And the Cat's in the Cradle - Prelude

I heard there was a bit of a furore lately when some journalist used her morning TV segment to decry this bloke who had just won some sort of bike race as something less than a hero. I'll let you guys decide what you think of that.


Heroes come in all guises of course. They inspire us to do great things and to be better people. So if you're going to have one, it's probably a really, really good thing when they are close to you and you can speak to them often.


My hero captained his cricket club to 5 premierships. He played in a plethora of representative football teams. He was charismatic, friendly and kind, and if he saw injustice he'd actively try to do something about it. He was the primary school teacher who the kids genuinely wanted to have teach them; although it may have helped that he had them outside for P.E. sport 3 hours a day!


He taught me how to hold the bat, how to kick the footy, what the capital of Ecuador was and most importantly, had a stern word for when I'd erred and a way of reigning me in when I was starting to think I was more important than I really was. He became a figure of utmost respect... "You know I'm gonna be like him yeah, you know I'm gonna be like him..."


But I've learnt that your dad shouldn't be your hero. And as much as you might want to be just like him, it's your differences that define how you stack up against each other, not your similarities (and believe me, we are nigh on identical!).


So for that reason, I'm bloody glad dad isn't my hero anymore. It's much better that he's one of my best mates.

Front Page of the Border Mail, 1983. The Old Man has just led Lavington CC to their third consecutive premiership. The only 3 they'd ever won. Three year old me is suitably chuffed.

I never did manage to play the booming pull shot off the lightening quick bowlers that was dad's trademark, try as he might to teach me. Sadly he was working with inferior clay. However the lesson never should be about how well you play, rather developing a love for the game, respect for your opposition and commitment to your teammates. He taught me these things well as, after all, he has taught me everything I know about sport.


And this is what makes Friday nights so special to me. For as long as I can remember (and have been legal), Friday has been a trip to the club to put on the footy tips, a $20 donation to the coffers of Club Keno, and a discussion about how to right all the wrongs in the world. Not just the ills of the AFL and its clubs or the Australian Cricket team and its captains, but also how to fix all that is wrong with the world. Right the wrongs of the previous inept governments be they ALP or Coalition. Concoct the ideas that would purge the world of hunger and disease. Fix the education (dad) and healthcare (me) system's problems that are so glaringly obvious and so easily rectified that Australia could really be on solid footing again. This is what we do every Friday night; if only we were in charge we'd have this ship sailing smoothly in no time.


So this will be the new, weekly Friday night blog post; "The Cat's in the Cradle". We'll have our father-son quality time to opine on the good and bad, prognosticate on future happenings like whether or not Jack Watts will fulfil his potential or Phil Hughes will ever learn to play the short ball, and it will be posted here in austerity for us to self congratulate ourselves for being correct 100% of the time.


Except of course when we are not, and I expect my readership to remind me at every opportunity too. It's your duty as fellow "know-it-alls" to tell us just how wrong we are. Although I am sure of one thing with great certainty; if every father cared enough to take their son for a couple of beers and a round of Keno each week, the world would be a far better place for it.


And I'm a much better person for it. I don't even have to be a hero.


Stay well good people,
Whitey