand and said he was on the bench. I was on the half-forward flank.
I wasn’t playing the best game of my life but I’d had two shots at goal and no hard ball gets (person KPIs) by the time Stevie came on in the forward pocket near the end of the first quarter. Almost immediately, the ball flew over his head and Stevie turned to chase, high-kneeing in flapping headgear and our woollen green-and-gold jumper while three boys in blue closed rapidly. He got to the footy, grabbed it in an ungainly lunge, then stopped dead and in one smooth movement swerved into a crouch to face the chase. He jerked his head slightly and swayed his shoulders to let the first guy flash by, straightened and blurred around the second, before bending time and space by holding the footy out in his left hand then slowly drawing it back to his body as he sold some candy to the last kid. He wheeled onto his right boot and roosted the pill at the goal. He was feeling the game. It was moving with him, not past him.
The footy fell twenty metres short. Into my arms, all alone.
‘Great leg, Stevie boy!’ I hollered after slotting it, holding my hands up and clapping. Stevie gave me a tight, double thumbs-up. It wasn’t a pass. He’d looked, and I’m sure he’d felt, like the thing was going the journey.
‘Um, yeah,’ he said. ‘No worries.’
It doesn’t come back easily. By half-time, I’d had a couple more pings while he’d gone off, come back on, been dragged off and come back on again — having had that solitary effective disposal.
And not for want of trying. He ran and he chased, scuttling around the ground like a beserk daddy-longlegs in a banzai charge. He was braver than I, his head always over the ball diving into a pack, but he was tossed aside easily and three beats too slow when it was in his hands. It had been a long seven years.
It was a long season. There were a few more moments as it played out, but only a few. The last baubles from a stolen wealth of talent. He was making up the numbers, and he knew it. Still, he played the year with an extra jumper under his guernsey and a smile under his headgear.
As we walked off the field after losing our last game, which had been our first final, I suggested we make ourselves scarce in a pubwards direction to celebrate, well, everything really. He smiled and looked over my shoulder, where Naomi was waiting for him. ‘Nah, mate’ — he waggled his translucent eyebrows — ‘I gotta date.’
He held out his hand to shake mine and, as he walked away, he paused, turned and thanked me heaps for helping him with the footy — he’d loved it, every bit of it. I watched him clasp Naomi’s hand.
‘Um, yeah,’ I said. ‘No worries.’
Standing tall
by Peter Walsh
ADELAIDE IS NOT known as the sporting capital of Australia, but the City of Churches has produced some outstanding talent. Basketball guru Jan Stirling fits neatly into that category. The ‘pocket rocket’ has lived and breathed the game for over three decades and her contribution on and off the court has been stunning.
As a player and coach, her impressive statistics jump out and grab you by the scruff of the neck, but Jan’s defining quality is her ability to extract the best out of people, and use discipline as motivation for the many athletes she mentors. Whether as an assistant or in charge, she always receives full attention from her troops.
Jan and her sister, Maxine, were adopted in the 1950s by Veronica and Kevin Graham. They were raised in a house full of love, and both showed an eagerness to participate in sport. Netball and tennis featured prominently, but basketball was central, and when Jan was just eleven years old, she was already playing seniors. She was feisty, and mastered the role of ball carrier and leader. It wasn’t long before she zipped through the age groups and made a statement to the national coach, Jim Madigan. Jan felt privileged to be running around and playing alongside Opals teammates Bronte Russell-Coburn, Glenys Bauer and Shirley Blewett. They in turn welcomed the steely, determined playmaker with open arms.
Her father didn’t cope too well as a spectator because the referees caused him heartburn. So he stayed home. Her mother was able to control her emotions with more discipline, and smiled warmly and often at her daughter’s basketball exploits. Jan’s greatest supporter passed away in 1974.
There may have been the odd night out in her formative years, but she decided the best way to the top was to stick to the ‘D’ word: discipline. Particularly when it comes to eating. An awareness of food intake has always been high on her agenda. Not a fan of red meat, she nibbles on lettuce like a rabbit, and could eat an entire orchard of apples. She is a cheap shout on Sundays, as she fasts all day until the evening meal with little damage to the wallet.
Though she eats like a little bird, she walks like a roadrunner. Like someone on a mission, she motors along at a very brisk pace — though not always in the right direction. When this Jane Saville of basketball walks unfamiliar places, it’s not a rarity that she can wander off the suggested route. Her claim is that it is very therapeutic to exercise. And it’s a necessary evil. Because of her involvement in coaching at the highest level, there is a need to travel to all parts of the basketball world. She parks her posterior in stadia, spotting playmakers who might cause angst for the girls in green and gold.
She might be an expert at recognising talented athletes, but her skills with technology are moderate, at best. An SMS from Jan should be photographed as a rare find. Tablets and social media are lost on her. Sleep is a luxury; four to five hours is her absolute maximum. She reckons she doesn’t need any more, and bounces out of bed at 5 a.m. to start her morning run of ten kilometres. And she doesn’t need music to help her as she motors along — her mind is focused on basketball.
As a player, she was shorter than most, and was affectionately called ‘Little One’ by Opals’ team manager Betty Watson. That nickname doesn’t do justice to her undoubted skills and speed around the court. Before playing for Australia, Jan suited up as a pup for Forrestville and then moved to the North Adelaide Rockets, with whom she enjoyed a premiership win in 1990 with Mark Moliter as coach. It was no surprise when Jan took over as the coach of Adelaide Lightning in 1993.
Lightning was in good hands. There were many times when I watched with admiration as she guided, cajoled and directed the troops while they moved around their dance floor. Her messages were always delivered with authority and no one was ever left guessing.
Stirling’s record was, well, sterling. From 1993 to 2004, the team played in the Women’s National Basketball League (WNBL) finals every year, appearing in five grand finals and winning four. It was during this rich vein of success that she was appointed assistant coach of the Opals, supporting head coach Tom Maher.
In the world of elite sport, some people would find it difficult to play second fiddle. Not Jan Stirling. It has always been her belief that the role of any assistant is to provide total back-up, offer constant encouragement, reinforce the message being delivered by the coach and be available at any time to fly the team flag.
Jan eventually became recognised as being one of the most astute mentors in the business, so much so
that the Port Adelaide Football Club secured her services to help mentor the young members of their team. This role gave her the chance to further demonstrate how proficient she was when dealing with the varying emotions of budding sportsmen and women.
When you are involved in a team sport where travel is a common occurrence, the time in the air can be used to establish and built team spirit. Jan had a strict regime when it came to unity in any group and there was always a guarantee that during those hours, all players would be encouraged to share ideas, come up with plans and make sure problems were never kept to themselves. She would be the sounding board, showing her insatiable appetite to get to know each individual player’s strengths and weaknesses, and to encourage a sharing mentality. These leadership qualities and communication skills were key reasons why she was so successful.
Not to say that Jan couldn’t be tough as well; there was certainly also an iron fist, which she only used when absolutely necessary and the ‘Stirling stare’ usually resulted in action. Often times, though, the gun was loaded but no bullets were fired.
The constant travel was never seen as a hindrance — on the contrary, the chance to be away resulted in the players becoming closer and the team benefiting. Particularly when circumstances became testing.
In 1975, the national women’s basketball team was heading to Colombia for the World Championships. The flight was long and the leg room was minimal. A decision had been made before departure to stop over in a place called Esmeralda in Argentina, the rationale being that another hit out for the team would be advantageous. No one is prepared to own up to that call, but the team found themselves playing a scratch match against a local indigenous team on an outside court, days before they were to play the Soviet Union at Worlds. Just to add to the adventure, the team then had to board nerve-wrackingly small planes and endure a barge ride over rapids on the Amazon River. All part of the journey and an important example of the virtues of flexibility. And one of Jan’s best memories!
When Jan became head coach in 2001, it was the first time an ex-Australian player, and a woman, had ever taken charge of the top team. Her troops wore gold around their necks after an emphatic victory in Melbourne at the Commonwealth Games in 2006. But the World Championships in the same year saw their best result: a win in the final over Brazil. The team bus rocked on the way back to the hotel, and I wondered at the time if a green apple was being masticated on the journey in celebration by you-know-who.
At the end of that euphoric trip, Jan made sure that every player who had ever represented the Opals was sent a letter acknowledging their contribution. One of my closest friends in Ballarat is Carol Waters-Stoddart, a forward. On receiving the letter, Carol cried tears of joy.
It is these little touches that make Stirling tick. Jan also never forgets to send a Christmas card. The mailman says hi at the ABC offices in Adelaide, and my day in early December is complete. She obviously takes time with the message inside because the wording is always personal and wise.
When she was younger, like many talented sportswomen, she was labelled a ‘tomboy’. But her résumé shows she outgrew that cliché. From playing senior basketball at eleven to representing her state for fifteen consecutive championships; being a member of Australia’s 1975 World Championship team, and WNBL coach of the year in 1993 — hands up those who don’t know Jan Stirling now? I don’t see too many wind farms.
Her prowess away from the beads of perspiration that drop on court has been well recognised. In 2008, she was made a Member of the Order of Australia for her contribution to sport as an elite coach, player and contributor to professional development and the community.
And Jan’s résumé continues to grow. In 2010, Jan was appointed as the executive officer of Sports Medicine Australia in South Australia. She is a consultant at the Port Adelaide Football Club. She is also the head coach and director of the women’s Paralympic basketball program at Basketball Australia, and was of course courtside at the basketball stadium watching the Gliders playing at the 2012 Paralympics in London.
Her communication skills and abilities to extract the best from elite athletes is known not only around Australia, but globally, and Jan is still ‘mother hen’ to many athletes around the world. Traits like loyalty, honesty and integrity are high on most people’s lists, and they fit her like a glove. This diminutive figure stands tall in the sports world.
Jan, a ‘Stirling’ Australian.
Tony
by Rohan Kennedy
IT WAS 1991. I was nineteen and playing my second season of cricket out of school, in the Adelaide Turf competition. My life experience up until then was slim: I knew how to pass exams, drive a car, play cricket and that was about it.
In my first season, I had been the last picked for our B-grade team, only in there for my fielding and to bowl a few overs of leg spin, usually after the game was decided. I practised twice a week and relished my time in the nets almost as much as the matches. Charlie, the captain of the As, noted my enthusiasm and, at the start of the new season, approached me to captain the Cs. It was an honour I gratefully accepted, even though I had aspired to play at a higher level. While the team was the C grade for our club, we played in the H grade competition.
We started the season well enough, chasing down a hundred and sixty in the first match. I made sixty not out, the first time I had ever passed thirty. Life was good and captaincy was easy.
After that, we lost every game.
Tony first came to practice a few games into the season. The good thing about our club was that, although we were nominally college old scholars, anyone was welcome to play, as long as they paid their subs. Almost half the players in the three teams had no connection to my old school whatsoever — they were attracted by our immaculate grounds or invited by friends of friends. Tony, however, didn’t appear to have any friends; he came with his mother, an Italian widow in black. He must have been in his early thirties; receding hair; medium height; stout.
As a new player, he was more than likely going to have to start in the Cs. As it was, we needed players for our team anyway. The best players from our first match were already embedded in the Bs, and doing well. My Saturday mornings were beginning to take on a familiar routine — ringing numbers from a dog-eared sheet, trying to convince people I had never met to play over two consecutive Saturday afternoons.
It was obvious from the start that Tony was different. He barely uttered a single word, and the few times he did, it was as a whisper. Tony never looked you in the eye, and had the limpest handshake I had ever felt. It was disconcerting, more the act of producing a hand to be shaken than participating in a handshake. His grip on the bat was not much stronger — a couple of times he let a bat go in the nets, but it was hardly a threat to anyone. Occasionally he got bat on ball in a kind of happy coincidence. More often than not he swung the bat after the ball had passed him by.
Everything about Tony seemed to happen in slow motion. Our nets were turf, but the groundsman only ever strung up three out of six at most so, on a pleasant summer evening, each net might have as many as seven or eight bowlers. Not wanting to get in the way, he would stand back with the faster bowlers, even though his run-up was only five paces. And someone would always push in front of him before he walked in to bowl. When he finally got his chance, he bowled at a gentle pace — though by keeping the seam perfectly upright, Tony could swing the ball both ways.
By the midpoint of the season, we were well established at the bottom of the ladder. If we won the toss and batted, a hundred was a good total. I always opened, and was usually first out, typically bowled driving too optimistically at a swinging delivery. I would spend the rest of the day umpiring and scoring, then captaining our fielding side once we were all out. Day two meant more fielding and perhaps an early finish if the other captain was keen for the pub. If he wasn’t, we would bat again and try to stave off outright defeat. We never did.
Tony was always there, in his whites, half an hour before the s
tart. His mother would wait in her car all day while he played. It never occurred to me to introduce myself to her.
The first time I asked him to open the bowling, it was only because we were playing two short. But Tony proved to be our most reliable bowler. Openers would block him, but sometimes they snicked, and a few of those times we caught them. A few sloggers would take a liking to him, and try to hit him for six, but if they missed, he’d hit their stumps. Tony never appealed for a wicket, but if he heard the rest of us appeal, he would slowly turn round and wait for the umpire’s decision. Whether his delivery resulted in a play-and-miss, a boundary or a wicket, it all seemed pretty much the same to him.
In the field, I would park Tony at mid-wicket. He could stop anything within about a metre radius, usually with his feet. Anything that went past him was guaranteed at least three runs. As we often played short, sometimes it was quicker for me to chase from slip, rather than wait for Tony to turn around, shuffle after the ball and underarm it back.
I never stayed in long enough to bat with him, but our innings often concluded with a run-out because Tony never called to his batting partner. Either that, or he would be bowled out, as he tended to move his bat too slowly to counter any accurate deliveries. I always pencilled Tony in last in our batting order.
The last match of the season came as a bit of a relief. We’d had our trials, but at least we hadn’t forfeited any games. And, despite some tension at various times, none of our players had been reported to the disciplinary committee. Even though a couple of our guys had played in shorts or under false names because they were unregistered, nothing came of it as we were never contenders for anything other than the wooden spoon.
We were away, which meant not having to remind the team about supplying the drinks and afternoon tea. If we had been at home, it was normally one or two packets of barbecue-flavoured Shapes and perhaps half a watermelon, sliced with a butter knife onto a paper plate.
ABC Grandstand's Unsung Sporting Heroes Page 18