D.A. Cairns's Blog, page 15

Bulldogs Blasted

At the conclusion of the match I tore off my jersey and threw it on the floor - I am prone to melodrama. The funny thing is, we scored first. We actually led 6-0, until we remembered that we don't know how to play. What can you say when your team negatively exceeds your low expectations? What can you say when the tiny flicker of hope is rudely and dramatically snuffed out by reality?





To be fair, we had very little possession...what? Wait a minute! The reason we had very little possession is because we either
kept dropping the ballkept giving away stupid penaltiesmissed so many tackles that the Broncos either scored, or were able to force drop outs and have repeat attacking setsThe truth is we were appalling as usual. The try we conceded right before half time epitomized how far we have fallen. I'm pretty sure, I could score a try against the Bulldogs at the moment - I mean, by myself.
This game against the Broncos was really our last throw of the dice. We simply had to win to have any hope of making the play-offs (or so they kept saying-as I laughed until my sides ached) and not only did we not win, we did not even come close to winning, and the opposition, The Broncos, were not THAT good.
Final score:     Broncos 42.   Bulldogs 12.
Only deeply ingrained thrift and sentimentality prevented me from tearing my Bulldogs jersey and throwing it away. (They are not cheap and this one was a gift from my children.) It is also true to say that even if we never win another game of rugby league, I will remain loyal to my team even if it kills me to do so.

Two Points Guaranteed

Under normal circumstances it would be hard to find something to say about your team's performance -either good or bad- when they did not play on the weekend. However, the demise of the 'once were mighty' Bulldogs is not an ordinary state of affairs.

Yes, we received two competition points for nothing, courtesy of a bye. Each team gets two of these during the season which makes it impossible for any team to finish the season with zero points. The byes are organised around the State of Origin period (New South Wales V Queensland) and are designed to give representative players are little bit of breathing space, and to offset the negative effects felt by teams with a high number of rep players who are unavailable for their clubs the weekend before each Origin game.

The Bulldogs had three players in the NSW team, but did it make any difference to our performances? No. Rep players or not, injured players out or not...it's all the same. We try hard-most of the time-but seem unable to sustain the effort for the whole 80 minutes. In patches we look good, and our defense is not terrible. In fact we are ranked the third best defensive team as measured by number of points conceded.

Having such solid defense should see a team placed higher on the ladder. The best defensive team, Melbourne Storm, are leading the competition and also boost the best attack. Makes sense right? Statistics may not tell the whole story but they don't lie.

Why can't we score points? Here are the three things hindering our attack.


Lack of organisation. The Bulldogs do not have a dominant organizing halfback.Lack of speed in the play the ball: both in the actual getting up and playing the ball, and in the service from dummy half.Lack of speed in the backline. The Bulldogs do not have any guns in the backs. The backs score most of the tries.I rest my case. I can hardly wait to attack my team again next week after we have done battle  with one of the top eight contenders: the Brisbane Broncos. I would wish us luck but we need more than luck.

Celebrate the small things: mawish

Let me begin with a confession: I thought moreish was spelled mawish. I even confidently told a student so. M-A-W-I-S-H, I said, is a synonym for hungry, as in I'm feeling mawish. Yes, shocking isn't it? Not only the wrong spelling, but the wrong definition. Upon realising this grave error-just now- I have determined that I am no longer fit to teach English as a second language, and I will therefore be submitting a letter of resignation on Monday.

The timing is most unfortunate though, as I am soon to be, if my
information is correct, made permanent, having been unwillingly retained as a casual employee for nearly a year. I learned this piece of good news last night at a work dinner held to farewell one of our colleagues who received a better offer, and rightly accepted it.

I chose the restaurant: a little selfishly picking one within walking distance of home, so I could have a few drinks. The restaurant was called Moorish-no kidding. What a coincidence right?

Not at all. The name of this terrific tapas bar and restaurant made me think of the word mawish, which I now know is actually spelled moreish and evidently does not mean hungry, but rather refers to food which makes you want to eat more of it. You know the feeling: you taste something and you love it and you have to eat more of it.

Moorish refers to the Moors (North African Arabs), so Moorish food is cooked in the style of this region. We had a four course tapas banquet which featured a succession of wonderfully flavoured and textured dishes. Everyone was pleased with the food. We had a great night. The place was packed, but the service was sharp. Read my review of Moorish cafe. An all round winner, and the inspiration for this celebrate post in which I was all set to play with the words Moorish and Mawish. Unfortunately, as I explained earlier, mawish is not a word, but Moorish and moreish still works as an example of a pair of homophones.

Homophones? I guess I still have something to offer as an ESL teacher. Perhaps I won't quit after all. Maybe I'l stay and enjoy being made a permanent employee, which effectively means a pay rise. 

What do you think? Should I stay on? Have you eaten Moorish food? What food would you describe as moreish?

The Strange Horizon

Title:The Strange Horizon                                     Glimpses into the Mind of a Dreamer
         ISBN: Ebook 978-1-62420-324-4
            Print     978-1548336950
Author: G. L. Didaleusky


Genre: Short Stories (mystery, suspense, contemporary, horror, science fiction and fantasy)
Excerpt Heat Level: 1
Book Heat Level: 1

 Buy at: Amazon, Barnes and Noble
TAGLINEA Collage of Short Stories emerged from my imagination--a few actual experiences--and some possibly conjured from a previous life, if you believe in reincarnation and Edgar Casey.
BLURBThe Strange Horizon ranges from stories less than a hundred words to over four thousand words. There isn’t any profanity, gore or sexual innuendo in any of the short stories. The genre varies from mystery, suspense, contemporary, horror, science fiction and fantasy. You may smile, chuckle, express a tear or two, feel a sudden chill or feel a warmth at the end of the story. Emotions are in the mind of the reader and the heart cuddles or rejects those emotions.

EXCERPTGuiding Spirit
Adam leaned forward and slid his shovel between the sidewalk and six inches of snow. His peripheral vision saw someone walking toward him. He straightened up and gazed at an elderly man wearing a parka. A cold northern wind gently blew at the man’s white hair and long white beard. Adam threw the shoveled snow next to him and said, “How are you?”
“Just fine, thank you.”
“I’m Adam Morris.”
“Please to meet you. I’m Ben Stanton.”
“Didn’t you and your wife move into the old Kramer house last month.”
“Yes. We did.”
“Is everything all right there? It sat vacant for a few years.”
“It’s just fine. We’re very comfortable.”
“I heard you’re going to play Santa Claus at the family shelter on Christmas Eve,” Adam stated.
“Yes. I’m looking forward to it”
“You sure do fit the part. Don’t need an artificial beard.”
“No. I don’t,” Ben said, pulling at his beard.
“I understand you retired a few years ago.”
“That’s right.”
“What kind of work did you do?”
“Public relations for a large global company.”
“Did your wife retire too?”
“You ask a lot of questions. You must be a newspaper reporter.”
“Yes. I am. How did you know that?”
“You’re standing in front of the Northern Star Newspaper office.”
Adam rolled his eyes, grinned. “Never was good as an undercover reporter.”
Ben placed his hands on his large protruding abdomen and chuckled.
“You laugh from your belly just—”
“I know,” interrupted Ben. “Just like Santa on TV or in the movies.”
“Didn’t mean to offend you.”
“You didn’t. It doesn’t bother me at all. Matter of fact, I take it as a compliment.”
Two teen-aged boys approached them. “Hey old man, where’s your reindeers?’ asked one of the boys. The other boy snickered.
“Get out of here you juvenile delinquents.” Adam scowled at them.
The boys kicked snow on the shoveled sidewalk in defiance and took off running.
“You little brats.”
“They mean no harm,” interjected Ben. “They got good hearts. Their attitudes just need some guidance.”
“Being in public relations, I would think you’d have negative judgments of people.”
“No. I try to see positive attributes in people. It’s the way I am. Too old to change now.”


~ * ~


About a week before Christmas, the Santa at the mall became sick. Adam heard about it when the manager of the mall came into the newspaper office to place an ad in the paper. He contacted Ben, who accepted the position.
Ben sat in a large, adorned chair. A woman in her late twenties, holding the hand of a girl around six-years-old, walked up the red-carpeted entranceway and stopped a couple feet away from him.
“Hi, Santa,” said the little girl.
“Well, Jasmine, how are you today?”
“How did you know her name?” asked the woman, frowning.
“Santa knows all the boys and girls of the world. Although, I heard you call her name a few minutes ago when you walked behind me.”
“So, Jasmine. What do you want for Christmas?”
“A daddy. Mine died when I was a baby.”
“I’m not sure if Santa can promise you that.” Ben glanced at the mother. A tear ran down her cheek.
Jasmine’s face saddened, as her shoulders slumped. “That’s okay, Santa Claus. I still love you.”
“Bless your heart. What else can Santa bring you Christmas morning?”
“My own bed.”
“Do you share your bed with someone else?”
“Oh. No Santa. The shelter owns my bed.”
The mother leaned forward. “We’re staying at the family shelter in town. It’s just temporary until I earn enough money for a place of our own.”
“I hope things work out for you and your daughter. Have a Merry Christmas. And God bless you.” Ben handed Jasmine a candy cane.


~ * ~


On Christmas day, Adam sat at his dining room table surrounded by family members.
“I heard that Ben and his wife suddenly left town two days ago,” Carl remarked, Adam’s brother. “No one seems to know where they went.”
Adam frowned. “That’s strange. Ben was looking forward to playing Santa Claus at the family shelter.”
Maybe they wanted to spend Christmas with relatives in another town or state.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why’s that?” asked Carl.
“Ben and his wife were ‘only children’ and didn’t have any relatives. At least that’s what he told me a while back.”


~ * ~


“Jasmine, get over here.”
“Karen. She’s okay,” said a young man in his late twenties, sitting next to her on a bench in the mall. Across from them, they were dismantling the Santa Claus stage.
“I still can’t believe how we happened to meet after not seeing each other since high school.”
“Me either. The elderly man that was playing Santa here at the mall came into my store a few days before Christmas. He asked me if I would go to the family shelter on Christmas Eve dressed up like Santa. I couldn’t believe it when I saw you there.”
 Email address: gosky1@outlook.com

Website URL: www.gregdidaleusky.com

Trying to Lose

Sixty percent possession and at least three or four real scoring opportunities ought to guarantee that you take a comfortable lead into half time. Likewise, playing at your spiritual home ground, in front of a full house of loyal fans in a match designated as send off/thank you for one of your most popular players: a player who epitomizes the team and everything they stand for - and yet one who the management of the club has decided to let go to another club - should ensure success.

Playing against a team of mainly rookies who are coming last in the competition and are also rated last in defense, should also guarantee not just a comfortable half time lead, but also a comfortable win and a much needed two competition points.

Perhaps if we were talking about any other club, this post would be redundant because what should have logically happened, would have actually happened. However, I am talking about my beloved Bulldogs who suck, and who furthermore in the dying stages of the game, looked like they were trying to lose.

Check out the highlights if you are interested, but here's what happened in a nutshell. By half time, the Doggies 8-0 lead had been reduced to 8-6, and was ,over the course of most of the second half, turned into a 18-8 deficit. We are ranked 4th in defense, so how, one may well ask, did the last placed team score three tries against us?

The Bulldogs hit back with two tries in five minutes, the last of which was converted with roughly ten seconds to go in the match. Score: Bulldogs 20. Knights 18. While the players were celebrating victory on the sideline, the opposition was rushing for one last kick off and a hail Mary play at the death. The short kick off resulted in the Knights being awarded a penalty with regular time expired.

The penalty was justified. The very same player mentioned earlier, the most popular Bulldog, the heart and soul of the team, committed a deliberate, and completely unnecessary foul to concede the penalty. A successful penalty kick would have locked the scores at 20-20 and forced the game into golden point extra time.

The Knights kicker made an embarrassingly bad attempt at kicking the goal and the Bulldogs won the match.

Was I happy about the win? Not really. It was an ugly win, and saying that a win is a win regardless of by how much you win or how you play, is fine when you are a premiership, or at least a play-offs contender. When you are neither, when you are a monumental disappointment to your fans...such a win feels hollow.

Bulldogs V Knights Round 18 match highlights

Celebrate the small things: a forest of daleks

I woke up feeling angry this morning, and it wasn't because it was Saturday and I didn't have to go to work -I like my job a lot- but it may have had something to do with the dream from which I awoke.

In a small and crowded backpacker hostel, I was telling everyone, during breakfast, about my cystectomy. The reactions of my extremely proximate house mates ranged from indifference to mild interest. Oh no not again.*

So I had some breakfast and decided to go for a walk, a long walk. I had planned to go to the gym, but I had a fairly heavy workout yesterday after work, and suspected the HiFit class I was planning on joining might kill me.

After 45 minutes I was still feeling agitated despite the perfect Dry Season weather and my favourite tunes filling my ears courtesy of one of my best friends: my iPod shuffle. I entered George Brown Botanic Gardens and was moderately intrigued by the African garden, walked through the Monsoon rainforest, and then I saw this.



I took some photos while reciting the words 'exterminate, exterminate' in my head, and proceeded up a hill because there was one available. (Darwin is generally very flat.) Half way up the hill I realized I wasn't angry anymore. The Dalek trees and the exertion of a brisk hill climb had blown the bad vibes away.
This week was the last student free one as the new term starts on Monday. I've had a very productive term break and I'm looking forward to actually teaching again, as opposed to preparing to teach. As usual I have much for which to be thankful, but particularly today, I'm celebrating Darwin's awesome weather, Dalek trees, hills, iPod shuffles and my job.

What do you do with your anger?

* One of the things I've learned about myself over the last few years is that I am overly interested in the opinions/reactions of others- which is incidentally why I should stay off social media. I can be a little childish in wanting attention. When I started writing about the dream, I was struck by the obvious manifestation of this truth in my dream.

Oh the humanity!

I apologize for the hyperbole, but when you hear my sad story, you will understand and forgive me.

In 1979, the Canterbury-Bankstown Bulldogs played the St.George Dragons in the rugby league Grand Final. I was at a relatives house surrounded mostly by Dragons fans. I was 11 years old and it was on this day that my love affair with the Bulldogs began in earnest. I would have gone to live games before with Dad, who was also a Doggies fan, and I would have watched many games on TV, but the Grand Final of 1979 was the moment I first remember being emotionally effected by the performance of a sporting team.

At half time of the aformentioned game the Dogs were behind 17-0, and I, unable to bear it, left the house to spend the second half doing what boys do in backyards. The final score was 17-14. I missed the exciting second half comeback which despite not giving us victory, did help set the platform for a premiership win the following year against the Roosters. (see below) and provide a seminal moment in my life.


That 1980 title win was the first of four for the Bulldogs in that decade. ('84, '85 and '88) We won again in 1995 and once more in 2004. More recently we qualified for the Grand Final in 2012 and 2014 - unfortunately losing on both occasions.

This year we suck! After 17 rounds we are down the bottom of the table with the also-rans who have no hope of making the play-offs this year. I am appalled by how bad we are, so to comfort myself I am going to dedicate Tuesdays for the rest of the season to lamenting and lambasting my beloved Bulldogs.

To close on a positive note, here is a glorious moment from the past. One of the most famous of all Grand Final tries. This is from the 1980 when we were known as The Entertainers of rugby league.

Celebrate the small things: some toilet paper and a spade

Let me say right off the bat that I am not a BCF* guy. Admittedly, we camped on our road trip to Darwin, but we drove from sun up to sunset each day and pitched our super easy to set up tent before eating, showering and sleeping. That's more like just sleeping in a tent rather than camping.

Real Men is the name of the mens' ministry group at my church, and we had a mens' camp last weekend which is why I didn't write a 'celebrate' blog last week. I took the longest time to decide to go on this camp, and a mate of mine was in the same boat. Eventually we talked each other into it in the belief that God wanted us there for some reason: that, despite our reticence, it would be good for us somehow.

The campsite was only accessible by 4WD and there were no amenities. Apart from the abundance of equipment brought along by the BCF guys (that is everyone else) this was real camping complete with campfire on the beach. 

It was a weekend of many firsts for me. I had never driven along a beach in a 4WD for example, but there is one debut experience in particular which I want to share with you.

One of the guys returned from somewhere and drove a spade into the ground. It functioned as a giant toilet roll holder even though there was just one roll on it. After breakfast on the first morning, I grabbed the spade and toilet roll and asked some of the guys for some advice about doing what bears do. 'Dig deep and cover well,' was the pearl of wisdom I received.

To spare you the unsavoury details of my expedition to answer the call of nature, I'll just say this: I really appreciated my toilet when I got home. I'm also very thankful for toilet paper.

Aside from the overabundance of conversations about 4WDs and fishing, I really enjoyed the experience and I now know why I was there. It wasn't for me, but for my mate who I learned had good reason to be very reluctant to go camping. I applaud his bravery and I'm glad I was there.

Have I converted to an outdoorsman? Am I now a BCF guy? No. Will I camp again? Probably. Are you a BCF person? Or do you prefer less adventurous forms of recreation?

* BCF There is a outdoor recreation store in Australia called BCF which stands for Boating Camping Fishing.

Celebrate the small things: teach me

Student X, whose departure was due this week, but which I celebrated last week, did not attend any classes in his final week. However, he did come and see me before class on his last day to say goodbye. It was a slightly awkward conversation during which I'm pretty sure he never said thank you or sorry, but he did wish me well for the future. I shook his hand and honestly wished him good fortune as well. (even though I don't really believe in fortune as such.) He made me want to be a better teacher and a better person. I should have thanked him, but I did not how to do it. Too late now, but thank you student X.


The Australian Taxation Office (ATO) sent me a letter to say they are cancelling my Australian Business Number (ABN) because there is no evidence that I am carrying on a business -which isn't true by the way. I was very surprised to receive this letter, and annoyed that I have to contact a huge government department and argue with them when I know they don't care. Now, I'm thinking about how seldom I have used my ABN, and how much more often I could have potentially used it. And still could. This notification from the ATO re-fired ambition in my heart. (Go figure!)Thank you massive, uncaring government department.

Amazon contacted me to say my latest royalty payment could not be paid because it been rejected by my bank. I don't understand why, and neither was Amazon able to provide an explanation. Big organisations can be very uncreative when it comes to solving their customer's problems. This little irritation reminded me that although I may not be setting the publishing world on fire, I am selling books, so thank you Amazon for your inexplicable banking disturbances.

What little, seemingly negative thing taught you something this week? Or made you feel grateful? (even if that was not your initial reaction)

My Last Sunset

Title: My Last Sunset                                
Author: Christian Chiakulas
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-62420-322-0
POD ISBN: 978-1546836339

Genre: Mystery/Crime
Excerpt Heat Level: 1
Book Heat Level: 3

Buy at: Rogue Phoenix Press, Amazon, Barnes and Noble

Christian will give one digital copy of My Last Sunset to a randomly drawn commenter.

CONTENT WARNING

Although it is not described in detail, this book deals with sexual
abuse.

TAGLINE

An antisocial teen sets out to solve the mystery of why Jessica  Carpenter killed herself in the halls of their high school.

BLURB

My Last Sunset is a hard-boiled detective story set in a contemporary American high school. Damon Riley is an angry, antisocial teenager with a penchant for solving mysteries.  His life is shaken up when Jessica Carpenter, a girl in the grade below his, shoots herself in the halls of the school itself, leaving behind a note that names him as the culprit for driving her to suicide.  Taking the bait, Damon embarks on a quest to find out what really happened to Jessica, leading him through a web of conspiracy, betrayal, and brutality.  Along the way he learns more than he ever dreamed possible about the girl he could never have saved.




EXCERPT

Michael might be having the same idea as me, because he says, "Hey, you hear about that freshman who killed herself?"

"She was a sophomore," I say, staring ahead at the blackboard.

"Oh," Michael says. He's a senior, so it makes sense he wouldn't know."

"That's right, I knew that." Liar. "You heard she did it here?"

"Yeah, in the bathroom downstairs," I say. This class is on the fourth  floor. Jessica killed herself on the second. The music was so loud from the dance that nobody heard the gunshot, and she didn't get found until a janitor came in the next day. She'd been absent from school Thursday and Friday last week, and I heard her mom had reported her missing to the police. Then, for whatever reason, she came back to school to end her life.

What the hell, Jessica.

It's not that I can't believe it. Jessica was a nice girl, I think, and seemed happy a lot of the time, but seeming happy and being happy aren't the same thing; you don't have to be smart to know or even articulate that. Like I said, I didn't know her that well, but I knew her a little; enough to see that, like the rest of us, she had shit going on she didn't talk about. What I didn't see was that she was the kind of person who couldn't deal with it, like we all do.

Or that it was the kind of shit that can't be dealt with."Heard she left a note," Michael says, and now I'm aware that he's looking at me even though his face hasn't moved. His eyes moved.I didn't hear anything about a note. Whatever was going on with her, she definitely wanted to be found, wanted somebody to know.

Or maybe everybody.

Half a dozen more people stream in over the next two or three minutes; this class is pretty small to begin with and there are four absent. The eight o'clock bell rings just as Goldman appears in the doorway. Behind him is Panzer, one of the school's security guards (not his real name,
but it should be).I raise an eyebrow as Goldman enters the classroom and the talking dies down. Then he looks right at me and says, "Damon, could you please go with Mr. Cousins to the dean's office?"

A low "Oooooh..." goes through the small class, and I stand up, wondering what the hell I did. Usually when I'm in trouble, I know exactly why. As I cross the room to where Panzer is standing, arms folded across his chest, I notice the two girls who'd been in the room early shooting me nasty looks, like I personally wronged them. I don't even know their names.

Panzer steps aside to let me exit the room first then closes the door after us. I throw my messenger bag over my shoulder and look at him.

"What's this about," I say, a little worried.

"Just walk."

The halls are deserted, and I stare at the floor as we walk to the main nexus where the stairwells are, passing over the blurry reflections of the fluorescent lights in the freshly-waxed floor. The dean's office is on the second floor, right down the hall from the girl's bathroom. I stare at the door as we pass it.

The dean's office is small, considering there are three deans that share it along with a secretary and the school's sole counselor. The hub is a yellow-painted room with the secretary's desk, several file cabinets, a large wooden conference table, doors to the private offices of the deans and counselor, and plastic bins hanging on the walls filled with handouts and leaflets about substance abuse, sexual abuse, good ol' fashioned domestic abuse, birth control, STDs, juvie, and there at the end— suicide.

The three deans are all sitting at the conference table along with the counselor, Mrs. Mullen, and the school's police liaison, Officer Pasture. A pit drops into my stomach. Whatever I did, it must've been
bad
.
"Damon, please sit," Dean Goodfellow says. He's a pudgy man with long blonde hair and a face like a bulldog; if you're picturing him comically, stop, because everyone in this school is terrified of him, including yours truly. The other two, Dean Haskins and Dean Washington, are serious men, but none attack their jobs with the rage-filled passion of Dean Goodfellow. He runs this school like it's the streets of Baltimore in The Wire, keeping detailed, ever-growing files on every student with the misfortune to cross his path and trading favors to some of them for information. I'm not gonna lie, I've gotten out of more than one detention this way. Wouldn't you know it, he's in charge of students
with surnames P-Z.

But they're all three here, which means this is really serious. I pull up the blue plastic seat across from him, willing myself not to break eye contact, and Panzer disappears outside. The secretary isn't here
either. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest. What's going on?

"Damon," Goodfellow says, shifting in his seat and locking his fingers together on the table in front of him. Everybody else at the table is staring at their laps; they know the drill. When Goodfellow is
working...interrogating, more like...you let him be.


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