The Jumpers

“If you hate doing a job, do it badly and they’ll never ask you to do it again!”

As a young adult trying to become more serious about life, I had a part time job, my own money, my own car…and my own independence.

Kind of.

I was still living at home under my parents’ rules in their house, and reliant on the food they put on the table. My mother was still washing my clothes and driving me to places whenever my car was out of order, which seemed to be a never-ending occurrence. Mum was trying to raise seven children, while working full time. So, as the eldest, it soon fell upon me to be more of an adult and take some responsibility around the house in terms of the cleaning and upkeep. Unfortunately, with my busy social life taking precedence, I quickly began to fail in the completion of those required tasks.

I also had other commitments expected of me.

As part of playing for an amateur football club there were certain tasks one was encouraged to perform in order to contribute to the day-to-day operation of the club. At some point, we were all required to raise money through raffles, sponsored events, or simply dip into our own pockets. Some of us volunteered to be goal umpires, boundary umpires, help put together events, even work behind the bar on Saturday night (until the regular level of drunkenness and handing out of free drinks caused that option to be prohibited). Some of these tasks were unpleasant and a total pain, thus, you did your best to limit how often you committed to such chores.

*******

It had been a hard-fought match.

But after much ebbing and flowing we had finally been able to overcome one of our most difficult opponents in Riverton and now, suddenly, it looked like Seaside D Colts were a team capable of winning the league. All of us sat silently in the change rooms, completely saturated, covered in mud, exhausted, battered and bruised, but smiling at our achievement, as we waited patiently for our coach, Moonie, to give his customary after match address.

Now Moonie was not the kind of coach to single out players, particularly after such a fine team performance. So, we were all a little surprised when after initially beginning with a “Well done boys!” and “Great job,” he began to individually congratulate specific players.

“Raz…you were outstanding today!”

“Smithy…best game I’ve seen from you this season!”

“Bomber…great job mate, your man hardly got a kick!”

Having played what I thought was a pretty good game myself, I waited in anticipation for the praise that I felt I had deservedly earned.

But alas, Moonie went on about keeping the performance up, our title chances and that he expected to see everyone at training on Tuesday.

No special mention for me.

Feeling a little disappointed, I began taking off my muddy boots only half listening to what the coach was now saying.

Suddenly, Moonie stopped talking and was just about to leave the changerooms, when he paused, turned around, and called out for everyone to hear.

“OH NICK. SORRY. I ALMOST FORGOT…”

My heart jumped and a big smile came across my face.

This was it. The glowing praise I had been waiting for. I sat upright beaming in anticipation.

“…IT’S YOUR TURN TO WASH THE JUMPERS.”

Nooooooo!

I then became a target, as my teammates took great pleasure in hurling their wet, dirty, smelly jumpers in my direction, while I dodged, flinched and collected up those ghastly things and put them in the old brown suitcase where they were usually stored.

I certainly wasn’t beaming any more.

As I placed the suitcase in the trunk of my car, Jake tried to console me.

“Don’t worry mate. This will probably be the last time you have to do it for a while.”

Never a truer word spoken.

The week went by quickly. I had quite a bit on at uni, I was working part time and the inevitable social occasion that is a must when you are living the student life, made the week fly by. It was only at training on Thursday night when Mooney reminded me about the jumpers, that I remembered the job I was entrusted to do.

And the fact that those jumpers, were still sitting in the trunk of my car.

Now my car was a rust bucket. It had rusty holes everywhere including the trunk and it broke down more than it ran. I used to keep a butter knife in the glove box to use on the starter motor if the car suddenly stalled and refused to start again, which it did, often. Jake, who frequently rode in that car with me, became an expert at starting my car with that knife.

That week, it rained every day. I went for a drink after training with the guys and decided I would wash the jumpers on Friday after classes had finished for the day. However, on Friday as was the custom, I spent the afternoon drinking in the UWA tavern before eventually going out to watch one of the many Perth cover bands we frequented, Spiny Norman.

It must have been a big night because I woke up fully clothed on the floor of my bedroom to the frantic calls of my mum, summoning me to answer the phone.

It was Jake.

“Nick, can you come and pick me up?”

“No worries.”

“Do you know where to go for the match?”

“Nah. But I’ve got a road map. I’m sure it will be easy to find.”

Never a more incorrect opinion uttered.

It was only as I was driving to Jake’s house that I remembered the jumpers sitting quietly in the trunk of my car.

Oh shit!

I pulled up to his house, jumped out of the car, and opened the trunk.

Oh shit!

There was a rancid smell coming from the old brown suitcase and the trunk had mold growing everywhere.

I gingerly took the suitcase out of the car and headed towards Jake’s house.

He met me at the door.

“Are those the jump…phewwww… what’s that smell?” Jake grimaced.

“The jumpers! I forgot to wash them!” I groaned, rather anxiously. “Can we wash them now, at your place?”

Jake began laughing.

That laughter got louder when his mum told us how long it would take to wash and dry them.

We simply didn’t have time.

Oh shit!

“But we have to do something!?” I pleaded.

Jake had an idea.

We went out to his back yard and hung the jumpers on his mum’s Hills Hoist which was a type of clothesline that spun around like a merry go round, very typical in Australia in those days. As Jake stood hosing down the jumpers, I spun the clothesline as fast as I could.

The theory?

Aeration.

Those jumpers whirled around and around in front of us which became quite a challenge for Jake, as some jumpers received a soaking, while others the odd splash here or there.

Jake and I were now both laughing hysterically.

“But what about drying them?” I enquired.

“We’ve got a couple of hours yet and it’s a nice sunny day,” Jake assured me, “Let’s go and get McDonalds for lunch and by the time we come back, they’ll almost be dry.”

We spent a good hour at McDonalds laughing and reliving the previous night’s frivolities. When we eventually got back to Jake’s house, the jumpers were still damp.

“No worries, they’ll dry on the way there!” Jake remarked, confidently.

His mum wasn’t so sure.

As we headed to the ground where the match was to be played, we had the stereo up on full volume, singing loudly to a mixed tape I had prepared for the journey, without a care in the world.

Then, without warning, my car stalled at a set of traffic lights. Jake, as he was now accustomed, automatically grabbed the butter knife from its storage place in the glove compartment, quickly got out of the car, lifted the bonnet, and set to work to restart the car.

But this time he couldn’t get it going.

So, I tried.

Then he tried.

Then I tried again.

Still the darn car wouldn’t start.

Now time was going by, and we realised we were going to be late. We were both at a point of giving up, when suddenly the car burst into life. I was so anxious the car wouldn’t start if it stalled again, I vowed not to stop all the rest of the journey there.

We then drove around and around, trying desperately to find the street where the ground was located.

We had been going around in circles for what seemed like an eternity, when Jake ordered me to pull over, jumped out of the car and ran over to a nearby local resident who was watering his front lawn to ask directions. Meanwhile, I kept the car in first gear inching slowly along the road, petrified it would stall and we wouldn’t be able to get that piece of junk going again.

Jake smiled, giving it the thumbs up, and sprinted back to the car.

Success!

Using the helpful locals’ directions, we eventually located the ground.

However, as we sped into the car park, we noticed that both teams were already out on the field, ready to start the match. Seaside in t-shirts, shirts, jumpers, a rainbow of colours, a rather strange assortment of attire…

…but importantly, under the rules of the competition, not in the required team uniform.

I could tell, even from a distance, that my Seaside brethren weren’t happy.

After parking the car, I grabbed the old brown suitcase from the trunk and then Jake and I sprinted over to the ground where my extremely frustrated teammates stood waiting. Since the clock was now ticking, as soon as they saw us, that Seaside fashion parade immediately hurtled from the field in our direction, like a horde of crazed shoppers at a Black Friday sale, in order to obtain those highly sort after jumpers so they could quickly get ready, and the umpire wouldn’t disqualify us from the match.

I apologised profusely to Moonie who immediately announced that Jake and I would be on the substitutes bench as punishment.

“WHERE THE FUCK WERE YOU?” shouted Raz.

“Thank god you got here!” exclaimed a relieved Bomber.

There seemed to arise a sense of calm where once there had been uncontrolled panic, as I lay that precious suitcase at the feet of my comrades, who sought its powers of deliverance from this desperately tight spot in which we now found ourselves.

After all, there was a place in the finals at stake.

But as soon as the case was opened, that moment of tranquillity quickly turned to horror.

The jumpers smelled to high heaven, were still very damp, and were now covered in mold.

As the rest of the team gingerly put on their jumpers, recoiling in disgust at how repugnant they were, Creedy, a big strong whale of a guy, chased me around the ground shouting “COME HERE NICK! I’M GOING TO FUCKING KILL YOU!”

Much to the amusement of the umpire and the opposition.

We ultimately won the match, for which I’d like to take some credit. The psychological blow of trying to tackle someone who smells like manure must have had a dramatic effect on the opposition.

And needless to say…

…I never washed the jumpers again.

An excerpt from the book Story of My Life River and Roads by Kit Calder-White.

Soundtrack Of My Life: Rivers and Roads eBook : Calder-White, Kit: Amazon.com.au: Kindle Store