It’d been a while since I’d been back to watch the Gulls; I don’t get the chance as much as I would like. Sidestepping a few puddled potholes, I instinctively headed towards the sheds. Thirty-odd souls were manning the entrances to the change rooms. A fire in a barrel was at full blast, providing some warmth against the cold. It explained the smoke I'd seen. I wanted to stay next to the barrel, but I was due in the social club for the luncheon. In 1998, the Gulls were in such a dire financial position it was said that at one committee meeting, the cost and necessity of toilet paper was discussed. It’s a funny story now, but probably wasn't then. At the time, the club had debts of more than $100,000 and roughly 26 players to pick from. That’s 26 players total, for seniors and reserves. Over a pot of beer, Chris Ayres (brother of dual Norm Smith medallist Gary) described, “dragging a few blokes out of the pub” to field a reserves team. It wasn’t much better for the seniors in 1998. Thrashings became routine and the survival of the club in the Latrobe Valley league was a hot topic around town. The senior coach at the time was Steven Hodge, a burly, charismatic man who has a natural gift for what I would describe as country football performance art. My mates and I were about 16 at the time, and we would often sneak into the rooms before the game or gather around the senior team at the breaks to be entertained - and mesmerised - by Hodge. Sometimes he would crouch down , clench his fist and in a booming voice talk about shifting momentum. He’d use his own arm as a prop to give his players a picture of the pendulum turning our way.

As underage rascals on a Saturday night, my mates and I would all have a go at our own version of the pendulum, but it was done with affection. We loved him. By the middle of that season, we were in the senior team, playing under our pendulum hero. Hodge pointed me out during one of my outings as a Gull. He’d spotted a small graze above my eyebrow. “The kid’s got a cut across his head. That’s tough!" he bellowed. "You blokes with beards and tatts would want to start having a go. The kids bleeding for this jumper!” As I opened the door to the social rooms last Saturday, I was snapped back into reality. I found my old coach in the back room, writing some notes. The entertainment for the Cattle Club luncheon was a conversation between Hodge and me. We didn’t so much plan for the performance as just agree to sit down and reminisce. Hodge retold the cut forehead story, and with a mischievous grin, conceded: "He probably just grazed the top of a pimple.” The Cattle Club was created that year in a desperate attempt to raise funds. The idea was to scrounge enough money to buy 10 calves and billet them out to various farms in the hope of reaping the profits a year later. It was a solid plan, but it didn’t take long before things went awry. Within 48 hours, a calf had gone missing. We were down to nine already!

A search party was sent out and found that the calf had wandered across paddocks to another farm. The Cattle Club simply asked the neighbouring farmer if the escapee could stay on his land. He obliged. The idea of cows themselves finding and making their own home went down well at the 2018 Cattle Club luncheon. From dark times, this group might just have saved the Gulls. I knew the club was in strife during this time, but I was a kid then. Back with the Gulls now, I stayed for the afternoon, swapping stories over a few beers and a hot dog. As the sun fell behind the green hills to the west, I walked through the crowd to find my ride home, the city calling me once again. The Gulls were running away with it, and the fire in the barrel was still going strong. Bob Murphy and his new book.