by Nick Cummins
Well, win we did. The crowd went ape. It was one of those moments you’d love to bottle and keep with you forever. It doesn’t get any better.
While I got the pats on the back that night, there were 22 other blokes who busted their arses to get me across the line. Rugby’s a team game and there’s no denying it.
As long as I’m upright, I’ll remember that night. But most of all, I’ll remember my team-mates and the supporters. I’m a lucky man!
Barefoot on the beach and uke in hand, it doesn’t get much better on a day off.
This massive seagull stole my dinner. I swear it was on roids!
BACK WHERE I STARTED
(Hong Kong Sevens, 2016)
After a couple of red-hot seasons in Japan with Coca-Cola, I was looking for a new challenge – outside of trying to convey by way of mime that I wanted chicken at a restaurant. It seems tucking my arms and flapping them like wings means seaweed and rice in Japan . . .
Sure enough, just when I thought I’d have to learn a third language – my second is Pig Latin – I got a phone call that would change my direction. It was Scott Bowen, the newly appointed stand-in coach for the Aussie Sevens, and he asked me if I’d consider having a run with the potential of going to the Rio Olympics. Suffice to say, I jumped at the chance – it’s every athlete’s dream to go to a genuine Brazilian restaurant and enjoy a Whitman’s Sampler of strange meats. And the Olympics would be pretty cool, too!
But Sevens ain’t easy. Only Sevens players know how tough the training and playing really are. Super Rugby players are pretty fit and train hard but Sevens is a whole new animal. It’s a lot quicker with a lot more ground to cover in both attack and defence.
I’d been in a pretty fertile paddock since Japan but I’d tried to stay in reasonable shape and thought I’d be cool. Hell, I was only 28 and with nothing more than a couple of minor injuries – something every player carries. It’s a rugby standard. You just have to deal with it.
Anyhow, in my first Sevens training run I vomited twice in quick succession and it most certainly would have been more had I anything left to bring up.
The new fulltime coach Andy Friend made it really clear what was required and throwing up didn’t exactly give reason for confidence. He knows his stuff, Andy, and he expects the best from everyone. No excuses. And I wasn’t about to make any – but that seaweed and rice can play havoc with your guts after two years . . .
Chucky Stannard is the nuts and bolts of the Sevens team. Chucky and I were housemates when he was at the Force and his is a story of determination. He was playing footy in Brisbane and was chasing a crack at the top level. After moving to WA he played in the local comp in Perth, where some good performances saw him offered a rookie contract with the Force. Now, he wasn’t going to retire on the loot they offered him, but it was a start.
Shipping into Hong Kong for the Sevens. The ARU team transport leaves a little to be desired . . .
Chuck’s a funny bastard. He’s always got something going on in his melon and often walks around with a half grin – a sort of cross between the Mona Lisa and a dead sheep.
The Force finally saw just how good he was and he played a few seasons of Super 15 and played well. His best position was halfback but he was usually played at 10. After leaving for the Brumbies, he eventually found a home with the Aussie Sevens program and the rest, as they say, is history.
Now, Chucky told me what was required at Sevens nowadays if it was to be. I was determined to come through with the goods. After a pretty tough training session or two Andy asked me if I felt ready for the Hong Kong/Singapore leg of the world series. ‘Hell yeah!’ But I knew I had my work cut out.
We climbed on to the steel chicken in Sydney ready for the nine-hour trip to Honkers. I was quick to be reminded that Sevens players are the poor relations to the Super Rugby and Wallabies. While the big guns travelled in Business, the Sevens boys do the cattle class like everyone else. I might sound a bit spoilt but it’s pretty tough to give your best on the field after being jammed into the ever-shrinking seats of Economy class. Of course, it can be done but it’s tough.
The old boy was in Bangkok staying with my sister Bernadette. He was on a tour that would take him to Norway, France and Turkey to watch my brother Nathan play rugby. But after telling him I had tickets to the Sevens, he and Bernadette were on the plane that arvo. It doesn’t take much! Our first game was on the Friday night against Argentina. My time came a few minutes into the second half. I was as nervous as a Persian cat in a dog park – but it was time.
The adrenalin was pumping as I tried to get myself into the game. My first run resulted in a twisted tackle. Which bloody hurt. The second run could’ve been a fairy tale but I just couldn’t get to top speed. Every step was pain and I felt like I was jogging on the spot. The line loomed ahead of me and suddenly this little Argentinian, whose father must have been a missile, stripped the ball from my grasp. What a bummer! From penthouse to shithouse in one easy lesson. What I would have given to be jammed up on a plane then . . .
My weekend was over and so was the Singapore tournament the following week. But that’s life – you take the good with the bad. The real winners for the weekend were the old man and Bernadette. Former Rugby WA big wheel Vern Reed invited them into the Hong Kong Rugby box and they spent the day enjoying the hospitality. The only low point being Dad’s exchange with the French consul – he told him that the only reason the French planted trees along their boulevards was so the German army could march in the shade. Then later, when Japan was playing Hong Kong, he suggested that it had been 70 years since the Japanese were last here in full strength. He just couldn’t help himself.
VITAL AUSSIE VERNACULAR
VOMIT:
1. Up and under
2. Chunder
3. The technicolour yawn
4. Barking at the lawn
5. Driving the porcelain bus
SWIMMING WITH WHALE SHARKS
Like women and left-handed screwdrivers, the ocean has always fascinated me. It’s a place you can go to clear your head and enjoy all it has to offer – not unlike a pub, but free.
My life has always involved the sea. Saltwater – fishing and surfing – has been a staple part of my diet. I just love it.
Living in Perth was a great opportunity to take advantage of one thing I hadn’t done before – swimming with whale sharks. Now, I’d lived with a few monsters in a few old roomies, but I’d never swum with one outside of cage-diving with great whites in South Africa. That kept me on my toes, but I was in a controlled environment.
The whale sharks, however, this was open water stuff. And while the big fellas are harmless – unless they accidentally swallow you whole – it’s normal to be a little fearful of something so massive. That’s what she said . . .
It’s the biggest shark in the world, with a mouth like a tractor shed with the door blown off. Fortunately, badgers are off the menu.
Anyhow, we left Perth early one Friday morning during a break in rugby activities. Exmouth is a fair mission, about 12 hours, and you’d need a cut lunch and a thermos for the trip – much the same package they should’ve given to the jockey of the last horse I backed. The poor bloke’s still trotting.
Our mode of transport was the ever-reliable Bulldog – my 2005 blue Rodeo ute. It was my pride and joy, and your first is always that little more special. The Bulldog didn’t possess air conditioning but that’s what God made windows for. Roaring along the highway there was no need to stop for tucker, just stick your head out the window and open your mouth.
We arrived at Exmouth fairly shagged, threw our gear into our humpy and hired a scooter. We grabbed this little PeeWee 50 and burned off towards Turquoise Bay for the sunset. As usual, the WA sunset was unreal. If you live on the east coast, do yourself a favour and put it on your bucket list.
We enjoyed the sunset but not so much the journey home when we realised the PeeWee 50 was not an adequate form of transport when faced with a kangaroo head-on.
This big bastard had clackas like cannonballs, an absolute monster. The sort of thing you’d get if Dr Frankenstein genetically modified Skippy.
He did not move. He just stood there in the middle of the road with that ‘you want some of this’ look! Well, I didn’t want any of what he had to offer so we gave him a wide berth.
It was now pretty dark as we headed back to our digs in Exmouth. Then all of a sudden this large, bright pulsating light came down from the stars. It did some zigging and some zagging and disappeared below the horizon. I believe there are things out there we don’t understand and can’t explain – like the popularity of light beer. I’ve seen heaps of satellites and meteorites but this wasn’t one of those critters!
If it was a UFO it had better not go near that roo because I know who’d come out in front! And that could ruin earth’s interstellar reputation as a peaceful planet.
Next day, the shuttle bus pulled up dead on time. Most of the passengers for the trip were Japanese, and mate, were they excited. Our guide was a little how ya goin’. He confused the hell out of our northern neighbours, especially when he offered them their choice of lunch – road kill or dolphin!? I didn’t know if this was a Mickey Mouse outfit or if it was ridgy didge.
Fortunately, it was fair dinkum and they were on the case.
The boat works in conjunction with a floatplane, which radios the coordinates of the oncoming whale sharks to the boat. The boat then pulls up in the path of these monsters about 180 metres ahead.
Then, one was spotted! Only a small one of about five metres but that was good enough for me. So on went the snorkelling gear and over the side we went full of glee.
But just as we leapt in, the radio crackled another message. It was a false alarm – it wasn’t a whale but a bloody tiger shark! And a bloody big one at five metres!
‘Get ’em out! It’s a tiger shark,’ the radio exclaimed. I didn’t need to be told twice, as I performed my own walking-on-water miracle.
You think I was scared? You should have seen the poor tour guide trying to round up our Japanese friends, who seemed oblivious to the situation. They had no idea they were about to appear in a new television show called ‘Reverse Sushi’.
Thankfully, they picked up on the urgency and scampered back on deck. The radio crackled again with new coordinates and we were away. An eight-metre whale shark, just a young-un, was on its way and so were we. This was a fairly small one as they can get up to 18 metres along the Mexican coast.
We stopped and leapt in. The water was darkish blue, clean as, and barely had we hit the water when this giant mouth broke the surface. Several of our Asian neighbours lost their cool as this massive big bastard fronted up. A few were probably worried about payback!
The mouth of a whale shark is like a big net, which funnels down to a small opening of about 200 millimetres. This is where the plankton, krill and other small and unfortunate sea creatures end up.
The woman in charge of the boat urged everyone to keep out of the path of the shark because even though they look slow they can really move. Like at a strip club, we were not allowed to touch them, mostly because there have been instances where divers’ legs have been caught up in the great beasts’ mouths.
We had a few hours out there and everyone was absolutely astounded by the incredible creatures. The way back to port was as you’d expect – amazing coral and beautiful fish.
I wasn’t exactly looking forward to returning to shore, given we were staying in some pretty average digs – a tin-roofed shed in the guts of summer in northwestern WA.
It was so hot that during the night I had to turn over so I could be done evenly on both sides.
We slid out of the cot early a.m., which was easy because we were like bacon to greasy frypans. The PeeWee 50 kicked over first go and we sped back down to the beach for one last lash.
We climbed into the Bulldog around mid-morning to begin the big journey back to Perth. The whole way home I couldn’t help but think what a buzz it had been and a new idea for a bumper sticker: Save a whale, harpoon a prop forward.
Feeling like a rock star.
When the air-con’s crapped itself and it’s hotter than a flatscreen TV in a pawn shop.
VITAL AUSSIE VERNACULAR
WHEN YOU’RE HUNGRY:
‘I’d eat the clackers off a low-flying duck’ or ‘Tonguing for some tucker’ or ‘Mate, I could eat a horse and chase the rider’
NORWEGIAN TIME-OUT
By the end of January 2016, having finished my contract and said sayonara to Japan for the last time, I’d never been so busting for a holiday – four seasons back-to-back in both hemispheres can be a real ball ache.
So, before beginning my next contract with the Aussie Sevens, I negotiated an extra month to get away and refresh myself mentally. My life force energy was more depleted than the bar fridge in any hotel room my team’s ever stayed in.
Because of this, my drive for the game was deteriorating and I knew there was only one way to replenish the Badge – some unbridled fun and debauchery in a foreign land where I didn’t know the time zone, let alone the language.
So the missus and I landed in Oslo to stay with her parents – a three-and-a-half-hour drive up in the mountains northwest of Oslo beside a big-ass mountain called Gaustatoppen. And what a beauty of a spot – more remote than my chances of playing halfback for the Kiwis. Ideal for camping.
The wilderness is harsh and beautiful at the same time up there – not unlike Benn Robinson. It was bloody cold, too. No shortage of the white stuff.
You’d wake up around 10am – when the sun came up – before enjoying what I can only describe as the king of breakfasts – toast with brown cheese and jam, home-made bread with assorted meats, smoked salmon and herring. It’s how I imagine the French rugby team would eat when they tour.
After that, you’d duck outside for some target practice with a 22-calibre rifle, destroying any evidence of the beer cans from the night before. Then, to the sauna to warm up (common in holiday mountain huts up there), from where we would sprint – in the raw – to a massive pile of powder snow and then back in the sauna. Thank god the old man wasn’t along for this junket.
After that, it was time to strap the skis and snowboards on to give the ski resort a burl and show ’em what a kid from the outback could do on a slippery surface. We’d snowboard out the driveway down a path to the ski lifts that would take us to the top of the ski fields at Gaustablikk. When you were done, you could ski to within 50 metres of the house! How bloody good! I started to forget all about rugby and set my sights on emulating Eddie the Eagle. It was the kind of life I could get used to – a cosy ride up, a quick ride down, then a few beers to hydrate at a conveniently located bar at the bottom before a return to the peak. Rinse and repeat.
Walking home was an adventure in itself, chasing rabbits and avoiding bears. They’re a good bunch of humans, the Norwegians, and while I loved every minute of it, I quickly discovered I didn’t just miss Australia, but rugby, too. The boots were back on!
VITAL AUSSIE VERNACULAR
IN THE SHIT:
1. Midas touch in reverse
2. A world of hurt
IN TROUBLE:
In the shit; just the depth that varies
ADVENTURES ON ICE
(A Journey in Five Parts)
I. Into the Arctic
In February 2016, my brother Nathan and I met up in Oslo for a tour north of the Arctic Circle. The lure of a location where the entire joint is an esky was something we couldn’t resist.
We were heading to the heart of the indigenous Sami lands right up in the north of Norway, close to where the borders of Norway, Sweden and Finland meet – a place called Karasjok. Pronounced Kara-shock, as that’s what occurs the moment you step outside and quickly confirm the brochure claims that it’s the coldest place in Norway. I believe the local pub is named the Nutless Eskimo. Or at least it should be.
The plan was to get across the Finnmark Plateau (a 22,000
square kilometre ice plateau) and side-step a few reindeer – a tentative and modest plan which had potential for disaster.
We first flew into Tromso before our final transfer through to Kara-shock. We were quick to get talking to a local who smelt like a rum factory. We were like bugs to a light. He began to inform us that Sami people were untrustworthy and were going to steal our money and suggested we give it to him instead. Play on, mate.
After an hour’s bus ride from the airport to Karasjok we met our contact who was to ensure our safe passage across the Finnmark Plateau. Safe passage? What was this – people smuggling? Helge was his name, a sprightly 70-year-old. And while we were confident he had plenty of knowledge and experience, serious questions remained as to our chances of survival. Fortunately, the dozen-odd beers we had on the eve of the journey gave us the courage to press forward.
We began the journey the following day on skis to do some ice fishing, with a round trip of about 20 kilometres. Our overnight gear consisted of some warm stuff, hand lines, an ice bore and your typical survival pack of six beers. It soon became apparent that fishing was the least of our concerns as the heating in the tiny hut we were fishing inside of didn’t exist. It was such that sliding nude across a glacier would have been a warmer option.
The beers worn off, our confidence in Helge began to drop quicker than our body temps.
He was the kind of bloke who knew everyone and, despite his niceties, no one wanted to know him, on account of his ambivalence to social cues that would suggest the person he was talking at was losing interest. But we learned to love him nonetheless.
Come day’s end, we’d survived our trial run and came away with a couple of lessons learned. One, you needed a onesie-type setup to stay warm like in the cartoons. And two, the fish don’t volunteer to reduce one’s hunger.