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The following is a true story about one of many an incident that took place in the Grothe household back in the golden years. Real names have been used in order to put shame on the guilty.
Back in the 1980s, it’s fair to say that if you were naturally gifted as a footballer you could get away with being a little on the lazy side at training.
Maybe some of those who played in the 80s would disagree, but this certainly was the case for my old boy, Eric Grothe Senior.
This tale takes place back in 1989. I was 9 years old and had one of the sharpest flat tops on the block. My beautiful Mum, Trish, was about to leave for her Thursday night shift at Just Jeans while my brother Boogz was at Nan and Pop’s. Unfortunately for Dad, he was stuck with me and we were getting ready to head out to Parramatta for his Thursday arvo training session with the Eels.
So I thought…
We said bye to Mum and jumped in the car and drove off. But, instead of heading for Raby Road (the main road out of our suburb), we took a slight detour and pulled up in a nearby cul-de sac.
Dad was at the back end of his career and I could tell something was up. There he sat, in his full training attire, staring at me. He had a look in his eyes that I’ve seen before and admittedly, have had myself many times too. It was the old ‘there’s no way I’m going to training today’ look.
I thought I’d break the ice; try to soothe the atmosphere, so I tossed up: “chuckin’ a sickie, hey Dad?”
He looked at me as if he was proud of how cluey I was at the tender age of nine and replied with a “Don’t you dare tell your mother…”
After a couple of songs on the radio to let time pass, we headed back home to an empty house and dad worked up the courage to call his then coach, John Moanie, and told a little fib about him not being able to find his car keys. Dad even went as far as to blame it on us kids.
It was very cocky of him in this vulnerable position if I do say so myself. I looked on with interest and when Dad put the phone down he gave me a reinforcing look that followed with the repeated demand: “Don’t you dare tell your mother!”
This time he had somewhat of a threatening look upon his fat hairy face. I reinforced my loyal secrecy, however, I was hoping that this could one day somehow work in my favour. I just didn’t realise the opportunity would come so soon.
The day had passed and all was forgotten and the next thing you know here we all sat, as a family, around the dinner table and ready to rip into Mum’s Friday night roast.
Now I loved Mum’s cooking…don’t get me wrong. But right there, on my plate, were my worst enemies. Those little, green, mongrel intruders. Peas!
My brother had somehow managed to force them down his Gregory Peck early while I was working out strategies as to how the hell I was going to hide these little bastards under my cutlery. I’d left them until last, so they were bloody cold to boot. Yuck.
I thought Mum might not realise and let me off just this once…but out of nowhere she dropped the line I’d been dreading all dinner. “Junior… you’re not leaving the table till you eat your peas.”
Uh oh. Panic set in.
I pleaded. “Mum I hate em… they make me wanna spew!”
Mum returned with “they do bloody not…now eat your peas!” I thought I’d beg once more, but before I could utter a word, mum interrupted with “Senior…tell Junior to eat his peas!”
Bingo!
Dad always had the final say in these life threatening dinner situations and Mum had handed over the parental duties to the big fella…. and after his little escapade just 24 hours earlier, I couldn’t have been happier.
Mum and my brother both glared at the ‘Big Boss Man’ and awaited his command.
Dad put down his fork, looked me straight in the eyes…..and I stared straight back into his with the smuggest of smirks.
I didn’t have to utter a single sound, as my mental telepathy was loud and clear in the old boy’s mind: “Go on dad… I dareya!”
Finally, after a five second silence that felt like an hour, Dad opened his mouth and out came one of the greatest sentences to ever exit my father’s word hole:
“He doesn’t have to eat his peas if he doesn’t want to….”
Victory!
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