My Gods Were But Men

A long time ago, more than half a life-time past, a fourteen year old boy lay upon the thick cream coloured carpet of his living room floor on his back and stared at the ceiling. About six foot behind the top of his head the then state of the art Philips television set played out live the conclusion of the pre Grand Final entertainment. For the boy, the day so far had seemed to have taken an eternity to pass, as each hour the clock hand dawdled in an agony of anticipation.

At first he had tried to convince himself that until 3.00pm it was just another day. He attempted to distract himself by way of engaging in his usual pursuits. He and his younger brother went for a long excursion on their pushies. But the crisp air and exercise failed to clear his mind. A walk to the beach and along the shoreline convinced him that it was still too cool to venture into the water, not that he cared today. And the two anonymous bikini clad girls who had optimistically donned said apparel uncharacteristically barely drew a second glance from the boy. A fourteen year old boy for whom of late such real and imagined visions of scantily dressed girls had been at the forefront of his thoughts.

But today was the King of days. A mighty day. His beloved St George Dragons would be playing in the Grand Final against Canterbury Bankstown. At long last Rex Mossop announced the kick-off about to take place as the pipe and drum players of the 17th Royal NSW Regiment marched off the playing arena. The boy quickly rolled over and arose from his prone position into a cross legged one, head and neck strained forward towards the TV. Eyes intense, absorbing the vision. Rex Mossop's auditory barely registering as it barely did anyway these days as the boy had long since tired of his drone. Just as he and his friends had stopped calling him