When the Cards Fall Just A Little Too Kindly

I have, for most of my life, been called a Jew or identified as Jewish despite the fact I am a baptised, confirmed and guilt-ridden Roman Catholic. It has almost certainly been because of my appearance and wares on sporting fields and around tool boxes. At least more so than for my financial acumen or fondness for kosher. I have quite the credit card debt (one that cannot be paid off by drawings of seven-legged spiders, haiku poetry or personally signed business cards, I have recently found out) and Papa Tedeschi is a butcher who, when putting the knife to a side of beef, is not particularly concerned with draining it of all its blood.

The long and crooked hook nose, the dark crop of hair, the Rabbi-esque nature of my beard when allowed to roam free for any period longer than a week, the heavily nasal way of speaking, leaden feet, poor hand-eye co-ordination, an inherent fear of physical injury, an inability to build or fix anything more complex than a milk crate bookshelf: they have all contributed to me being labelled a Jew by those who tend to deal in stereotypes.

That is all fine. If anything I have come to identify a great deal with the Jewish mentality and view of humanity. I feel a strange affiliation with Phillip Roth and Woody Allen and Saul Bellow and Meyer Lansky and Lou Reed in terms of outlook, if not talent.

My most apparent Jewish-stereotype characteristic is an unquenchable neuroticism that ensures I am perennially over-analysing nearly every situation, act or deed I encounter.

When you are also a firm believer in karma and The Great Universal Balance, as I am, this is somewhat problematic. You tend to be left in a state of perpetual purgatory where joy is continually undermined by the fear that the ledger could be squared at any moment. It is extremely difficult to embrace true happiness when your mind is continually concerned about balance. And neurotics never believe they are ahead of the count. Ever.

Celebrations are usually tempered by the notion that the circle is forever turning. No stroke of luck ever comes free of charge. Misfortune is viewed as just that while good fortune is viewed as the precursor to misery.

That is why 2009 shapes as a disaster. The cards have been falling just a little too kindly of late.

Not only have the Bulldogs signed a cavalcade of stars including personal favourites Ben Hannant and David Stagg, the Richmond Tigers lured Ben Cousins to Tigerland in one of the great coups. For the first time in my history, there is hope at Punt Road. The day he arrived to train, the suburb of Richmond was abuzz. No longer was the unconvincing optimism of the Richmond fan evident. Those in the yellow and black walked tall up Swan Street and Bridge Road, heads held high, with talk of premierships and a dynasty and the sending out of Richo on top filling the air from The Spreadeagle to The Cherry Tree. Strangers joined arms on trams and belted out Tigerland while young kids and old men and everyone in between donned scarves and beanies on a Melbourne summer’s day to pay homage. It was a victory for not only the Richmond faithful but for people power with Cousins only arriving at Richmond due to the public show of strength from Richmond fans who demanded Cousins be drafted by the club when it appeared all hope was lost. It was the kind of rush one would get when caught up in the throes of a political revolution, I would imagine.

That was followed up by the much-anticipated demise of a number of Australia’s so-called cricketing stars and the public shaming of a selection panel that has been derelict in its duties for a long period of time. The whipping of the Australian cricket team at the hands of South Africa this summer has been highly entertaining. Commentators who have highlighted the deficiencies of many players selected in the Australian team as well as those who have argued against the policy of favouritism employed by selectors are currently laughing. Brett Lee was abhorrent at Perth and in Melbourne and can consider himself lucky to have picked up a foot injury in the latter Test as it saved him from the ignominy of being dropped for his home Test in Sydney, a ground that has seen him amass a double-ton previously. Andrew Symonds failed on every occasion throughout the summer, playing exactly as predicted by everyone who knows anything about cricket. His selection when injured in Melbourne were big red boils on the asses of both Symonds, who (unsurprisingly) placed his own interests ahead of those of the team, and the selectors, who are either guilty of being shamefully out-of-touch or as stupid as Sarah Palin and probably both. Shane Watson again broke down, further proving he is not capable of cutting it at Test level. He, of course, was kept in the Australian squad for both the Perth and Melbourne Test matches despite being injured to such an extent that he will be out of the game for six months. Reasons for his selection are only known to Andrew Hilditch and his cohorts. Ricky Ponting’s captaincy has again come under heavy scrutiny with opponents of the skipper now viewed as legitimate critics rather than unpatriotic lepers.

It has been a blissful summer; my summer. I have drawn pocket aces on nearly every hand and this is before I even factor in my public victory over Andrew Daddo on national radio, the much-wanted original print of A Season on the Brink that finally arrived in the mail, my victory in the annual Tedeschi Table Tennis Tournament and a classic Polaroid camera I received and have enjoyed since.

And now I am nearly paralysed with fear at what 2009 will hold.

Who knows what The Great Scorer has in store to balance the ledger now? He will almost surely take vengeance on me. It won’t be personal. He just refuses to allow the score to get too lopsided. An indefinite stay in a cheap lodge bereft of carpet and cleanliness? Life membership to the Australian Greens? A string of second-placed horses, last minute buzzer-beaters to miss the spread and awful umpiring decisions that will cost me any number of over-under bets? A strange disease like xenodemaphobia or lupus? A neighbour with a fondness for noise and ghetto hip hop? Death? Prison? Public humiliation? A Cronulla premiership?

The Fear has set in and it will only tighten its grip if sweet misfortune doesn’t reveal itself by the time summer ends.

Tough times lay ahead. This year and next and every other one for that matter. Life is never easy when your gig is over-analysis and your faith is the karmic cycle. What goes around, comes around, they say. Those words terrify more than any others right now. The good times have to end and the thud will be heavy and brutal.

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