Lessons That Last: One patch of grass, a thousand memories

There was something special about the school oval.

It was where friendships were made, arguments were settled, lunchtime premierships were won and lost, maybe an old-fashioned scrap or two (shook hands after), and every season seemed to bring a new obsession. It wasn’t just a patch of grass where PE happened.

When I changed primary schools from little Echuca Village Primary School to the much bigger Moama Public School (still only a couple of hundred), the first thing that I noticed was the oval.

To an impressionable kid, it looked enormous. Behind one end stood a row of towering gum trees, with bushland stretching away beyond them through to the Murray River. Looking back now, it was probably just an ordinary country school oval. Back then, it looked like the MCG.

Every morning before the bell, there were already kids scattered across it. Some had a football tucked under an arm, others were chasing a tennis ball, while a few were happily kicking the dew off the grass before another school day began.

One person caught my eye immediately.

Her name was Jodie. She was a ripper little farm girl, a year old than me, who arrived most mornings carrying a football as naturally as the rest of us carried our school bags.

While we were still rubbing the sleep from our eyes, Jodie was already out there snapping goals and taking marks.

Her drop punts landed where she wanted them. She could kick beautifully, mark cleanly overhead and rarely fumbled.

I just knew she was better than most of us boys. A lot better.

She simply loved kicking the footy.

Looking back through today’s eyes, AFLW scouts would have fought each other to sign her. Instead, she was born a generation too early.

Life took her in different directions and from what I hear she’s grown into a wonderful woman and mum to three children, but every now and then I still picture her out there before the first bell, calmly dropping another perfect punt onto her boot with the gum trees standing behind her.

Winter belonged to football or rugby

The school oval changed with the seasons.

Winter meant football and there always seemed to be one footy that belonged to everyone and no one at the same time. Nobody ever asked where it came from, it simply appeared at recess and lunch.

Arguments over whether the ball had gone through the goals were common; certainly no score review technology back then (that we’d still obviously squabble over anyway).

Someone always claimed it hit the post. Someone else insisted it was a goal.

The debate usually lasted longer than the game.

Then somebody yelled “British Bulldog!”

Every school seemed to have one game that ruled the playground until teachers decided enough was enough.

For us, British Bulldog was one.

Of course, there were games of Chasey, Red Rover and Touch rugby that became so serious you’d think it was a matter of life or death.

Someone always came back to class with grass stains, a grazed knee or a shirt hanging half out… nobody seemed too worried and the next day we’d do it all again.

Summer had its own rules

When the weather warmed up, the football disappeared and out came an old cricket bat that had seen far better days, and the athletics carnival once a year.

A tennis ball became a cricket ball and the best batter somehow stayed in all lunch.

Someone always hit six onto the classroom roof, or through a window, and there was always that one kid who insisted he wasn’t out.

Funny how every school seemed to have exactly the same rules. Or at least, the same arguments.

There was something for everyone

Not everyone wanted to play football.

There were skipping ropes flicking across the asphalt. Girls who could play elastics for an entire lunch break without missing a beat. Then, of course, a game of “down ball” with a tennis ball on concrete squares.

Marbles spread across the dirt for some in a different time.

A game of Chasey that somehow grew from two players into twenty.

The oval wasn’t just for the sporty kids and it belonged to everybody.

The bell nobody wanted

Just when a game was getting interesting…

There it was. The bell.

Someone always pleaded for one more kick, or one more over, or a last goal to decide a winner.

The teacher on duty never seemed particularly interested in negotiations and the game would simply be put on hold until recess or lunch tomorrow.

Thinking about it now, I couldn’t tell you what we were learning in English that year, or maths, or science.

I couldn’t tell you who won the spelling bee.

But I can still picture that oval at Moama Public School with the gum trees swaying behind it, the chatter of kids before the bell, or a football sailing through the crisp country air.

And a talented little farm girl called Jodie, quietly reminding the rest of us that she was the best footballer on the school oval.

This article is part of ‘Lessons That Last’, a new Starts At 60 series exploring the memories, traditions and school experiences that shape Australians across generations, presented in partnership with Schoolblazer Limited, a specialist school uniform company that works with hundreds of schools internationally. Through Lessons That Last, Starts At 60 is exploring the memories and experiences of school life across generations of Australians.