9.5

Some elements of my memory are good. Others are not so good.

I can't remember exactly which students were in 9.5. I can remember that Mr D was our homeroom teacher but I can't remember all the teachers that year (who taught us maths?). 

Mostly I remember that it was difficult for the teachers to be punctual as the classroom was separated from the rest of the year by three flights of stairs. It was even more difficult for Mr D who had to do the long hike from the PE classrooms or the field. As a result we were often unsupervised.

These unsupervised moments I remember well.

If you were going to play class clown, 9.5 was the best and worst of audiences. There was stiff competition for the limelight. If you were going to mock people (the heart of early schoolboy comedy), it had to be funny, or your own lack of humour would be replayed at you continuously.

I had worked out early in my time at Nudgee, that I could entertain my peers with some success through impersonations. However the material that got laughs when we were in Grade 8 such as simple lisps, high trousers, twitches, funny voices had to be taken to the next level to appeal to the more sophisticated tastes of 13-14 year olds.

So on one of the many unsupervised afternoons I was doing a run of the mill teacher take-off when Tully and Deeran started to pay me out instead. These moments could get ugly, one minute you’re leading the laughter, next minute you’re the subject of fun. I improvised quickly, implying a relationship between the teacher and a class member who had received a glowing review for their work in the recently ended period.

It was a masterful display, the mood changed, the class no longer wanted my blood - they were in the palm of my hand screaming with laughter.

If I was not so fixated on my act, I would have realised that Mr Flattery (who had heard the noise in the adjoining classroom) was standing in the doorway. At this stage I was convulsing on the teacher's desk, both legs wide in the air, simulating acts that I had seen in one of Lersa's magazines and screaming out at the top of my voice "Fothers! Fothers! Give it to me Fothers!”

Flattery’s booming voice provided instant silence "You on the desk, outside now - I'm going to leeeeaaathhhher you!"

I walked out quickly into the empty adjoining classroom. It was quiet except for the muttered laughter from next door as Kooka in a hushed undertone immediately filled the void of my exit with an impersonation of Flattery's use of the word "leather". Flattery quickly went back next door, issued threats and came back in. I'm sure he could hear the continued disobedience next door but he ignored it and focused on me instead. He’s really, really angry. 

I'd had the gatt many, many times before so I knew what to expect. He informed me that I was getting 4 for my “silliness” - I think I was saved from a more extensive and thoroughly deserved punishment by the fact that he didn't know what the hell I was doing.

He stands on a small foot stool to provide him with extra leverage. I put my hand out calmly trying not to giggle at this ridiculous sight. Crack - The first strap hits dead centre - all 3 middle fingers and all the way up to the wrist. It hurts – loads more than any punishment I have ever had – any thoughts of giggling have gone.  I put out my right hand much less calmly. Whack - it hurts more than the first. I bring up the already bruised left hand for number three as he adjusts his comb-over and brushes the sweat from his forehead. My entire arm shakes like a leaf. Thud - I let out a small involuntary squeal. I check my hand to see if it is still there. 

I put the right hand up meekly for the last. Snick - it hits me on the end two fingers - I think they are broken. "You moved" says Flattery sternly, "Put your hand back up". Ka-Pow  - the repeated fourth and final gatt on my right hand was so violent that I almost lose control of my bowels. He gives me the usual post thrashing dressing-down and tells me to go back to my classroom.

The big problem, though is that I’ve started to cry. Not much, but enough. My mind goes back to a day in Year 8.2 when Archer got the gatt from Sullivan in front of the class and burst into tears. Not only did the class laugh openly the instant it happened (I got subsequently strapped for being a giggler) but he copped it for the entire year.

I could not afford to show anyone that I was hurt. Before re-entering 9.5 I took a deep breath, wiped my face with the tail of my shirt and composed myself. I wished my legs would stop shaking. As I walked back into the still teacher less 9.5 classroom, Head Banger O’Driscoll asks "Did it hurt" - to which I reply confidently "Nope".

I felt my deception was going well until Tully yells "Hey Rashhead, have you've been crying?" – before I answer extensive classroom wide laughter and pointing follows, "Boo Hoo", "Sooky", "Waahh", "Sexy's a Poofter", "Girl", etc.

Flattery re-enters - silence.

The "crying because I was strapped" payouts continue for maybe a week, maybe two weeks. The more protests I make, the worse it becomes. Being a boarder – you score it at night as well. I’m starting to wonder if I’m going to be left with a nickname like “Sooks”. I hang low.

Two weeks later someone in 9.5 gets caught in a private moment of adolescent self-exploration. He’s a good mate of mine. The attention turns away from me. I know what the poor bugger is going through having just been on the end of it myself for two weeks. I could show some support.

Instead I lead the payouts.

I wish there was a moral to the story....


SCRUM HILL by an '88 Old Boy

The Ag class is still waiting for Mr Natoli to arrive. As usual I am fielding a barrage of insults from Bill. This combined Senior/Sub Senior class is a breeding ground for subbies harrassment.

After some time we are starting to realise that maybe we are in the wrong classroom. The new Ag classroom was recently completed down behind the Tennis Courts and Mr Natoli is probably waiting there.

Meanwhile, Bill is relentless and continues to tease me about my docile behaviour. It's become a habit for him now. He can't see me without "giving it to me". Bill was bigger, stronger and quicker than I but it was time to take a stand. I yelled a short yet effective insult back at Bill and he seemed to pause. A short time later Bill’s mate Gary suggested that Bill and I should fight it out. I rose to my feet and accepted.

The classroom was still unattended by Mr Natoli so the Seniors organised that as we walk down to the Ag classroom, we should divert over to Scrum Hill to conduct the fight. Scrum Hill was a flat piece of land cut out to the side of Wilkes Oval leading to the Flat’s. It housed the scrum machines for training. On the trip down I was receiving advice from the experts on how I should conduct myself. I just knew if I could block my way through and stay on my feet that would be enough.

Scrum Hill was deserted and no one could be seen in the surrounds so we got straight into it. Bill flew in with a burst of fire. He was dancing, jumping and swinging. The first set smashed into my guard as I stood there with both of my arms in front of my head. I must have taken a peak out the side because the next set landed a king hit to my right eye. I was okay, the vision was blurry but I was still upright. The next set were ineffective and just bounced off my guard. It was at this point I noticed that Bill was fatigued. He was breathing and sweating heavily. His half packet a day habit had caught up with him. The next set had half the power and he was holding his arms lower. Bill now did the unthinkable.

He called a “time-out”. I’d never seen this before. What was the protocol? I stood still with my guard up while Bill stood, hands on hips and caught his breath.

Round 2 started the way of Round 1. Bill was dancing again but the guard was working well. Now with some confidence, I even threw out some air swings complete with hissing sound effects. Realising how ridiculous I looked I couldn’t help but grin. Bill’s sets continued but he was fading fast. He then called it, it was over. One black eye, some bruises and a heap of regained respect.

As we turned to walk to the Ag classroom we realised that Mr Natoli had watched the whole event. From the look on his face he thoroughly enjoyed it. Everyone loves a fight.