Sunshine & Shadow

by Larry Writer

  Anyway, come the fight … and I knocked him out in ten seconds. No, I’m joking. He went the distance and covered himself in glory.

  I take Hilary to Woolloomooloo and show her all the places where I grew up and tell her what I did there …

  My home is in Randwick and I often stay with Hilary, Joey and Adele in Paddington, but you can often find me in the ’Loo. As I mentioned, I go to Matthew Talbot on Sundays, and I’m at the PCYC most days and still have friends down there. I have mixed feelings about Woolloomooloo. It shaped me, for better and for worse. Those tiny streets and the terrace homes and the dear open-hearted friends who lived in them, the parks, pubs and shops, the glistening Harbour at the end of our old street never fail to make my heart sing. The people who live in that little harbourside suburb have an undeniable spirit. They pull together in the face of some of the worst circumstances that life can throw at them. I know I wouldn’t have had the strength to survive if I hadn’t cut my teeth in the ’Loo.

  Yet Woolloomooloo will always be for me synonymous with homelessness, poverty, crime, my mother’s death and my father on his worst days, and the sneering contempt with which some people of the ’Loo greeted every little triumph in my life. Invariably when I did well at anything, whether rugby league, boxing or the law, I was met with snide asides such as, ‘Gees, you won a gold medal … what, did your opponent only have one arm?’ I was glad when I got out of Woolloomooloo, I escaped not a moment too soon, and I don’t think I could ever live there again.

  What is life but a miracle? I’ve come full circle, from a little boy safe in the love of his mother and brother, through an alcoholic nightmare, and here I am again receiving the love of those whom I love. My life now is not Nirvana and not without its dramas but it’s a kinder and gentler life than any I have ever known. The more, the deeper I surrender to love and the past and the way that I am, the richer the reward.

  I am a spiritual person these days. I didn’t say ‘religious’. To me, religion is for those who are fearful of going to hell. Spirituality is for people who have already been to hell and want to make it back again.

  All through our estrangement, James kept a stash of press clippings about my life and career in a safe place. They’re precious, because in my drinking years, I lost everything. Looking at them, I can’t believe the things I’ve done in my time. I don’t gloss over the bad things. I take responsibility for them. It used to cause me pain to think about them. I’d run through them in my mind and hate myself. Now I can remember them and put them in perspective and not feel so awful. I surrender.

  I am what I am.

  A day after he gave his final interview for this book, on 1 April 2009, Stephen Dack took his own life.

  [JAMES]

  elegy for a champion

  One of the final gifts my brother gave to me was to tell me that the father of a very good old school friend was critically ill. Steve knew that my once-strong relationship with Peter Chidiac had weakened with the passing of time, and this may be an opportunity for us to reunite. And he knew how much it would mean to me to be able to say a final goodbye to Peter’s dad, Nobby Chidiac, who in my younger years had been like a father to me.

  The afternoon that Steve told me Nobby was on his final journey, I called Peter and we met at Canterbury Hospital. We went together to Nobby’s room. The old man didn’t recognise me for his life was ebbing away. Peter’s mother, Effie, did. She hugged me and told me that she had always felt that I was her other son.

  I kissed Nobby on the forehead and told him that I loved him and went down to the hospital cafeteria with Peter. We had a long chat about the old days, cricket in the back lane, card games which lasted days ...

  Two days later Nobby was gone. He had come to Australia from Lebanon with nothing, married Effie, fathered four great kids, and ran a corner shop in Elizabeth Street, Redfern. It was called The Friendly Store, and thanks to Nobby it lived up to its name. What a beautiful man he was.

  Steve and I attended Nobby’s funeral. During the service, my brother turned to me and said that it was good that I was showing some emotion. At the time, I didn’t really understand what he meant, but I would later remember his words and understand their significance.

  Afterwards, over a coffee, my brother was clearly very proud of how Peter Chidiac was handling the tragedy with strength and dignity. He told me he was very proud of Peter. I know now that Steve was also telling me, though not in so many words, that he would be proud of me, too, if I could be strong and dignified at his own impending funeral.

  Not too long afterwards, in March 2009, I received a phone call from an acquaintance who told me that in his opinion Steve wasn’t himself. That he was doing things that were not good for him. I hadn’t had a call like this one for ages, not since my brother’s dark years. I was alarmed. I believed that Steve had beaten his addictive disease and all was smooth sailing now and into the future. At last we were a normal family.

  Of course Steve’s disease hadn’t disappeared. It was never going away. He had simply learned to manage it. Today I know that his illness manifested itself as a quiet voice constantly whispering in his ear trying to persuade him to have a drink or a bet or both. It was a daily battle for him to deny that voice.

  Deeply worried by what the phone caller had said, I drove to Steve’s home in Randwick to try to assess what he was thinking and if anything was wrong. I knocked on the front door but there was no answer. Perhaps he was out the back. I went to the side gate, which I had repaired for him not long before. It was locked. I had keys, but not wanting to invade his privacy I convinced myself that everything was okay and left. My good feeling did not last. On Tuesday, 31 March, I rang Dominic D’Ettorre, one of Steve’s best friends, to ask whether he had spoken with my brother lately and, if so, did he feel that anything was wrong with him. Dominic replied that he had indeed talked to Steve and nothing seemed out of kilter. ‘James, he seems fine,’ he said.

  I was due to meet Steve on the morning of Thursday, 2 April at our publisher’s office to discuss this book. The final interviews had been completed and it was time for us to make decisions about the cover, the title and photographs.

  As it happened, all that week, my wife and I had been planning our son Riley’s birthday. His actual birthday fell on the Thursday, the day I was to meet Steve, but we had planned the party for the Saturday at our home. Mary and I were having a heated discussion about whether we should hire a magician for the party. She was against the idea, not wanting to spoil Riley. I was all for the magician. This time I won, and called a magician, but he told me he was booked on Saturday. He gave me the name of another conjuror, but he was unavailable too. Finally, after five unsuccessful calls, I came upon a magician who said he was able to do his tricks at our party. His name was Rod Junor, and he bills himself as ‘Australia’s Wittiest Magician. The Creator of Happy Memories’. Then, mid phone-call, I began to worry. ‘How come this bloke is available when no one else is?’ I wondered. ‘Isn’t he any good?’ I told Rod I would have another think and call him back to confirm the booking.

  On Wednesday, 1 April, I rang Steve. I asked him straight-out how he was. He replied, ‘I’m a million per cent!’ Reassured and relieved that he was okay, I talked with him about Riley’s birthday and reminded him that even though Riley turned three the following day, the party would take place on Saturday and I hoped he could make it. He seemed a little agitated when I mentioned that Thursday was Riley’s big day. ‘Ah! Riley’s birthday ...’ he declared. My final words to my brother were, ‘Anyway, I’ll see you for the book meeting tomorrow.’ Steve replied, ‘See you in the morning.’ I slept well that night.

  Today I believe Steve’s animated response when I told him that Riley’s birthday fell on Thursday meant that I had given him the day, the day on which his nephew was born, on which he should say goodbye to the world, and on which he would be remembered in all the years to come.

  Larry Writer, who helped me and Steve write this book, had a
rranged with Steve to collect him at his partner Hilary’s home in Paddington and drive him to the publisher’s office in Millers Point, across the city. I would make my own way and meet them there. As the time for the meeting approached I realised I was running a little late and rang Larry to tell him so. Larry said not to rush, that there had been no answer when he knocked on Hilary’s door, but he was sure Steve had stepped out and would turn up soon.

  I set off. It was raining that morning and the traffic was gridlocked. While driving, I realised I wasn’t focusing and was confused about where I was heading. I called Larry back. He said Steve still had not arrived. I suggested we postpone the meeting until another day because it wouldn’t be worthwhile without Steve.

  I turned around and drove back to my office in Edgecliff. In my heart I knew something was terribly wrong, but on the way and as I turned into the office car park I kept telling myself that all was well. I would get a cup of coffee, go to my office and work as usual.

  As I got out of the lift at my floor I was overpowered by a voice inside me telling me to go immediately to my brother’s house and that this was my opportunity to be a man. The voice repeated the message again and again. It was unavoidable and unmistakable.

  I now believe that it was Steve’s voice telling me, begging me, to be the first to see him. I knew that I couldn’t let him down, not this time.

  As I was driving to Steve’s home, Dominic D’Ettorre called me on the phone. I had let him know I was worried and he was crying, saying over and over, ‘I’m scared, I’m scared.’ I told him that I was too.

  As I drove the few kilometres to Steve’s place it was still raining and the drops on my windscreen were almost individually identifiable because everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. I pulled up outside the house – parking spaces were non-existent. Then a fellow came up to where I was double-parked and told me he was just leaving and I could have his spot. He then asked me in a friendly way what I was up to and I experienced an overwhelming urge to tell him that I had come to find my brother, but I didn’t.

  Just as I got out of my car, my work colleague and friend Ben Collier called me and, having heard that I was upset and on my way to Steve’s, offered to join me, but I asked him not to.

  I walked up the path and opened Steve’s front door with my set of keys. I went to my brother’s bedroom, knowing what I was going to find. When I saw his lifeless body on the bed, I couldn’t help but think I’d failed him. He was looking up and out the bedroom window towards the sky and I had a sense that he was relieved that I had answered his call.

  When Steve told me in our final phone call the night before that he would see me in the morning, I didn’t think it would be like this. I think, though, that Steve knew what he was going to do. My brother’s messages weren’t always easily deciphered. He was a very gentle man who was well read and intelligent and he thought very deeply about what he said and what his words would mean to their recipient.

  Moments later Dominic and Ben, who had come anyway, arrived. Other friends of Steve were with them. Seeing my emotional state, they knew that the fears none of us dared voice that morning were justified and that Steve had left us. Dominic wanted to go inside the house, but I told him that Steve wouldn’t want that. He agreed.

  Everyone was crying uncontrollably. I rang Steve’s old mate and boxing mentor Johnny Lewis to tell him. Johnny loved Steve as Steve loved him. Johnny rang the police because I couldn’t, and the rest of that day is a blur. All I can recall is receiving scores of text messages on my phone and it ringing constantly.

  That night, Mary and I cut our son’s birthday cake and had a piece each. I tried to hide my tears from the kids. We decided that Steve would have wanted us to go ahead with Riley’s party.

  The next day, among the many calls I received was one from Rod Junor, the magician. He wanted to know if he would be performing at Riley’s party on Saturday. I said I would get back to him.

  On Saturday the guests turned up at our home for the birthday celebration. We had ponies, farm animals and forty children running around our garden. Apart from the fact that my family was deeply grieving, the party was not going well. Many of the kids were scared of the animals, and none of them was really into face painting. The day was going pear-shaped as kids’ parties often do.

  Suddenly I had a surging feeling that Steve would be coming. Then someone told me that there was a fellow at the front door who wanted to talk to me.

  I opened the door and standing there was an older guy with a warm smile and a sparkle in his eye. This man looked nothing like Steve, apart from the smile and the sparkle, but I immediately felt my brother’s presence. It was the magician Rod Junor, who I hadn’t called back. He asked, ‘Are we on?’ I said, ‘Of course! What kept you?’

  Rod saved Riley’s party. He was funny and entertaining, and everyone was entranced by him. Steve had come after all.

  When Rod finished his act I asked him to drive his car around to the lane at the rear of the house so I could help him lug his big trunk of tricks into the boot. I was amazed at what happened next. This elderly man bent down and picked up that huge and heavy trunk and in one movement literally threw it into the back of his car. Then he came over to me and hugged me tightly and told me that he loved me and I told him that I loved him too.

  The following Monday I called Rod. I couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened. I asked him why he had turned up even though I hadn’t confirmed the job with him. He told me he had read that Steve had passed away in the newspaper and he himself had considered taking his life many years before and that he came to the party for me. I thanked him and told him again that I loved him. I will always believe that, through Rod, I was talking to my brother.

  Organising Steve’s funeral was an emotion-charged experience. What would be right for him, this special and very unique man, would be wrong for so many others. I felt Steve’s hand guiding us through it all.

  When Dominic D’Ettorre, Ben Collier, Johnny Lewis and I got together on the Monday after Steve died and decided on our various responsibilities, it seemed as though we all held one piece of an incredibly important puzzle. We made those pieces fit. They all just fell into place.

  St Mary’s Cathedral was made available for Steve, even though it was Easter week. Dominic created the audio-visual presentation that was screened at the service. Johnny organised those who would speak and the funeral director, John Manning, who treated Steve as if he were his own brother. Ben did a lot of the follow-up detail to ensure all ran smoothly. The service came together beautifully. These friends are incredible people, the salt of the earth. I will also cherish forever the cards and messages from people offering me support and expressing their love and respect for my brother.

  In the ten years I attended the school at St Mary’s I had never seen the huge cathedral packed. For Steve’s final send-off it was. Close to 2000 people were there to say goodbye to him. Through the orations and tributes by Johnny, Dominic, Denis Cleary, Julian Stewart and myself, many, many tears were shed, and they flowed freely when film of Steve doing his famous handstand on his skateboard came onto the video screen accompanied by the Beatles’ song ‘I’ll Follow the Sun’.

  Many songs remind me of my brother: ‘I’ll Follow the Sun’, definitely, and Coldplay’s ‘Viva la Vida’ with its line about St Peter calling my name. The song ‘Stand Up and Fight’ from Carmen Jones, which was based on ‘ The Toreador Song’ from Bizet’s opera Carmen, sums up for me Steve’s never-say-die spirit.

  Afterwards we all went back to the Balkan restaurant owned and run by John Bacic (Steve’s friend from school), his beautiful wife Tanja and his parents Nedo and Danica, who were like Steve’s parents.

  Steve’s passing left a huge vacuum in my life, and I tried to fill it by throwing myself into projects I thought he’d approve of. As with Riley’s party, my brother seemed right there with me every step of the way.

  I travelled overseas with my wife and some close frien
ds. Mary, Johnny Lewis, his partner Ingreed and I stopped over in Rome for a few days on the way back. We all went to the Vatican and toured majestic St Peter’s Basilica. While wandering inside the vast church I was drawn in a particular direction and sat down at an altar. As soon as I was seated the area was roped off, a priest appeared and a mass began. I knelt and prayed. I was soon joined by Mary, Ingreed and Johnny. We three sat together quietly and ended up having communion. We did not share our thoughts until that evening when, at dinner, each of us told how we had been overwhelmed by the experience. What we’d shared was a mass for Steve at St Peter’s Basilica.

  On Boxing Day 2009, I joined the crew of 100-foot super-maxi yacht Investec Loyal to sail in the Sydney to Hobart Classic. About five months prior, I was asked by my good mate Anthony Bell to be a part of his dream to sail in this race. He told me he’d wanted to do the Sydney to Hobart for a long time and that I was the first person he’d asked to join him because he believed the challenge would be good for me. Anthony’s generosity of spirit has created a lifetime memory for many people and, just as importantly, it raised money for needy charities, including Matthew Talbot and the PCYC at Woolloomooloo.

  We held a fundraising event attended by 650 of Australia’s most powerful business people and sport and show business celebrities. A bunch of us who would be sailing spoke to encourage the guests to dig deep. The highlight of the lunch was a performance by a group of clients of Matthew Talbot Hostel who sang ‘Viva La Vida’ so beautifully it left the crowd overcome with emotion. The musicians, whom I had heard playing at the Matthew Talbot and invited to perform at the big lunch, had all known Steve.

  I needed to do something that was extraordinarily difficult as a tribute to Steve. The Sydney to Hobart race is one of the most demanding in the world, and especially so for me, for I had never sailed before. This was a moment of truth, for there was no guarantee that I would come through the ordeal and if I failed I would be failing in public. I wanted to be hauled out of my comfort zone, taken away from my office and business and family where I have respect, power and authority, and into a dangerous situation in which my courage and stamina would be tested.