October Is a Lonely Time for the Sportswriter

Writing is a generally lonely profession, even at the best of times. It is a loner’s game and there is plenty of time for introspection and over-thinking as you sit in your office alone, gripped by The Fear of an empty page and the ever-closing deadline that hangs over your head like the executioner’s axe, a feeling of under toad permeating your entire being as you attempt to conjure up the right words and construct some meaningful prose. Few understand the friendless nature of the game or the chest-crushing pressure that comes with jacking out a screed that you are willing to attach your name too.

I, of course, have little choice but to suck it up and accept the loneliness that comes with being a professional writer. As Dr. Thompson once noted, “I have no taste for either poverty or honest labour, so writing is the only recourse left for me”. My hands are soft and smooth and wouldn’t know the feeling of grease or a hammer or the other side of the bar. A security guard at Brisbane Airport, after asking if I had a multi-tool in my briefcase and hearing my reply which noted that I had never heard of such an implement, pithily stated that he was not surprised as “your hands don’t look like they have done a hard day’s work in their life”. We chuckled, both knowing he was right on the money. I have few discernible skills and even less desire to engage in what many would call The Toil. As a human being, I am generally of little use. I am clumsy, weak, reticent and temperamental; I am prone to bouts of distraction and prolonged periods of mind and body alteration; I have a brain that is not wired to the practicalities of everyday existence and furthermore, I am generally resentful of authority and structure. That rules out everything from professional athletics to the armed forces, cartooning to carpentry, motivational speaking to mechanics. I am patently not suited to these vocations as well as most others.

This self-indulgent self-analysis of my being and my vocation is not designed to suggest I live anything but a charmed existence and that sportswriting is anything but a wonderful way to earn your keep. The Gods, for whatever perverse reason, have smiled kindly on your ever-faithful author and I am eternally grateful. Nights have been spent drinking cheap American beer in a Los Angeles dive with Tim Rogers and standing in the rain at Olympic Park chain-smoking with Jack Newton, listening to wild stories and biting screeds about everyone from Greg Norman to Brian Smith. Days have been spent in the press box at Flemington and the outer at Bruce Stadium and at the bar of the Doug Walters Stand at the SCG watching games I love and athletes I respect and even a few I do not. Sportswriters are generally well received at public gatherings such as bars, barbeques and betting houses where many questions are often asked about one’s work and who is going to win and the inside word on someone or other with even the odd autograph or photograph requested from, dare I say it, misguided souls with little understanding of the word celebrity. It is a good life. There are the hateful rants of some unstable readers and the inevitable loathing of the few I have chastised but that comes with the territory and is easy enough to live with. I would never have Ian Thorpe around for chorizo salads and I would never drink whiskey publicly with Ricky Ponting and I sure as hell wouldn’t stop to help Sonny Bill Williams if he lay crippled on my front door step, crying for help. “Ah, the circle has turned”, I would say, returning to the office and turning up Rum, Sodomy and The Lash to drown out the whimpering from below. It is all just part of the deal you sign when you commit yourself to a life of the word.

The point, however, after yet another little diversion in what is proving a very difficult piece to tighten up, is this: Writing is a lonely game, for the most part, and October is the loneliest month of them all if you call Australia home.

There is little going on in the world of sports. Footy season is done for another year and we are faced with the depressing notion of five months without our favourite codes. The rugby league World Cup and the international rules series await but they don’t mean nearly as much as the real thing and as such seem pale in comparison. The Australian cricket team doesn’t generate near the excitement they did only a few years back and only the tragics can get worked up about the Indian tour. With a good month-and-a-half to go until Australia’s Test summer kicks off, we can do little but wait. Golf and tennis, for all intents and purposes, are over until summer. The A-League is in the throes of its new season but most Australians, including most sportswriters with even an iota of sense, couldn’t give a damn. I can grasp the importance of international competition when it comes to soccer but watching F-rate soccer player’s pansying around is not particularly appealing, even if there is a dearth of meaningful sporting competition to watch and enjoy at present. The NBL is back but it is run like a two-bit cockfighting ring and even those who enjoy their hoops action feel a little depressed watching the circus minus the Kings and the Bullets, knowing the league is on the precipice of either death or restructure.

Unless you enjoy the horses, it is a tough time for the sports fan and an even tougher time for the sportswriter. Even if you do enjoy getting to the track and wagering heavily throughout the carnival- and this writer is certainly one such character who doesn’t mind donning a Fedora and grabbing his bankroll and spending the afternoon watching the horses and engaging in a titanic tussle with the local bookmaking fraternity- there is still a certain hollowness that exists without any major sports action to get involved in. October, in these parts, has always been like this. It is the singular most depressing, lonely month for those with a certain appetite for sports. It is like a junkie being forced to go cold turkey after a month on the purest horse they have ever tasted. The comedown is a little tough.

We must all be a little lateral if we are to get through this phase without thoughts of self harm or violence. October is the time to take up golf and start hustling locals for nine holes of action at a pineapple apiece or even more for nothing more than kicks and keeping your instincts sharp. Practice throwing horseshoes in the backyard and then bring a few known punters around for an afternoon of proposition wagering if you have a decent arm and a sense of fun. High stakes poker games in the backrooms of dodgy warehouses and the offices of university lecturers always take on far greater importance at this time of year with little else to keep the instincts tuned. Many gamblers can be seen walking the streets aimlessly looking for anything resembling action.

And many sportswriters aren’t far behind them, looking for The Story, hoping to become the next Runyon or at the very least, a pale imitation.

Let’s make the most of October. The month has very little going for it and is the scourge of the Julian calendar in Australia but there is no point in letting it go to waste. Bet up on the horses, search for the right kind of action, keep your instincts well tuned and before you know it, November will have arrived and with it cricket, golf, tennis and long Sunday afternoon sessions of drinking, jabbering and ABC Grandstand.

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