For Diego Maradona: 'I‘ve just never seen anyone have such a beautiful affection with a football', by Gary Lineker - 2020

26 November 2020, London, United Kingdom

He‘s so revered, he’s so worshipped in Argentina. He constantly had a huge entourage around him.

I went to see a game and I’ll never forget it, to see Boca Juniors play. He had his own little box there. I went with his family. And he was standing …. the atmosphere was unbelievable at this game.

And his family, one of his daughters was literally holding him as he was screaming over the balcony, holding him so he wouldn’t actually fall off. He had such an incredible passion for the game.

I never thought in my lifetime I’d see anyone come remotely close to Diego, in terms of ability with a football. I think we’ve seen Messi, who’s very similar in many ways, Argentinian, diminutive, brilliant left foot, but Diego was incredible.

I played, I actually played with him as well for half a game, played for the Rest of the World at Wembley, against, funnily enough, an English league side because it was a centenary, I played for the Rest of the World, because I was at Barcelona at the time.

And all the player, there were people like Platini on the pitch, lots of great great players from around the world. And everyone was totally in awe of him.

The first thing he did was in the dressing room, he sat there; just a pair of shorts. And you know you roll your socks up? He did that and just juggled them on his left foot for about five minutes. And everyone was going whoooah whoooah.’

Then we went out on the pitch and he did something incredible, one of the most unbelievable things I‘ve ever seen on a football pitch. it might not sound that amazing to you at home, but I think you’ll appreciate this.

He juggled the ball all the way out to the centre circle and then he got to the centre circle, still juggling it, and then he went bang, he whacked it as hard he possibly could (up into the air) and he waited. And then it came down and he went bang and did it again. He did it 13 times, and the most he ever did was walk three paces to it.

All of us were standing there going, ‘That’s impossible’. I remember going to training the next day at Barcelona. We all tried it and the best anyone did was three, and they were all running for the third one.

I‘ve just never seen anyone have such a beautiful affection with a football.

For John Kennedy Snr: 'For being reminded of Kennedy is being reminded also of what Hawthorn is all about', by David Parkin - 2020

2 July 2020, Our Lady of Victories, Camberwell, Melbourne, Australia

David Parkin’s was captain of Hawthorn’s 1971 premiership side under Kennedy. Speech begins at 38.20.


Whilst the past nine days has been a time of great sadness and reflection, today I hope can be remembered as a genuine celebration of a remarkable and, in many ways, unique man’s life.

My association with ‘Kanga’ goes back nearly six decades. I have known him as a coach, father, husband, colleague, critical friend and educationalist. Like hundreds of others, with their parents being the exception, he became the most significant and positive person in their lives. The many conversations I’ve had this past week, would certainly reinforce that.

Two people I know well have sought some solace in John’s passing by visiting Waverley Park to stand in front of his imposing statue, to pay homage and reflect on his legacy.

In many ways, it’s not difficult to understand why this man was held in such high esteem. No, it’s more than that – reverence! This reverence came about not because of his many achievements, numerous as they have been, but because of the respect for the qualities of the man himself. Many, including me, have spoken this week about those attributes, but they bear repeating:

1. His complete objectivity in decision making!
I’ve met no other man in life who could make decisions without fear or favour. What was best for the team or club always prevailed. Personal feelings or relationships never influenced his decision. For example, the sacking of Lance Morton in 1970 mid-season and Kevin Heath in 1975 pre-season; his non-selection of Peter Crimmins in the 1975 Grand Final; his departure to Stawell in 1964; his appointment to North Melbourne in 1985. All are actions of a decisive decision maker. We admired him enormously for that!

2. His absolute single-mindedness
Nothing superficial or extraneous ever interfered with the achievement of the objective. His ability to pass through the pain barrier was a great example for us to follow.

In a pre-season run, using the ‘Walk Against Want’ as his vehicle (25 kms from Glenferrie Oval to Eastland in Ringwood) and John, now in his forties, caught up to Des Meagher, the best endurance runner in the Club, at Antonio Park and suggested a walk. Des said yes, then took off with Kanga in hot pursuit. He was eventually beaten into second place by Des, who took a shortcut. John never forgave him!

3. His exceptional oratory
The players were given plenty in his pre, during and post-match addresses. His “at least DO something? DO, don’t think, don’t hope, DO! has become part of football folklore. But I was always in the front row! He used his knowledge of literature as an exceptional skill, to provide the connection between football and life, using the philosophy of Karl Marx, the beauty of William Shakespeare and the passion of Sir Winston Churchill.

4. His tremendous sense of humour
Whilst his leadership style would have to be termed ‘autocratic’, there are multitude examples of this over the 60-70 years, but I will mention two:

i) On the back of a 103 point turnaround versus Essendon in 1973, (Round 3 to Round 15) there was no post-match team meeting, although I could see that John was seething. The following Tuesday night we copped 30 minutes of his best condemnation for our lack of effort. His closing words I will never forget. “The trouble with this generation is that you have dollars on your backs, fast cars in the carpark, and Brut under your armpits!” He then stormed off to have a shower. No-one followed. He reappeared and then we showered too. As Ian Bremner came out of the bathroom he hesitated near Kanga’s locker and said to Kel Moore “Can you throw me over your Brut mate?” to which Kel replied “Hang on a minute Brem, it’s out in my new Monaro in the carpark”. Even the coach, himself, had to smile.

ii) To put this into context, some years back Ray Wilson rang me to ask whether as a player I had ever had John put his arm around me and say “well done”. I assured him that never happened! “That’s good” said Ray, “I thought I was the only one to miss out”.

On the basis that JK was not one for handing our bouquets to anyone, Don Scott was pleasantly surprised to receive a phone call from Kanga on Grand Final day a few years back. He was ringing to tell Scotty how well he had played in the 1971 Grand Final – some 27 years before! Apparently he couldn’t sleep on Grand Final eve, had turned on the TV to see Channel 7’s Grand Final marathon. Lo and behold, it was the replay of 1971, which apparently he had never watched.

Early the next morning Scotty received the phone call from John reinforcing how well he had played. He was dumbfounded but really excited and rang his three friends to tell them his news. I congratulated him on being the first and only player to receive that reinforcement from our coach.

Immediately I rang Kanga to make sure he understood the significance of his phone call, and asked him if he had my telephone number to give me a similar call? “Sorry Dave”, he said “but you didn’t play all that well, so I won’t be making that call”!

5. His complete and utter humility
John was always embarrassed by the accolades from others. Hawthorn or North Melbourne successes, to him, were due to the outward and visible signs, which were the players. Never was the team’s successes due to his words or deeds, and I mean NEVER!

6. Personal influence
His ability to influence the character and lives of so many young men, gave players purpose and meaning to what they were doing. There is no doubt, for this reason alone, that all who donned the Brown and Gold or Blue and White over those 18 seasons, have become better people as a result of being coached by JK.

In catching up with teammates at Club and AFL functions over the years, I have had that reinforced time and again.

Back in 1977 Hawthorn ran a testimonial dinner for John. In typical Kennedy style, he spoke at length about the people and events which had impacted his life, whilst serving that entity over the previous three decades.

I will repeat my public response then as a reminder to us all, for the years ahead.

I sincerely hope that John Kennedy is never forgotten by players, coaches, administrators and members at Hawthorn, for being reminded of Kennedy is being reminded also of what Hawthorn is all about.

Rest in peace great man!

John Kennedy 20 December 1928 – 24 June 2020

For Ron Wootton: 'For me, as the lights in the auditorium fade and the overture starts, he will be there in the wings', by Ian Mason

A tribute presented at St Mark’s Church, on behalf of Camberwell Grammar School:

In the early 1960s, when the Camberwell Grammar School Council decided to engage the services of an efficiency expert, a Time and Motion guru, to determine whether full use was being made of the school day, they made one fundamental mistake: they organised it so that Ron Wootton was one of the first to be interviewed.

At this stage of the year, it was not unusual for Ron to be painting the play set at midnight or even later, having already taught a full class-room programme during the day, and then taken a 1st XV111 football practice after school. Having spent some time with Ron, our visiting expert came to the conclusion that schools were different. He was right, of course, and the thing that makes them different is people like Ron Wootton. For him, a seventy- or eighty-hour school week was not unusual; as he put it, it was part of the job; it was what one did, if one taught at a private school.

At this stage the School was growing and, for many of those new to the school, myself included, it was Ron’s tireless contribution to the all-round life of the school that was to have such a profound influence.

Ron joined the staff at CGS in 1957, as an art teacher, having already had some contact with the School through Harrie Rice, whom he had helped the previous year with sets for that year’s play, in those days a very humble affair, performed in a green Nissen hut, that doubled as an Assembly Hall. In many ways, the whole school at that time was a very humble affair: its numbers, though improving, were still low, and its sporting teams often suffered humiliating defeats at the hands of their opponents. The Headmaster, the Rev Tom Timpson, asked Ron to take on the role of Sportsmaster, a position he was to fill with distinction for 34 years, during which he coached almost every major sport.

He took the 1st XV111 for over twenty years, and, although he never achieved his dream of beating Assumption, he earned the respect of opponents like Brother Domnus and Ray Carroll, as an astute coach, who could extract the best from his players.  

While he was a dedicated Australian Rules player and supporter, he also saw the need to broaden opportunities for boys to participate in team sports and was a prime mover in the introduction of soccer to the AGS. For a number of years, he coached the 1st Soccer X1, and the perpetual trophy for the inter-school six-a-side soccer competition is fittingly named after its inaugurator.

He took the school swimming team, for many years without the luxury of a venue at school, training wherever he could find an empty pool. On one memorable occasion, he strode into the Richmond Pool during Caulfield Grammar’s House Sports. Competitors, staff, parents and pool attendants were stunned, when he walked in, stopped the programme, commandeered a lane, and trialled a new boy who had arrived at CGS that morning. The Combined Sports were only a day away. It was 1961, the boy made the team, and CGS won the title by one point.

He revolutionised the School’s approach to Athletics. Realising one coach could not look after the whole team, he allocated the staff to individual events. If you pleaded ignorance of the particular field, Ron gave you a book on the subject, and arranged expert coaching from his extraordinarily wide circle of friends. It was part of Ron’s whimiscal nature and eye for the absurd, that saw him place a diminutive John Hantken in charge of the discus, and then organise as his assistant, a vast Argentinian discus thrower, who had carried her nation’s flag at the 1956 Olympics. There was no way you could turn him down; his energy and enthusiasm were infectious.

He introduced a great variety of new sports to the school, and saw them become part of the AGS sports programme. Water Polo became popular within the school, and, although it must have seemed a far cry from his days as coach of Australia’s Olympic team, he used his profound knowledge of the game to establish Camberwell Grammar as one of the top Water Polo schools in the State.

He was a great believer in the value of camps and trips in the education process. He was the first to take a Senior School camp at Bambara, and many of you here today will remember boats on the Hawkesbury, the Murray, the Gippsland Lakes; Art camps at Somers; overseas trips to Europe and Asia. As OC of the School Cadet Unit, he dispensed with much of the formal military training and drill to focus on developing the individual through bivouacs and outdoor activities. He founded the Duke of Edinburgh Scheme within the school, raising money so that no boy would be denied the opportunity to participate.

With Roy McDonald, Ron set up the Photographic Society; he established a students’ newspaper, which, unlike its short-lived predecessors, still operates today; he ran the School Printing Club; he was never too busy to help with the lay-out of school publications; his cover designs for play programmes were outstanding. No task was too much trouble, and he was at the beck and call of everyone, and, usually at such excruciatingly short notice, that a lesser man would have been tempted to refuse - the Parents’ Association, the Ladies Auxiliary, any department of the school that wanted a notice, needed a sign or some kind of art work for a function turned to Ron, and he always seemed to find the time to meet the demands made of him.

Ron was a superb artist, and this was recognised by the School Council when they named the new Art Studios in his honour. His guidance and inspired efforts in the class-room touched the lives of many Camberwell Grammarians. At the first Old Boys’ Art Show held last year, many of the more successful exhibitors were past students of his, and his own painting of Roystead was one of the first to be sold. Ron’s artistic abilities were nowhere better demonstrated than in his creative set designs. So good where they, that, one evening in the mid ’sixties, the Headmaster received a phone call from a nearby resident, complaining that there was a naked woman posing on the grand piano in the Memorial Hall. It was one of Ron’s paintings, part of the set for an Old Boys’ play. He designed, built and painted the sets for over 100 plays, and most recently, had been talking about how he could assist in this year’s school production of My Fair Lady.

To remember Ron Wootton is to remember a man whose presence could turn the most dreary occasion into something lively and entertaining. His talent for creating fun was extraordinary. Many of us have had the ‘pleasure’, albeit dubiously, of being part of his love of practical joking. At an Art Camp at Somers, Ron had organised John Frith, the former Herald cartoonist, to visit the camp. Ron thought it would be a good idea if we pretended that John was a hypnotist, and, at the concert on the last night, the staff, Ron included, would seemingly succumb to John Frith’s hypnotic skills. All went well, until Ron, who had arranged to be last in line, declared that he was not an appropriate subject and could not be hypnotised, but would be John’s assistant. I remember Harrie Rice muttering into my ear that we were in trouble. Four staff sitting on chairs, pretending to be hypnotised in front of an audience of boys, with Ron Wootton on the loose, was enough to make the bravest of men apprehensive, and, as it proved, rightly so too.

But above all, Ron was a schoolmaster; not a school teacher, for that term seems to imply something of the nine-to-three mentality. Ron was a real schoolmaster, and remains today as much a part of Camberwell Grammar as any building, any patch of ground. The School has a fine new Performing Arts Complex, a splendid Music School, and one of the best science buildings in the State. However, a school is more than bricks and mortar: its real worth lies in its less tangible assets. Notable among these is a man whose memory will live on in the hearts and minds of the hundreds of boys who passed through his hands, their lives forever influenced by a man with a great love of his art, his sport, his school. I do not use the phrase ‘his school’ lightly, for in the Camberwell Grammar School of today there is so much that is, and will continue to be, Ron Wootton.

I am not here today to say farewell for this is not really ‘good-bye’. Ron will be there every time I walk up the Roystead steps at five o’clock into the Common Room; he will be on the boundary line whenever the 1st XV111 runs out on to the Gordon Barnard Oval; he will be at every Old Boys’ Dinner in the memories and anecdotes of the generations he taught, and, , watching the curtain rise on another School play.

To you, Jenny, Kim, Lisa, and Andrea, and to you, John and your family, the whole School community offers its deepest sympathy. We share in your sorrow, for, with Ron’s death, we have all lost part of ourselves. He was, indeed,

                   ‘A man so various that he seem’d to be

                    Not one, but all mankind’s epitome.’

For Bob Sizer: 'He became a legendary barracker at the bowls. Many opposition teams shuddered when he waddled through the gate', by Robert Clough - 2014

28 May 2014, Napier Park Chapel, Bendigo, Australia

Bob Sizer - what a character! Bob Sizer created a few ripples at our very conservative bowling club when he wandered into the place. We were lucky to stock heavy beer, let alone have one of our members drink copious amounts of it! And he had the temerity to challenge our resident experts on everything from bowls to world events.

Bob became so enthusiastic in these debates that others couldn’t get a word in. Finally, rules of engagement were introduced where Bob had to raise his hand, then be invited to contribute to the conversation.

But through the noise, froth and bubble that inevitably surrounded Bob some major character traits shone through:

• Honesty, both with himself and his dealings with others.

• Loyalty.

• Generosity of spirit. I have personally seen many times Bob dip into his kick to help others that might be going through a rough trot.

Bob Sizer was a lovable rogue who has been missed from around our club since he became too ill to get there... and that he will never be back saddens us all.

A couple of weeks ago I visited Bob at Stella Anderson. He was in bed and asleep. After some procrastination I woke him. He had been in a deep sleep and was startled when I spoke. He hadn’t been feeling very well and was obviously quite down emotionally. He said ‘I’ve had enough of this. I’m getting weaker and can’t even get out of bed. I know it is wrong to say this but, I wish I was dead.’

Bob’s mind was still as sharp as a tack but his body was letting him down. We struggled for conversation for the first time ever. I had been considering asking Bob if he wanted me to take down some notes of his life story for his eulogy rather than leaving it to others who might miss aspects that were important to him.

It is a difficult and sensitive subject to raise but this seemed to be as good a time as any. He paused to think about my request for a moment and said, ‘I don’t know if anybody would be interested...but maybe there might be a few things.’

I was expecting that he would go through the basics of his life, such as where he was born, went to school, his work and family. It should have been no surprise that what followed was a history of his sporting life.

Bob was a sports fanatic with a memory for the details that he retained to the end. What started as a trickle became a flood as he warmed to the task. Once he was in full swing the words came quicker than my ability to record them. It was hard to believe that this was the same person that I had roused from sleep just fifteen minutes before. The following is a shortened version of what Bob told me that day because I would like to tell two of the Bob’s stories in detail.

Bob didn’t grow until his mid to late teens, so wasn’t much suited to robust sports as a lad. As a youngster he played tennis on the asphalt courts around the corner. He had told me earlier of playing mixed doubles with his sisters. He took up golf after tagging along with some other neighbourhood kids to the Brighton Golf course and volunteering to be caddies. He was a good caddy as he had a good eye for finding the balls.

There was a competition organised for the caddies to play against each other. Bob was a left hander but had to play right handed as they didn’t have any left handed clubs. In his first game he ran out of golf balls after nine holes so hurried over to the pro shop to get some old balls. He ran out of balls again on the 17th but handed in his card anyway. His score after 17 holes was 181 and he came last.

Bob improved rapidly, and to quote him, he became ‘deadly around the green.’ He was the caddy champ two years later. He came second in the Todd Stewart Cup for under 16’s to the assistant professional at the club. This guy led the Australian Open after the first round a few years later. This won Bob free membership to the club. He won a number of club events over the next few years. His handicap got down to 9 when he was 17 years old. He stopped playing soon after.

He had started to grow and everything changed. Robert Andrew-Arthur (I think this was his name...my writing was not too good) played tennis at the Church Club and also played squash. His regular squash practice partner had stopped playing so he asked Bob if he wanted to practice with him. They played at the Ormond club every week for months. Bob never won a game. The people at the courts asked Bob if he wanted to play pennant. He agreed to give it a go and defeated all fifteen rivals at the trial games. His pennant squash career was under way.

Bob worked his way up to the A grade pennant competition. Revered coach Gordon Watson offered to take Bob under his wing but Bob chose to stay playing with his mates. Gordon and Bob agreed, when they met again years later, that passing by this opportunity had cost Bob the chance to become a really exceptional squash player. Bob suffered a double hernia and had to stop playing squash while he recovered. After 12 months or so without playing, a couple of friends asked Bob to come along for their regular hit at A1 Sports. They ended up playing pennant. The team was in C Grade and as Bob got fitter he started to dominate. They were premiers that year.

After the grand final win they dragged Bob out of the shower for a team photo. The fact that it appeared on the back page of the Sun the next day may have had something to do with Bob’s teammate: Herb Elliott. Bob was obviously a very good squash player and he told me many stories of big games he had played in over the years. He said that his form could be closely correlated to his weight. If he got down to 13.5 stone watch out!

I think it was after a squash game that Bob starting drinking...He said ’that there was nothing else to drink.’ He certainly made up for lost time from that point on. Apparently it is only coincidence that the Lake View Hotel has gone broke since Bob stopped going there. On the way home from squash one day Bob bumped into a mate who asked if he could help them out by playing cricket for Bentleigh Meths (Methodists?) the next day. They had a late withdrawal. This happened to be in the A grade. Bob recalled that he batted at 11 and made 35. He was fielding at mid wicket and decided to move himself towards square leg (does this sound like Bob?). The batsman obliged by hitting a catch straight to him. Instead of congratulations the captain gave him a blast for moving without being instructed.

Bob played mostly in the B grade thereafter batting at 6 and bowling medium pacers. They were premiers the following year. After his playing days Bob became a cricket umpire of some renown, officiating in 20 A grade grand finals in a row. He later began travelling to Bendigo to score for Spring Gully particularly over the finals. Bob spoke often about lawn bowls and the people and clubs he had been involved with. But on this day he said that his mate Terry Clark (I think from McKinnon) probably had him sewn up when he said ‘Bob, you may well have been a champion cricketer, squash player and golfer but you would have to be the worst bowler at this club!’

He became a legendary barracker at the bowls. A number of our teams believe that Bob’s support was the difference between them winning and losing finals. Many opposition teams shuddered when he waddled through the gate.

There are two of Bob’s stories that I would like to share with you today. I imagine that most of you have heard them before but these a real Bob stories and it’s appropriate for us to hear them again today. I’ll try to retell them as he told me.

The first is a cricket story. Bob was an accomplished slip fielder with a quick eye and safe hands. It was from this vantage point that he watched the skipper of the top team pulverize the Bentleigh Meths attack in their regular season game. He scored 96 as his team cruised past the 225 run total set by Bentleigh Meths. Bob noted that he scored most of his runs via a shot through the onside. He also noticed that this shot was played in the air for the first metre or two. A plot formed in his mind. After just scraping into the four, Bentleigh Meths fronted the top side in the semi final. Bob pleaded with his captain ‘Macca, put me at short leg, I reckon I can get this bloke.’ Macca relented. Bob teed up with the bowler to angle the first two balls wide of outside off stump, then to spear the third one in at the batsman’s pads. He took up his position at short leg, so close that he had one foot on the concrete wicket. The first two balls were wide of off stump and sailed through to the keeper as planned. Bob readied himself as the trap was set. The next ball was directed at the batsman’s pads and, sure enough, the batsmen moved into his favourite shot. He clipped it perfectly....straight into Bob’s hand. The ball had moved so quickly that the players were baffled where it had gone. Until Bob held it aloft, the ball still firmly embedded in the palm of his hand. There was some conjecture about how the ball had got there and in fact whether it was a catch. Until the square leg umpire, who had recalled Bob’s fairness in denying a catch two weeks before, indicated that it was legal. Bob had got his man.

The next story is a punting story. Bob’s punting stories could fill a book and his annual trips to Sydney for the Autumn Carnival could provide enough material for a series. There was one particular day in Sydney that Bob described as his best and worst day on the race track. It started the day before when he and five mates fronted up to a club (??Rooty Hill RSL) for lunch and a few beers. They played a few games of pool before lunch but settled into a fiercely fought euchre battle afterwards. Bob’s side were victorious 13 games to 12 when they threw in the cards. It is a wonder they could play at all, given they had had 4 shouts each (ie 24 schooners). One of his mates invited Bob back to his place for dinner but his wife refused to let Bob in. They were so drunk. Bob took the taxi back to his motel and flaked out. He woke the next morning as crook as a dog. Now I’m using Bob’s word here. It took him 2 hours, 4 shits and 3 spews to get through breakfast. As sick as he felt, he was determined to get to the track. He had set aside $1,500 for just three bets that he was really keen on. They were in races 1, 3 and 7. He got to the track for the first still feeling terrible. In between 4 Fanta’s and another couple of shits and spews he managed to place his each way bet. The horse ran a place and he got back his money plus a bit. Hanging around for race 3 was hard but with the help of some more Fanta and a couple more visits to the toilet he made it. But the horse he backed failed to live up to Bob’s expectations and did no good. He was tempted to go but his best bet of the day was in race 7. He spent a miserable couple of hours waiting for the seventh to come around. He was feeling no better. His head thumped and his guts squirmed. His bum hurt when wiped it and his chest muscles were strained from vomiting. He was sick of Fanta! Finally race 7 arrived and he couldn’t believe that his fancy was a $20 outsider. He placed his remaining $900 each way and crossed his fingers. When they rounded the corner Bob’s horse was in front...a sitting duck. “You’ve murdered him Mallyon!” he yelled as it was being slowly hauled in which each bound. Bob’s horse surged as they neared the post and stuck its head out to win. It was the biggest win of Bob’s punting life but he was too crook to celebrate. He also felt vulnerable. He had over $16,500 in his pocket. He couldn’t wait to get home so slunk out the gate to catch the early bus. He sat next to a girl in the bus who made conversation. When asked, Bob said that he’d had a good day but gave no details. The girl said that she’d also had some good fortune. She explained that she had seen some old dero put a huge wad of money on this horse in the 7th race. She thought that if it was good enough for him to back this thing, then she should have a crack as well. And it won.

She was flabbergasted and embarrassed when Bob confessed that the ‘old dero’ was him.

Helen and I, and all those at Bendigo East Bowling Club, will miss Bobby Sizer.

For Ian MacInnes: 'Imagine being the man I have just described and coming to the realisation that you would never run again?', by son Don MacInnes - 2011

20 July 2011, Ararat, Victoria, Australia

Welcome. On behalf of the MacInnes Family I sincerely thank-you for coming to sunny Ararat this afternoon to celebrate the life of my father.

Its circumstances like these that bring you back to places – both physically and in your memory. In this case it’s the Ararat Uniting Church sometime in the mid 1970’s on a Sunday morning with the family -- and few others here today would’ve been present -- sitting somewhere over there. As kids we would be taken out to Sunday School after about 20 minutes but even that seemed an eternity. I used to try to count the bricks in the wall to kill a few moments –- there’s a hint kids when you start to get sick of me.  As an elder of the Presbyterian Church, some days it was Ian MacInnes who took up the collection. On one particular day, Dad had finished collecting and for some reason he and Alan Bellis – the other elder collecting on the day -  would go and occupy the pew at the very back of the church. Also on this particular day the church had a new and progressive minister who asked the congregation to hold hands while he said a prayer. Dad and Alan were seated alone down the back Now do you think THEY were going to hold hands? -– Dad loved to tell the story –- he looked at Alan and said, ‘People will start to talk…!”

Ian Donald MacInnes was born on the 23rd January, 1929 here in Ararat to Mary and Donald MacInnes of Borreraig – a farm just west of the township of Buangor. We’ll hear a little more of Ian’s mother Mary later. My grandfather, Donald,  had migrated from the Isle of Skye after invitation from his uncle who had selected Borreraig well before the turn of the century. Now that’s the 19th century kids. Kids? --  sorry they’re counting bricks!  Ian came home to three sisters – Flora, Marion and Doris. His fourth sister Catherine arrived three years later. Mary MacInnes ran a regimented and religious household -- feeding, clothing and educating everyone through the depression years. Donald was a woolgrower and employed local men on Borreraig like the White Brothers. As Ian had no brothers, these blokes taught him how to play footy and barrack for Collingwood. Father Donald from Skye had little interest in football so Ian would walk across the paddocks to Reg Whites on a Saturday afternoon to listen to the footy on the radio -– diligently keeping score with pen and paper.

Growing up in Buangor was all about the open space, the hills, the gum trees, the creeks and the animals. Have look around you if you come out to the Buangor Cemetery this afternoon –- this was Ian’s environment as a kid and right through his life until only recently. It was a classic Australian childhood of the times -– getting up to mischief, rabbiting or taking a horse and buggy five miles south to the Fiery Creek to fish for perch in the late afternoon and eels by the light of the hurricane lamp at night.

He took us kids back there as a father and some of our fondest memories are sitting on the banks of the long waterhole or on the fiery creek near Doug Hopkins Challicum homestead. We would watch the platypus play on the logs late on stormy evenings. You’ve got to have patience to take kids fishing!

Like many people here today, Ian attended Buangor Primary School and then on to Ararat High School where he excelled on many fronts. He was Captain of forms, Captain of House and captain of the cricket and football teams. He made a century for the School and was athletics champion every year. Although he never played, when the time came he picked up a racquet and won the School tennis championship.

As it happened, the Ararat High School girl’s tennis champion was Margaret Burke –- a young lass from Moyston.

As a kid I had some idea that dad was an athlete –- but because of his disability, I’d never seen him run and he was a modest man. If I climbed high enough in the hallway cupboard there was an old leather sports bag. In it were moth eaten red and white woollen football socks, plain brown leather spikes and blue sashes -– like artefacts in a sports museum. It wasn’t until years later in the Buangor Pub I was cornered by Des Brennan and the legendary Brian ‘Muncher’ Moloney who took the time to tell me just what a gifted athlete my father had been.

But it wasn’t all ‘great fellow, well done’ at school. Mum told me the story recently about Ian on the eve of his leaving certificate Physics Exam. He and a mate decided to go to the Astor Cinema, just up the street there, to catch a movie instead of studying for the exam. When the lights came up, who was sitting behind them ….? Mr Crebbins,  the Physics teacher.

After high school, Ian was sent off to Dookie Agricultural College near Shepparton. There he honed not only more sporting skills but knowledge of the new agricultural ideas of the day. On his return to Borreraig, he introduced the shearing machine superseding the old hand shears and to his father’s horror, immediately lost some sheep to cold weather due to the new machines leaving less wool on the sheep.

Around this time, Dad had reconnected with Margaret Burke. She was embarking on her teaching career at the Glenthompson Primary School. After a couple of successful dates, Margaret thought she might test Ian’s level of interest and invited him to a dance -– the catch was it was in Glenthompson -– a fair hike from Buangor. Dad showed his hand by driving all the way down in his Ford Prefect, one of the lucky few young men to have wheels in those days, and it would seem, the girl of his dreams from Moyston.

The year was 1949 and the Ararat Football Club had a strong team and was looking for their first flag in 29 years. Ian’s pace and skill made him an ideal wingman and the 20-year-old was getting a senior game among men who could more than hold their own in an era when country football was king and the Wimmera League drew crowds in their thousands.

Come September, the young Ian MacInnes was selected on a wing in Ararat’s Grand Final team against arch rival Stawell. In front of a crowd of 10,000 at the Horsham City Oval, the Rats led at every change and won by six goals. As you could imagine, this town went crazy. Mum tells of the train ride back to Ararat with the whistle blowing for the last few miles, then a reception at the Town Hall with a huge crowd and celebrations into the night.

Life must have seemed pretty good for the young Ian MacInnes but a cruel blow was just around the corner. On a December day that year, Dad was out washing his pride and joy –- the Ford Prefect -- when he was struck down in pain. Polio had its epidemics in those years and Ian was to be one of the unlucky ones to contract the cruel disease. Imagine spending the best part of a year in hospital including your 21st birthday? Imagine being the man I have just described and coming to the realisation that you would never run again. Imagine the courage and determination it takes to pick yourself up after such a blow and live your life -  creating the impression to everyone that there’s really nothing wrong at all. These are the defining characteristics of my father and I came to realise this as I became old enough to understand the effort and sacrifice he made to create a wonderful family life for his three children.

But he didn’t do it all on his own. Margaret Burke is a loyal and persistent individual and she stuck by him in his darkest days. A compassionate transfer to teach in Ballarat was arranged for her, where Dad was in hospital, and the love affair between Ian and Margaret remained post-polio.

My Grandfather Donald had died not long after Dad returned home from Dookie and with his mother retiring to Ararat, it was down to Ian to recover and run Borreraig.

In 1952 Dad married Margaret Burke and Ian and Margaret MacInnes began a 59 year partnership. They made a great team, often sharing traditional roles with Dad’s limited physical capacities. Out around the ewes and lambs Mum was a great gate opener – you had to be clever to work most of the old carry-me-back gates – each with a latch system different to the next. I also recall getting home from school and there would be Dad, preparing the evening meal in the kitchen. He got the job done but it was fairly basic.

In 1956 along came first daughter Wendy and in 1958 the arrival of Shona coincided with the building of a brand-new brick veneer home at the corner of the Warrak Road and the Western Highway. This was to be the house where us three kids grew up and the five of us played out the trials and tribulations of family life.

Of these times we have many treasured memories. Some that stand out include:

Easter – crisp autumn mornings out around the ewes and lambs – opening the aforementioned gates and saving ewes and lambs in trouble. It never got too tedious as Dad would always need to return home for a coffee sooner than later. For us kids that would mean bottle feeding lambs and feeding ourselves with hot cross buns and Easter eggs. In more recent years, Ian would get enormous pleasure from watching his nine grandchildren hunting for Easter eggs through the living room window from his chair.

Shearing – this was the business end of the farming calendar and for almost a month around September / October we would be absorbed by Shearing. Ian was a woolgrower who liked to focus on the product. He was not much interested in Machinery – Gordon Allender and Ian MacInnes were at opposite ends of the machinery spectrum. Ian was just interested in the wool and he grew a very good product. In his latter yearsit almost seemed as if each of his thousands of sheep were treated like pets. Shearing was a special time sometimes with a wool classer staying in the sleep out. The familiar smell of  lanolin was in the air ( I might be romanticising a bit here – it was really lanolin with a strong dose of sheep shit). The boss of the board was Dad and there’s people here today who worked for my father. He was a good boss who could joke along with the best of them but he had the respect of all and when he wanted something done it always got done! So to those of you out there- too many to name –but  you know who you are- who always stepped up when help was needed – and not always on the payroll – On behalf of my family I sincerely thank you now.

Community – by the time I got to Ararat High School my best mate was, and still is, Jim Dunn. His dad, Jim senior, was Mayor of Ararat and, as a kid from the provinces, I thought that was pretty special. But Jim would say to me “but your Dad’s Mayor of Buangor”. What he meant was that Ian MacInnes was heavily involved in the Buangor Community. President of the School Council and the Hall Committee, Captain of the Fire Brigade, Trustee of the Cemetery (planning for today?). He was also Ian MacInnes JP – Justice of the Peace and locals regularly dropped in to get a signature. One of his great regrets was that there never was the Bar room Brawl he’d hoped for at the Buangor Pub – so he could go down wearing his JP badge and ‘read the riot act’. All this community service meant that Dad was out at a meeting every other night. Whenever a prisoner escaped from the Jail, it was always a night Dad would be out at a meeting so it would be my job to go over to the truck to bring the 22 inside.

Dads involvement in the community flowed through to create, with the great work of all the other Buangor families, a group of people who knew each other well and participated in the life of the township.  School activities, Dances and Send-Offs at the hall, ladies bring a plate and the men talk outside, the Christmas concerts. We kids loved them all through that endless time known as childhood.

As each of us kids left for the Big Smoke and Boarding School, Ian and Margaret’s nest got emptier and emptier. By 1977 we were all gone. That means they spent longer on their own than they did with us kids but that time was punctuated with visits to town to watch us do School stuff or play sport. But we came home as well, me to work on the farm every holiday and all of us invited our school and uni friends to come up and stay. Many people here today will remember Ian sitting in his chair having a couple of Stubbies while we drank slabs and partied on. He would love to banter with us all or sit on the  verandah watching the cricket matches on the back lawn – making disparaging comments about the skills-  or lack of them - on display.

We are so pleased that during these years,  Mum and Dad were able to travel both around Australia and Europe. In particular he was able to visit Scotland and go to Skye to visit the relatives left behind when Donald emigrated. Dad adored each of his nine grandchildren. They came to stay at Borreraig where Mum could try to educate them even more while Dad urged her to lay off and let them have some fun. It was a time for him to relax, let down his guard and be a real person to them – and they responded with an intense love that sees them naturally grieving for the loss of their beloved  Mac . Its just so fitting that they will shortly carry him out for the last time here today.

Twelve years ago I moved to Ballarat to be closer to Mum and Dad to lend a hand as they reached their seventies. The ironic thing is that the older he got the less help he accepted – the ‘I can do this on my own attitude’ that clearly got him through the challenge of polio. But as he approached 80, we noticed Dad mellowing, a tear now and then and revealing his emotions and giving away some of his feelings about his life and those he shared it with.

Mim and Mac were still going around the ewes and lambs only a few years ago when I was relieved that they agreed to retire to Ballarat. On the day Dad left Borreraig he simply got up, walked out and shut the door. He was never one to let sentimentality interfere with what was necessary. It was the last time he walked. When he got to Ballarat he had fall and never walked again. As usual Mum just got on with the business of looking after him and thankfully they had a couple of peaceful and comfortable years of retirement.

Early this year Dads health and mind started to slip. When he went to a nursing home only months ago he hated it – with a passion! Just last week he got a chest infection and died within 72 hours with his family around him. All the clichés apply: good innings, time to go, went quickly.

So we come to the end of the road. On behalf of Wendy, Shona and Margaret I say goodbye Dad. We love you dearly and, best of all we had a bloody great time!

For Phillip Hughes: 'We must dig in and get through to tea', by Michael Clarke - 2014

3 December, 2014, Macksville, NSW, Australia

I'm deeply honoured to have been asked by Phillip's family to speak today. I am humbled to be in the presence of you, his family, his friends and his community. He was so proud of Macksville and it is easy to see why today.

Taken from the game, his family and loved ones at the age of just 25, he left a mark on our game that needs no embellishment.

I don't know about you, but I keep looking for him. I know it is crazy but I expect any minute to take a call from him or to see his face pop around the corner.

Is this what we call the spirit? If so, then his spirit is still with me. And I hope it never leaves.

I walked to the middle of the SCG on Thursday night, those same blades of grass beneath my feet where he and I and so many of his mates here today have built partnerships, taken chances and lived out the dreams we paint in our heads as boys. The same stands where the crowds rose to their feet to cheer him on and that same fence he sent the ball to time and time again. And it is now forever the place where he fell.

I stood there at the wicket, I knelt down and touched the grass. I swear he was with me.

Picking me up off my feet to check if I was OK. Telling me we just needed to dig in and get through to tea. Telling me off for that loose shot I played. Chatting about what movie we might watch that night. And then passing on a useless fact about cows.

I could see him swagger back to the other end, grin at the bowler, and call me through for a run with such a booming voice a bloke in the car park would hear it.

The heart of a man who lived his life for this wonderful game we play, and whose soul enriched not just our sport, but all of our lives.

Is this what indigenous Australians believe about a person's spirit being connected with the land upon which they walk? If so, I know they are right about the SCG. His spirit has touched it and it will be forever be a sacred ground for me.

I can feel his presence there and I can see how he has touched so many people around the world. The tributes to him from cricket lovers kept me going. The photos, the words, the prayers and the sense of communion in this loss from people across the globe have shown me his spirit in action. It has sustained me and overwhelmed me in equal measure.

And the love of my band of baggy green  and gold brothers and sisters has held me upright when I thought I could not proceed. His spirit has brought us closer together - something I know must be him at work because it is so consistent with how he played and lived. He always wanted to bring people together and he always wanted to celebrate his love for the game and its people.

Is this what we call the spirit of cricket? From the little girl in Karachi holding a candlelight tribute to masters of the game like Tendulkar, Warne and Lara showing their grief to the world, the spirit of cricket binds us all together.

We feel it in the thrill of a cover drive. Or the taking of a screamer at gully, whether by a 12-year-old boy in Worcester or by Brendon McCullum in Dubai. It is in the brilliant hundred and five-wicket haul, just as significant to the players in a Western Suburbs club game as it is in a Test match.

The bonds that lead to cricketers from around the world putting their bats out, that saw people who didn't even know Phillip lay flowers at the gates of Lord's and that brought every cricketing nation on earth to make its own heartfelt tribute.

The bonds that saw players old and new rush to his bedside. From wherever they heard the news to say their prayers and farewells. This is what makes our game the greatest game in the world.

Phillip's spirit, which is now part of our game forever, will act as a custodian of the sport we all love.

We must listen to it. We must cherish it. We must learn from it. We must dig in and get through to tea. And we must play on.

So rest in peace my little brother. I'll see you out in the middle.