| Sports |
Advisers of the
lowest order
Relationships can
sour on the kind of advice given, writes JACK METTA
JOE is an old acquaintance. He’s what
you might consider a good friend — someone you always had time
for.
The memories of growing up a kids, going to school together,
roughing it up as teenagers, playing footy for the same club and
generally going through the routine of the life as adults just as
it was when we were still kids, are as vivid as ever.
You begin to see less and less of each other as the years go by
and eventually when your paths cross on occasions, the long chats
and laughter that were the norm of your past meetings, were just
becoming nods and a muttered greetings.
Why it ever came to this is arguable, but most of it perhaps
boiled down to renewed responsibilities and commitments that one
picks up in the course of trudging down life's path.
Last Saturday morning, you meet Joe while shopping with the missus
at Tabari place. Well, it was more like Joe meeting you, to be
precise.
After that initial pat on the back and the usual “Yo, man!” you
had to stare for a while before recognition sank in.
The sight you behold is not of the chap you've come to know since
your childhood years. This was a scruffy looking guy with Rasta
dreadlocks and a bushy beard that displayed the evidence of his
10t scone lunch. He is clad in a dirty, faded, worn-out jeans and
a T-shirt that has never seen the inside of a washing machine
since the day it was made.
You make that usual nod, mutter a greeting under a strained breath
and continue on your way.
You remember the last time you met. You were on your way to the
inter-city match and he had been loitering in front of the
grandstand. You had taken the trouble of becoming a member of the
club because membership had its advantages; basically allowing you
free access to the grandstand. Besides, you had a reputation to
maintain within the fraternity and you wanted to be among your
peers.
You got him in somehow and lost a bundle on a bet for the local
side at his insistence because he reckoned he was some authority
on the SP Cup competition.
Joe somehow, had run out of luck. He hasn't held down a job since
he was sacked from the public service after being implicated in a
bribery scandal eight years ago.
You had met him on and off on a number of occasions since the day
his story broke in the newspaper and though at first, you had been
very sympathetic with his plight, he had become somewhat of a pest
at the best of times.
When you do think about it long and hard, you start to feel some
admiration for yourself. You know you've endured some very testing
times and you know who was at the root of all that you've endured.
It was at Nambawan Trophy Haus a week after Joe was terminated
from the public service. You were on your way to the local betting
shop around the corner, but thought you'd pop into Nambawan Trophy
Haus, have a beer and try your hand at the pokies, while awaiting
the racing time.
You met Joe there, or rather Joe met you there — his state of
being leaving you in no doubt that he was still in the process of
painting the town red. You deduce that he had been in this frame
of mind for the last 48 hours at least.
You had picked out a machine, paid your money, picked up a beer
and quietly went to work. You were minding your own business until
Joe came breathing beer fumes down you neck and advising you on
which buttons to press and drawling and gesturing wildly about
what could have been as the various images lit up the poker screen
in front of you. Enticements soon followed and before you knew it,
you had parted with a substantial amount of your hard-earned cash.
You still had your tip on that race, so you reserved a couple of
bucks just to place on the horse.
You pretended to visit the loo and strolled off to the race.
You horse came home much to your delight and pocket’s glee and you
were giving the next punt serious thought. You'd decided to see at
least a couple more races before you split the scene.
You decide on a horse and the race and in the process of placing
your bet, the same old fumes you were bombarded with at Nambawan
Trophy Haus consumed you from behind and a grumbling voice
suggesting "Race five, horse six..."
You really needn't have turn to see who it was. But the voice and
the realisation of who it was confused you into taking a wild punt
at the last moment. You really were not so sure of who or what you
placed your bet on. But the end result was one of total confusion.
The winning horse sounded like number one — the one you had your
mind set on in the first place until you looked at the ticket and
it was number six.
You lost everything then but the trend was only beginning, for Joe
because a near shadow in your gambling exploits over the next
couple of years.
In other words, he became a constant pain in the neck whether it
was at the scene of the pokies or the races.
People like Joe have made it their business to act as advisers and
coaches in these affairs and the future of your relationship
presently is determined by how much you benefit from their advice
and encouragement.
So is it any wonder that over the last couple of years, you have
given Joe a wide berth if you could help it, and if you can't,
well you simply mutter something but keeping your attention
focused on a point somewhere directly ahead of you.
It should not have come to this, you tell yourself when in your
quiet moments of reflections, but then again, some people bring it
upon themselves. As the Keremas would says, ‘leva learn’. And we
are reminded of the Wise Counsellor’s words: Enemies are made, not
born…
 
|
