The Adventures of the Honey Badger

by Nick Cummins

  THE PORT MACQUARIE FILES

  Every now and then in life you meet someone who really gets it, someone who sees only opportunity.

  Earlier this year, I had the chance to return to my roots and visit the great town of Port Macquarie with the old fella. He claimed to be the prodigal son, the unofficial mayor and have a key to the city. Turns out they’d changed the locks . . .

  Anyhow, you might recall that the old shagger played a bit of rugby in Port back in the glorious 1980s, and seeing as though he was reuniting with a few of his past team-mates – the ones who still take his calls – I thought I’d tag along on an adventure for once in an effort to find out if he was any good. Evidence was scarce.

  We were heading to St Joseph’s Primary School the next day to catch up with a couple of the old boys – David Hughes (principal) and Mark Bullock (teacher) – but first, it was time to settle in and have a night out at the local. Getting the truth juice going was imperative to my investigation.

  So there we were, having a helluva night with a few of the old blokes, who refused to corroborate the old man’s glory days yarns. Then it happened. I bent the ear of the former team doctor and local vet, Frank Arnell. Almost like it was rehearsed for a pitch meeting, he tells me how the old bloke scored four tries in a first-grade game playing second row. The old man blushed and said, ‘No more’, before quietly assuring me it was five. Like any good detective, I had my doubts, and they were confirmed when I saw money changing hands late in the night . . .

  Anyhow, next day we visited St Joseph’s in Laurieton – a little worse for wear – to meet 11-year-old wheelchair rugby champ, Harry Clist.

  Dave and Mark had set up a meet with Harry and all the kids at a school assembly. The Badge was on high alert. Last time I was at a primary school assembly it was 1998 and teachers were forcing us to ‘do the Nutbush’ in unison.

  Anyhow, crisis averted. No such occurrence. I had a bloody great time with Harry and the kids. He’s a bloody winner, that kid.

  As you’ll see from the pics, life has dished up some pretty tough servings to Hazza, but he has the heart of a bear and the optimism of a wannabe actress straight off the bus in Hollywood. Difference is, Harry’s gonna make it. Hell, he already has.

  Most people missing a couple of running sticks and a wing would struggle to cope both physically and emotionally, yet Harry thrives. He’s found his niche and plays to his strengths.

  He’s set his sights on the 2020 Olympics in Tokyo and wants to bring back gold in wheelchair rugby. With his attitude, and his mum, Sue, putting in big time, I reckon he’ll have a real crack. She runs him all over the joint to help him fulfil his dreams. Good on ya, Sue!

  This is me and Harry on the lookout for low-flying ducks.

  If you ever feel a bit average and life’s getting you down, you need to think about people like Harry who don’t just cope but achieve! They don’t see obstacles, they see opportunity.

  Harry will succeed in life because he gets it. He’s not weighed down by all the rubbish of life; he just focuses on what’s ahead – it’s a mindset.

  Ramming speed, Harry, you’re a good man!

  VITAL AUSSIE VERNACULAR

  GET THE ARSE:

  Get sacked or punted

  GET YOUR ARSE INTO GEAR:

  Get moving

  THE BIG C

  A lot of people have asked me how the old bloke is travelling. In case you don’t know, he’s been battling prostate cancer for a few years now. They say it’s incurable.

  But he’s still kicking and hasn’t lost his sense of humour, despite the fact he’s had more than his fair share of radiation treatments – 67 in fact.

  There are two machines in use where he receives his treatment – one is called the Rainbow and the other is called the Coral Coast. Calming music – Chisel – is played while they laser the hell out of him.

  Like my little mate Harry from earlier, Dad’s an optimist, and he won’t miss an opportunity to take the piss. Just recently when he was getting zapped with lasers, the old bloke turned to the nurses and asked if they could find him a couple of frozen chickens so he could jam them under his arms and get dinner done at the same time. He also asked for his own choice of music – so now the poor staff are forced to endure Meat Loaf’s ‘Bat Out of Hell’ on repeat while he’s getting deep fried.

  Another time he asked to change the name of the machines to Nagasaki and Hiroshima. When a young nurse asked why he said, ‘Well, I’m getting what they got in 1945.’ No, he has no idea what PC is. He thinks it stands for People’s Choice.

  But you can’t keep the bastard down. He goes to work, drives to the hospital, whacks on the Mardi Gras gown, gets zapped and heads back to work.

  One first-timer was sitting in the waiting room with him recently and Dad was trying to comfort him. ‘It’s cool, mate,’ he said. ‘Just be careful of the skid mark on machine two!’ The poor bastard was terrified!

  The old bloke has a habit of leaving the TV on in his room when he goes to sleep. The other night he told me that he’s going to move the TV out because every time he wakes up through the night, some clown wants to sell him something – bloody infomercials.

  All in all, he’s going OK. He keeps pressing forward and has even installed a GoPro on his surf ski to, in his words, ‘record epic surfing moments’. He’s seen a few sharks in his time but reckons they’d get severe indigestion if they had a crack at him!

  While it’s tough at times, I know he’s not beaten. Keep up the good work, fella!

  VITAL AUSSIE VERNACULAR

  A PERSUASIVE PERSON:

  1. The bloke could sell boomerangs to the Aborigines.

  2. Could sell ice to the Eskimos.

  3. Could sell a pork roll at a synagogue.

  NETBALL COACHING IN CAMBODIA

  Thailand has a netball team. I know because my sister Bernadette plays with the mighty Thailand Tigers. And from the games I’ve caught, I’d be very anxious to come up against most of them on the rugby field! Hell, they’re taught Muay Thai kickboxing the moment they can walk! Anyhow, the team is made of up a mixture of expats and locals who love to have a lash. They play a couple of international tournaments each year, normally against the bordering countries.

  A few years back, in 2013, the old boy decided he’d had enough of this ‘soft’ rugby stuff and instead decided to go on tour with the sister to see how real athletes do it in Cambodia. At the time, he was at the Singapore Sevens, where my brother Luke was playing with the Casuarina Cougars. Must have been the last straw . . .

  Then he got the phone call from Bernadette: ‘Dad, the coach is crook and can’t make it to Cambodia for the tournament. You up for it?’ The answer was obvious and rhymed with duck dress.

  Now, the old boy had been to a few games, but an expert he was not! To this day he thinks GA stands for general admission. Still, sitting on the flight from Bangkok to Phnom Penh gave him plenty of time to read Netball for the Beginners and empowered him for the days ahead. The team got together for a short hit-out before the tournament, and from the live Skype chats I was impressed that they didn’t question any of Dad’s rugby stretches and warm-up activities. Even when he told them to put their necks into it and that the best way to lift was with your back . . . It must have been because of the confidence – and sweat – he was oozing from his new suit, which he’d had tailored the day before. Dad hadn’t stepped into a clothing store since Catchit went out of business, but the lure of free booze during the fitting did the trick.

  Refusing to wear out his new threads, the old boy insisted on getting around by way of rickshaw. Come to think of it, it might have been a good training device given the expert he paid $5 to get him up the hill quit halfway up on account of the old shagger being heavier than an expecting rhino.

  This poor bloke had no choice but to raise the white flag but he wanted his loot. He decided to split the fare with a mate, who agreed to push the thing from behind while the bloke at the front kept pumpin
g those pins.

  Fifteen minutes later and finally at the summit, it was time to return. But the descent proved near fatal when the pedaller busted a plugger and the cart went hurtling at speed into the busiest intersection in town. Prayers rang out in two alternate faiths as the out of control rocket slid gracefully into the mayhem-filled intersection. Play on.

  The tournament took place the next day. Full of confidence after his dice with death and wearing his new good luck suit, the old man inspired Thailand to equal first with Vietnam. They lost on a countback. But the old boy was pretty happy with his first foray into professional netball coaching and decided to take the team to a sports bar to enjoy a few ales and catch yours truly in the Wallabies– Italy game on the tele. Of course, Cambodians aren’t known for their love of rugby and it took Dad some serious convincing to turn off the soccer – something in the vicinity of $5US. In a flash soccer was kaput and rugby ruled supreme! The night was full of revelry and bad manners, exactly what you’d want after a hard day at netball.

  Now, Italy would always have a crack. They ate well and loved their garlic – you could smell it in the rucks and mauls. It just made me hungry for a post game meal and, keen to get the game over with, I scored a couple of meat pies and even ended up with the Man of the Match award. The Italian president presented me with an award that I can only imagine he found at the last minute; it had a medallion with a soccer ball on it dated 2015. It was November 2013.

  Back at the pub, the netballers danced on the table tops and made a rugby celebration look tame, by all accounts. Especially when you consider Dad was accosted by a ladyboy.

  Now, from the pictures I’ve seen, you couldn’t drive a mountain bike over this character’s Adam’s apple. She had more chins than a Chinese phone book but still pressed forward with her advances.

  Dad politely informed her that he didn’t bounce that way, but his mate at the bar, Steve, would be a sure thing. Keep in mind that Steve’s married and was on tour with the wife.

  The moment Steve returned from the bar with sustenance he found himself being mauled. He fought valiantly, fending off many Christmas grips but this was a big woman and she was on the clock. Luckily, Steve escaped with his marriage intact and pants around his waist.

  As for the netball team, I’m told they’re not welcome back to that bar . . .

  THE EMERALD ISLE

  Having successfully coached a netball team to the top of the table, the old boy thought he’d give Ewen McKenzie a hand and join me and the Wallabies over in Ireland. Dad came direct from Cambodia and was hardly in the mood for a convo when he arrived at Customs.

  Customs officer: ‘Mr Cummins, why are you visiting the Emerald Isle?’

  Dad: ‘Rugby.’

  Customs officer: ‘Well, our boys are going to beat your boys.’

  Dad (grinning): ‘We’ll see.’

  The Cumminses are Irish by descent, so the old boy made camp near O’Connell Street, which has a fair bit of significance in Irish history. The boys made a stand against the English in 1916 and my relations were sympathisers from Cork – a hotbed of Irish nationalism. When they weren’t drunk, they would fight like thrashing machines. Dad suggested I invoke that spirit on the field.

  The Test was a sell-out and I was pretty stoked and nervous, with all of my long-lost relations making the game, and half full of lunatic soup.

  The anthems were played and then the spine-tingling Ireland’s Call. This was huge. I was pretty keen for a crack at the boys in green. I’m sure they felt likewise. I was more pumped than a new air mattress.

  The game started well for me. After a good pass from Steve Moore, I was able to step inside and score under the sticks. The feeling was almost unreal. My personal goal is to try not to think too much about the occasion while I’m playing because I think it would overwhelm me. Instead I try to focus on the job at hand.

  After halftime, Quade Cooper put me in the corner, but the TMO ruled I knocked on. Mate, I reckon I was robbed, but you’ve got to take the good with the bad, as with most things in life.

  The night was big and it was great to be in the company of relatives I had not seen before and may not see again – largely on account of the fact a couple may or may not have got a free ride home in a paddy wagon.

  The next day I was able to see a few sights with the old man before he took off back home at Ewen’s request. These moments are priceless and I won’t forget them.

  VITAL AUSSIE VERNACULAR

  DEAD:

  1. Carked it

  2. Kissed the concrete

  3. Lights out

  4. Wheels up

  5. Bit the dust

  6. Cashed in her chips

  7. Curled up the toes

  8. Pulled the pin

  AN ADVENTURE IN THE KIMBERLEYS

  (Or croc-dodging 101)

  ‘See Australia first’, so the slogan goes. Well, I’ve had a bit of a Captain Cook around the globe and I’ve seen some flash joints. But the Kimberleys are just something different.

  A few years back, curiosity got the better of this cat. I’d read a little about the place and felt that I needed to have a squiz. So, I hatched a cunning plan.

  After jagging a role as tourist ambassador for West Oz, a friend in the department, Sarah Turnbull, organised a cracker of a trip for me to realise a dream and dominate one of nature’s most awesome formations.

  My first move, of course, was to get some of the family involved. So I rang the old boy and the convo went a little like this: ‘Hey, Dad. Would you be interested in a tour to —?’ Before I’d finished my sentence he’d already replied, ‘I’m in.’

  Dead-set, he’d go to the opening of a sardine tin. Matter of fact, I don’t know how the old bloke makes a living because he never seems to be at work . . .

  My brothers Luke and Joe joined us, too. And Channel 7 sent along a crew of four blokes to record our mission. Ella Yardley, daughter of cricketing great Bruce Yardley, was in Perth to meet us. On the good sort scale, most of us blokes were lucky to hit an even five. But Ella is way up there, and a winner of a woman to go with it.

  The flight from Perth to Kununurra took a few hours and it was cool except that the bloke near me had some serious wind issues, Dad! When you’re in a confined space there is always some suffering to be done. The way I saw it, this bloke had sold his arse to the devil or I was getting payback for some of my earlier efforts – possibly karma.

  Other than that, no dramas with the landing. And any landing you can walk away from is a good one.

  We made our way across the tarmac, and man it was hot. The top end of WA in early March has more sting to it than getting dropped from the starting side. Even the devil would wear sunscreen up here. Bloody hot.

  A tour guide by the name of Scotty Connell was waiting for us at the airport. Over the next two weeks we would come to know him as a dead-set, ridgy-didge champion.

  He wanders over to the plane with a smile like a half-opened watermelon and says ‘G’day’. We quickly learned his sole mission in life is to introduce the world to the Kimberleys.

  That arvo he took us to get settled in and then off to a waterhole for a quick dip. Now, I checked the place thoroughly for crocs but he reckoned we were in fresh water so we were OK. ‘But they can adapt, right?’ It’s not that I doubt him, but . . .

  Next was to plan the ensuing few days and we stumped up at a local joint named The Pump House – well named because they tried to pump us full of grog and tucker for several hours.

  The actual pump house was part of the Ord River Scheme and since its completion the joint sat more idle than a loose-head at halftime until some bright spark decided to make a top-class restaurant out of it.

  The whole mob were there – Simon, Ray, Rowan and Paul from Sunrise, Scotty and Ella from Kimberley Spirit, Sarah from WA tourism and Joe, Luke, the old man and me from Chambers Flat . . .

  We sat on the veranda and threw bread rolls into the water for the catfish. Suddenly a big freshw
ater croc surfaced looking for his tucker – I bloody knew it!

  As we fed the freshie a solid diet of bread and butter, off in the distance we could all see a really heavy lightning storm. Scotty reckoned it was pretty close to where we were heading tomorrow – Berkeley River Lodge.

  By the Berkeley River

  We were up and ready at 7am for the trip to Berkeley River Lodge and you could feel the heat coming out of the ground. We loaded into our respective five-seater prop planes, did the obligatory safety checks and prepared for battle.

  Lift-off was cool and the scenery was fantastic. The landforms are like nothing else and had been fashioned over thousands of years by bucket loads of rain and severe drought. Like the people who live here, the local plants and animals are unique to this part of the world, and there’s a flock of them.

  The flight took about one hour until we circled around to a small red dirt airstrip behind a series of trendy cabins. Very flash, but we had a few princesses to think about – my brothers.

  The landing was cool and so was the modified LandCruiser that was waiting for us. This beast had four levels of seating with a canopy over the top and heaps of room for all your gear. You’ll find a picture of this in the dictionary under ‘purpose built’.

  Looking for the landing strip.

  We burned off to our selected huts to drop off our gear. And boy, these huts had everything – great view, air con, as well as a courtyard shower and dunny – to make you feel one with nature.

  We dropped off our kit and roared into the dining area like we were about to hold up the joint and demanded all their food. Wow, I won’t do the place any justice by trying to describe it but that’s never stopped me before. The dining area looks down on a pool and out to the Timor Sea with 180-degree views to kill for. Check the photo!