On 16 March 2017 I played my two hundred and seventy-ninth game for the Melbourne Storm.
I didn’t dare look at the palm of my hand for fear of seeing the bruising arc pattern of fingernails from the clenching of my fist moments earlier.
Jamie twists the dial on the radio up to full volume so we can hear the Stone Roses over the wind whistling past our ears.
When I was seven years old, I learned how important it is to cry at funerals.
On this hot August night, Tom Krupp parks his car – a leased Lexus – in the driveway of his handsome two-storey home.
‘There is no passion to be found playing small – in settling for a life that is less than the one you are capable of living.’
When it came to footy my family and I were Port Adelaide people through and through.
26 June 1957. A small Japanese fishing trawler from the port of Hakodate rolls over dark swells on the North Pacific, treading Russian waters to the south-east of the Kamchatka Peninsula.
The LandCruiser was packed with camping gear and fully ser¬viced. It had all-terrain tyres freshly fitted. I was outward bound again.
Just thinking the words scares me. I’m standing alone on a windswept deck looking out over the Antarctic coastline...
A rich cloud of meat smoke drifting slowly across the grapevines and paddocks greeted the members of the Cleary family as they arrived at the vineyard.
The day was a stinker. The sun overhead was blazing and sweat trickled beneath the bridegroom’s collar.
They came on a Wednesday to execute my father. Looking back, I should have sensed something amiss during morning Mass three days earlier.
In 1983 a potato farmer from Beech Forest in southern Victoria had an ambitious idea.
She was perfect. And so rarely the perfect ones came, fluttering out of the darkness like moths into golden light. Swift and uncatchable.
