As a youngster growing up in the Illawarra, I lived and breathed all things rugby league. My weekly routine consisted of training during the week and playing on weekends.
At age 11 I was offered the opportunity to ball boy for my senior club, the Western Suburbs Red Devils.
This position promised seemingly unlimited privilege. I would be entitled to a club jumper for wear on official duty (and whenever I pleased thereafter), a cheque at season’s end rumoured to be in the vicinity of $20, close hand access to the first grade players, can of drink at home games and sometimes 20c worth of mixed lollies to boot.
In return, all I had to do was retrieve the ball when it came out of play and, in the days before kicking tees, run on with a bucket of sand when the goal kicker asked me to.
Often my Dad would take me to the games in any case so rather than sitting idle in the stands, I would now be in the thick of the action on the paddock (well, at the very least I would physically be on the paddock).
This was the ideal career so without hesitation, I took the job. And in my one and only season of ballboying I enjoyed many highs.
I could come and go as I pleased in the official inner sanctum of the first grade dressing room. While hordes of kids would be gathering en masse around the entrance of the rooms, hoping to get an up-close glimpse of a player or perhaps hold out for a snippet of the coach’s rant, I would casually stroll past, raising an eyebrow to the gatekeeper who would usher me in.
I felt I was part of the fabric of the club and being a fly on the wall in the dressing room was a real highlight.
When inside, I would seek out the best players and let them know I was at their service. I was as useful as small time solicitor Denis Denuto’s note writing “Glass of water?” to the QC Lawrence Hamill, in the movie The Castle.
Nonetheless, the players did not seem to mind my distraction and were very gracious and welcoming. Well, as ‘gracious’ as you’d expect from a group of steelworkers, coal miners, butchers and the like.
On the field, the highs were equally as good. When we scored a try, I would charge onto the field under premise of delivering the bucket of sand to the goal kicker. My real purpose was to immerse myself in the post try celebrations, dishing out, “Top try mate” and a pat on the back to all involved.
When the celebrations came to an end, I would seek out the kicker and give him the sand, slightly damp as per his pre-game instructions.
As he built his kicking castle, I’d offer some encouragement along the lines, “bang it over mate, you’re going to nail this,” before collecting the empty bucket and reverting back to my side-line responsibilities.
I was as close as you could get to the on-field battles without actually pulling on a jumper and I was lapping up every moment. However, the role of ballboy did from time to time present its challenges.
Firstly, not all grounds in the Illawarra during the early 1980s were ballboy friendly. Case in point being JJ Kelly Park Wollongong, which has a creek within close proximity of the playing perimeter. Our team only played there on one occasion, but that was one occasion too many.
To this day I vividly recall a slow, talentless hack wearing the number 6 for Wollongong City smugly and intentionally kicking the ball over my head and into the waiting creek. Without the necessary provision of any suitable nautical craft, I had no option but to wait and hope the ball would find its own way to the bank so I could retrieve.
This was an on-going source of amusement of the locals who had clearly witnessed number 6’s party tricks at previous home games.
Supporters from opposition teams that did not have naturally occurring water hazards at their disposal, or for that matter a bona fide goose for a five-eighth, would find other ways to amuse themselves, again at the ballboy’s expense.
For example, a ball would be kicked out of play into the arms of some pie eating, beer swilling, hair receding paradigm of the opposition supporter. The easy thing for him to do (notwithstanding the morally decent obligation upon him) would be to simply hand the ball back to me, in the likely event the ball was required again to be used on field.
In one of the most overworked anti-ballboy scams, Mr Pie Eater would ingeniously pose a question while holding the ball, “Do you want it back? Huh, huh?” Before subsequently withdrawing the ball.
After a prolonged series of repeat sequences, his raucous laughter would mercifully recede. His final act would then be to boot the ball as far away from me as he could before reciting the old chestnut, “Go and fetch.”
Ballboying against the Helensburgh Tigers was a day to forget. Located on the top of the Illawarra escarpment, it was a bitterly cold affair. With good and kind-hearted intentions, Mum had packed a poncho to wear over my gear, but not wanting to lose any cred with the playing group, I would leave that in the change rooms. Even the most passionate, footy loving 11 year old can lose some enthusiasm chasing leather in sodding and miserable conditions.
The modern day elite ballboy has to endure further and significant challenges, including and not limited to, media scrutiny. NRL Footy shows are quick to pounce upon any minor mishap of a ballboy in attempt to secure a cheap laugh. Ballboys ought not to be treated with contempt.
In the EPL, a ballboy recently was the victim of an alleged kick. At the tennis, we have seen ball kids cop thunderbolts to the head with little of an apology from the overpaid prima donna who was holding the racquet. To add insult, same prima donna will click his fingers, expecting a towel to wipe away a bead of sweat from his brow.
It’s a tough gig.
So Next time you are shown ad nauseam images of ballboys slipping over, dropping a bomb, pleading with a an oversized buffoon in the stands to hand the ball back, spare a thought for and not a chuckle at them.
This one goes out to ballboys, across all codes, the unsung heroes.
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