Comment: Eggs

Last updated : 17 December 2002 By Austin Rathe

This is true story as told by a friend of a friends, brother-in laws friend of a cousins friends work mate’s boss! A long long time ago in a galaxy far far away, Nah to be honest it was 1981 and the so-called galaxy was Australia. A young Evertonian washed up on the shores of the biggest Island on the planet. Quickly he settled, and soon was befriended by many a wild colonial boy. A Common ground was struck. “Whose ya team” was one enquiry “Do ya like footie was another”. “We love football cried a thick accent distinct to this land”. “ I love it too it is in my blood “replied the now encouraged Toffeman “Everton’s me team they’re the greatest”. Silence. “Never heard of em mate,” a voice returned. “Can ya play mate, were always looking fer players for the local team” “a little” the naive evertonian was to reveal. It was then agreed, training on Thursday and a glimpse of British skill and culture was eagerly anticipated by these new found comrades. Now not wanting to sound full of himself, the Blue was feeling pretty confident that his class and pedigree would surely dazzle the competitors of this dusty backwater hack league. Boots dusted off, freshly pressed hafnia-sponsored royal blue Guernsey at the ready, he looked forward to his date with destiny and the mighty Wallabies team.

Now a Wallaby could have been a wasp called Wally as far as the naive immigrant was concerned but it was soon learnt that a Wallaby is a smallish Kangaroo. Thursday arrives. His excitement can hardly be contained. For he had not had a kick about since visiting friends in North Wales before his departure to Van Demens Land. Toot Toot, his lift had arrived. An old Bedford van filled to the spills was awaiting, onward he plundered.

On arrival at the training ground all seemed well, despite the apparent lack of grass. The coach was soon on the scene. Introductions were made, pleasantries exchanged, and laps of the dirt bowl were ordered. To each a man these lads pushed themselves tirelessly around the oval, under the watchful eye of the large but pleasant looking gruff gafa. It was then that our somewhat bemused Evertonian noticed a bizarre occurrence. The heavily tattooed leader of this rag tag bunch of wilder beasts emptied a large bag retrieved from a rusty iron shed type dwelling. The contents of the aforementioned bag were revealed with a shock and a horror to the now fearing for his life young Englishmen. Eggs, Eggs, bloody eggs were all he could see. Dozens in fact. It was with a sudden jolt that the confident young British footballer came to realise that with all his skill and pedigree, class and culture, the fact that 2 dozen RUGBY balls lay before him and 18 burly colonials were expecting a show, that all was lost. Naive or naive, perhaps, but that’s the way some thing’s go. It is true when they say that you don’t get courage ten minutes before the battle, you get it ten minutes after, as had this evertonian known what he knows today his head would never have packed into that first scrum, and totally from fear. Any hows all turned out ok in the wash, a Soccer team was eventually found, darent call it football in this country, and after much persistence the great Wobblies had a British import who couldn’t run, struggled to pass, wouldn’t tackle, but could kick a bloody goal from anywhere on the field over those huge dangly posts. Not to mention the local soccer team picked up a half handy striker. It’s all about adjustment fitting in and making the best of what you’ve got.