To the best of my knowledge, I have been on television exactly three times. The first was during a school excursion to Churchill Island. A camera crew from Channel Nine turned up at the same time and they took footage of us, promising to use it in the resulting story. In an instant, it seemed my destiny was carved well and truly in stone. Surely my image on television would be an event too magnificent to ignore and Johnny Young would shortly be on the blower, inviting me to become a permanent member of the Young Talent Team.
To the best of my knowledge, I have been on television exactly three times. The first was during a school excursion to Churchill Island. A camera crew from Channel Nine turned up at the same time and they took footage of us, promising to use it in the resulting story. In an instant, it seemed my destiny was carved well and truly in stone. Surely my image on television would be an event too magnificent to ignore and Johnny Young would shortly be on the blower, inviting me to become a permanent member of the Young Talent Team.
Like all my friends, I watched the morning show eager to see myself on the box. True to their word, they used the footage of my classmates and me. What the television crew had been careful to avoid promising, however, was the extent of our exposure. Our image flashed across the screen for the best part of a second and a half before cutting to a bunch of cows standing in a paddock. But whilst our appearance had been barely a notch above subliminal advertising, the camera then lingered on the bovine interlopers for ages. It seemed so unfair. Needless to say, Johnny Young did not invite me to join the cast of the Talent Team or offer me a scholarship to the Johnny Young Talent School. That said, the show subsequently featured a performance by a Friesian Heifer doing a knockout version of Men Without Hats’ ‘The Safety Dance’. It should have been me.
The second time I was on television was part of a promotion by Channel Seven in support of that year’s football season. Mike Brady’s ‘Up There Cazaly’ was considered as something of an unofficial football anthem at the time. It was commonly used as an accompaniment to slow motion footage of the game’s elite players taking spectacular marks. Some bright spark in the marketing department decided that rather than show reels of the game’s best and brightest, it would be fun to show ten year olds fumbling around instead. There was always an expectant buzz in the team change rooms before a game. This was not so much in anticipation of the looming contest as it was the result of discount cans of Coke from the kiosk. But sugary soft drinks aside, there was another element to add to the already heady mix of excitement – Channel Seven would be filming the match. Given that I was holding down the glamour position of half back flank / interchange bench, it was inevitable that the camera would find its way to me much as the sun finds the horizon. Finally, I would be catapulted from obscurity and onto the TV screens of a grateful nation. There was just one problem – it was pouring with rain.
I don’t know if it rained every Sunday we had a match, but I certainly remember it that way. The greatest contest at the home ground of the Tyabb Junior Football Club was often between the players and the elements rather than each other. On this particular occasion the heavens really outdid themselves, sending rain down in such great volumes that several parents left the oval to go home and start building an ark. But in spite of the inhospitable conditions, the camera crew from Channel Seven arrived, wrapped themselves in Glad Wrap, and took up a position on the wing.
Those who nurse some hostility for the national game often seek to belittle it by using the term ‘aerial ping-pong’. On a wet Sunday afternoon in Tyabb, nothing could be further from the truth. After a few minutes, trying to kick the ball is like attempting to drop kick a bar fridge. The only thing to hang in the air is your breath as it turns to frost. Such games are more a form of advanced mud wrestling than anything remotely air-borne. The disappointment of the camera crew was apparent in the resulting commercial. It never occurred to me that ours would not be the only game filmed. As the strains of ‘Up There Cazaly’ filtered through the television speaker, there were images of ten year olds leaping into the air. Then it came to us. For a full two seconds, torrential rain filled the screen. The more observant of viewers may have noticed the slightest smudge of maroon falling over. It was like one of those magic eye puzzles but with too little time for any clear image to emerge. Whether the maroon blotch was me or one of my teammates was impossible to tell.
My third and final television appearance occurred after I had won a public speaking competition. I was invited to reprise my award winning address on an educational television program on SBS. Before unleashing me on the cameras, I was dropped into the makeup chair and smeared with enough foundation makeup to make me look like an extended Oompa Loompa. I immediately regretted my decision to wear white overalls and shoes with curled up toes instead of my school uniform.
Today’s kids play video games as if their lives depend on it. For us, it was television. Despite cataclysmic warnings that our eyes would become squared, we devoured everything it dished up to us. But that affection has proved somewhat one-sided. Perhaps most great passions are unrequited. So it is with television and I. It can treat me as a runner up to a photogenic cow or make me look like an unemployed chocolate factory worker, but in spite of myself I love it still.