This one insists himself for some
reason difficult to fathom. A measure of the time past pressing more and more
on the thinking; rapidity slowed somewhat by such examination.
An unremarkable boy for whom one felt a secret pity. The casual ridicule and
contempt had never been joined—never was the boy called by the name one of the
more cruel lads had coined—Grot. But equally there had been no standing up for
him either. Almost no-one stood up for anyone in those days of challenge, days
of every man for himself. Standing up for the unpopular and pathetic was full
of danger.
We had Istrians next door,
known to Morrie's Nona. If Morrie knew any of the lingo he hid the
knowledge as the other was hid on the other side. Once Morrie made reference to
this connection of the neighbours as if intending to build a bridge by the
circumstance. As in the case of other school chums, secret rivalry was not so
far beneath the surface, both in the academic and sporting field. Morrie was a
minor contender vanquished with little effort, it was falsely assumed.
All long, thin and pointy limbs, Morrie leaning
on
the pool-table
relating aspects of the game
that no-one else on the team had noticed. Tall, and one of the longer and more accurate kicks in
the side, we propped Morrie at Full-back. A struggle up there holding his own,
especially against a bigger body with aerial skills. After a point, as directed Morrie kicked out to
the Captain on the flank with an accurate,
lazy and lopping drop-punt. In front position, once or twice a game Morrie took a
mark himself. Without a leap Morrie was limited; lacking pace he was often
caught out behind; spoiling only
average. Poor ground skills. It was painful and frustrating watching Morrie trying to paddle the
ball; without a handle on the thing he could not pick up. For the tough guys
Morrie employed the elbows. Fella wants to get smart? Cop that! Morrie raised
his weapons without
diverting his gaze from the imaginary ball by the pool-table. Little an umpire could
spot or penalize.
A precarious place Morrie held both in the side and school. In school even more
so; perhaps by the skin of his teeth one of the also-rans. That failed to
change when in the Intermediate level Morrie was the only recipient of a
Commonwealth Scholarship. We had a bright year, the boys and to a lesser extent
the girls. Yet after the examination Morrie was the only winner of the rich,
greatly sought-after prize. (The school would put in a complaint; some kind of error in the
marking perhaps.) In the
multiple-choice, math-weighted examination, Morrie stood above the more fancied
prospects. At the school assembly where the result was announced there was much
private disappointment, secret envy and palpable lack of enthusiasm in the
congratulation among the ranks. A rank outsider chosen. (Later Morrie would
become a man of the track, a keen punter.) Tepid, forced applause.
Morrie socked the beer with the best of them; held it pretty well. Luckily for
a Grot. He was putting on some solid weight, Morrie maintained. Stacking it on.
Rolling up his summer tee, proud of his tan, he showed off invisible rolls of
flesh. There was a girl in the wings, like Morrie a lesser light in school,
from an Istrian family
herself. Treated with disdain by Morrie. They would have two daughters, Morrie
the coach of their basketball team. Coming down the hill on Queen Street many
years later, Morrie stopped
his former Captain.
What? A Bohemian?
Of
all the
fates
most unlikely.
Finally,
Morrie had put on the weight he had so long desired; it came with heavy dark
bags under the eyes that as head of Accounts at his firm was earning him a sum
Morrie preferred to keep close to his chest. A more predictable future.
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