My Word: Kick to Kick [The Big Issue ed # 436]

DANIEL LEWIS REMEMBERS HOW A GAME SPANNED GENERATIONS.

AROUND THIS TIME each year, after autumn has surrendered to winter and office workers keep their souls invigorated with Australian Rules chatter, memories of my footy-fixated childhood come flooding back.

To when multiple games were staged on a Saturday afternoon. To when money-obsessed outsiders hadn’t yet fully dipped their fingers into football’s pie. To when my Collingwood-mad uncle rang pretending to be the Pies’ mercurial forward Peter Daicos after a semi-final win in 1984 – and I believed him. (This same uncle had to summon all available restraint to stop himself throwing his beer at the television during the 1980 grand final, as Richmond’s wispy-haired, cocksure Kevin Bartlett ran riot with seven goals against the Pies.)

And to when I met a kindly old man by the name of Stuart.

It was autumn, 1987. I was 10. We were new to the northwest Victorian town of Swan Hill, Dad having just accepted a job transfer with the bank.  I was charging around the bottom of our avenue, barefoot, weathered Sherrin footy in hand. The first drop in light signalled time-on in the final quarter. Collingwood five points down. I was tough-as-nails wingman Darren ‘Pants’ Millane, thundering towards full-forward Brian Taylor for the winning goal – between the light post and the mailbox two doors down. But a stray kick landed in the arms of an old, bespectacled man, who fired a 20-metre handpass back at me. This wasn’t in  the script.

Even though we’d never met, Stuart knew my first name, and also that I barracked for Collingwood. He was a

Fitzroy supporter; he said he wanted to see a premiership before he died.

His creaky bones hampered him somewhat, but he was skilful and nimble, his drop kicks spearing into my chest. We went back and forth until the ball and darkness became one and the closing credits for A Country Practice rolled in unison in the surrounding houses.

The following evening, I looked out the window and there he was again: the old man, hovering under the street light. And so it became a nightly ritual. In between kicks he’d quiz me about school and junior footy. Mum would reserve her best neighbourly smile for him, while he and Dad became mates. He would sometimes call around on Saturday afternoons and sit with us by the fire drum in the backyard as the ABC footy crackled from the wireless. The commentators would talk excitedly about St Kilda’s Tony Lockett breaking the record for most goals in a game. Stuart would agree; he reckoned Lockett was the best full-forward since 1950s Essendon legend John Coleman. His eyes narrowed somewhat on Sunday afternoons, however, when Sydney’s tight-shorted show-pony Warwick Capper stole the show.

By late 1988 it was time to move house again. I went next door to say goodbye. Stuart’s place was modest: a tiny kitchen and bathroom; a lounge room cramped with old china. Ancient Fitzroy Football Club paraphernalia filled the absence of family photos – he’d never married. On the coffee table sat a photo album filled with newspaper clippings, curled-up and yellowing. A footballer of promise, the war years had cut Stuart’s own career short.

He was sad we were leaving. I made a promise to visit him again. I never did.

Fitzroy became my second-favourite team – and I always associated them with ‘old Stu’, as Dad called him. But my teen years passed without much thought of the old man until 1996, when the Lions folded and merged with the Brisbane Bears.

I hoped Stuart had taken on Brisbane (now the Brisbane Lions) as his team after the merger. And I hoped he was still alive to see their three premierships just after the turn of the millennium. For me, the twin blows of Brisbane’s pair of grand final triumphs over Collingwood (2002 and 2003) were softened by the thought of a ninety-something Stuart in his armchair, soaking it up.

Now I’m 36, a father of two girls, and footy and I have fallen out. My short career peaked with runner-up in the best and fairest for Cobram Seconds in the Murray Football League. My pedigree as a Pies supporter has moved from one-eyed to almost ambivalent. Other interests – travel, love, words, music and booze – have taken the place of footy. I can hold a conversation with a footy nut, but my views certainly aren’t nuanced. Now it all seems too chaotic and complicated – and wrung free of colour. I spend my days chasing simplicity. It’s elusive, yet I find it. It’s there in my girls’ smiles. And it’s there at the local park whenever I see dads and their sons kicking the Sherrin back and forth, the tiniest sliver of sunshine breaking through the cloud, an old man’s twinkle-eyed smile going against the grain.

» Daniel Lewis is a Melbourne-based writer and media professional

»» Originally published in The Big Issue on July 5, 2013.

The Youth-Clinger and Fletch

Two days ago I turned 36. The back-end of my thirties has commenced. But despite the looming inevitability of being, all of a sudden, closer to 40 than 30, it's not nearly as depressing as I’d feared. Maybe it’s having two young children and not having time to feel sorry for myself – or my playing the big kid to said children – that keeps me young at heart.

Or perhaps it’s because the yardstick I’ve long used to measure age – how my own compares with the eldest AFL player – is still alive for another year, with Dustin Fletcher in his 21st season at Essendon.

Growing up, my footy idols – Peter Daicos, Tony Lockett, Rod Carter – always seemed a lifetime older. They were men – strong, tall, burly men – with muscles, moustaches, chest hair and mullets.

In hindsight, many of them were only kids themselves. But through the eyes of a star-struck kid, they were giants: wise, gladiatorial... and hairy.

It wasn’t until I turned 18, after a couple of my junior footballing peers got picked up in the AFL draft (while I commenced a short, ignoble career with the Cobram seconds) that I realised I was closing the age gap on many of my AFL heroes.

Hitting the latter half of my booze-fuelled twenties, I started going past them. And yet, I retained a youthful, if delusional, brashness. My rationale was this: so as long as I fell within the age parameters of the AFL's playing elite, I still had some semblance of youth to hold on to.

Of course, those days are numbered. Each year the list has diminished, and for the past few seasons, since Barry Hall’s retirement, there’s only been one: Fletch.

Just as the thirty-somethings in the early '90s must have done with Michael Tuck, I’ve secretly cheered on the gangly, super-resilient Essendon stalwart each week, hoping he’ll sustain his stellar form and not cop any serious injuries. Luckily, he remains a key to his inconsistent, work-in-progress – and, recently, scandal-plagued – side’s fortunes. He may even play on in 2014, meaning I can tick the 'young box' – or my version of it – for a little while yet.

Deep down, though, I realise my youth is teetering by a boot lace; I know there's a reason I don't get called 'young fella' any more. Heck, I've now outlived Jim Morrison – who looked about 50 when he died – by eight years. I'm already 21 years older than Sindhuja Rajaram, who, in becoming the head of animation company Seppan at 14, is the youngest CEO in the world. The best AFL players – Judd, Ablett, Swan, Franklin – are all born in the '80s, while the next generation, led by 1990 baby Trent Cotchin and 1993 (yes, 1993)-born Jonathon Patton, arrived in a decade that saw the rise and fall of grunge, the Spice Girls and Monica Lewinsky.

More worryingly, half the coaches are, like me, '70 babies. Having grown up watching the likes of Allan Jeans and Tony Jewell ply their trade while looking as old as my pop, it's a little disconcerting to see the Scott brothers – just 11 months my senior – barking instructions from the coaches' box.

Asking around, I realised I wasn't alone in the practice of using the ages, actions and looks of prominent people to get a sense of one's own expiry date. My father-in-law, for example, knew his country footy career was almost up when Billy Picken retired; it was only natural given their careers – he at Echuca, Picken at Collingwood – started at the same time. My uncle says a similar thing about Peter Daicos.

Other sports and high-end celebrities got a look in, too. My sister, a self-proclaimed age-obsessive, is one of the few who'd prefer Lleyton Hewitt keep up the brattish on-court racket rather than hang up his racquet. They were born three weeks apart and watching him mix it with the best keeps her young – or at least feeling that way. My mother was struck by her own mortality when Olivia Newton-John – still blond and beautiful but 30 years on from that black lycra suit – turned 60 a few years back. Then there's my friend, an avid Royal watcher, who found herself confronted by Prince Charles's fossilled appearance at Will and Kate's wedding last year. She recalls him as a relatively young man – or, as she later worked out, the same age as she is now.

With almost all my childhood heroes having bowed out of their respective sports (did anyone else my age feel a little wistful when Steve Waugh retired from Test cricket in 2003 after 19 seasons; or when Robert Harvey, who debuted for St Kilda in 1988, finally hung up the boots?), perhaps its time to find a new measuring stick by which to gauge my age. Perhaps I’ll turn to the golf or lawn bowls circuit.

Maybe I'll even accept middle age – seen to begin at 35, 40 or 45, depending on your source – with good grace.

But for now, hang in there, Fletch.

R.I.P., Sarah

She was from another dimension of time; a dark-haired, husky-voiced blur from my formative years. Indeed, I was 17 – and she 14 – when I ‘went out with’ Sarah Houlihan. Eighteen years ago. Eighteen adult years ago. A long time in anyone’s life.
So why has her recent death unsettled me so? Why wasn’t my initial shock erased by a brief period of scattered recollection before diving back into the now, and my daily routine of work and parenthood? After all, I’d barely thought of her in almost two decades, during which time I’ve been engaged to one woman, and spawned two beautiful children with another. I’d travelled. Studied. Had numerous shitty – and some not so shitty – jobs. I’d lived. And she’d simply filled the law of averages: I wasn’t the worst-looking kid in the world, and, as shy and unpopular as I was up until my last year of high school, it wouldn’t have been right to leave those years behind without the trace of at least one girlfriend.

It was, of course, just puppy love with Sarah – a starry, hormonal rumble that lasted no more than two months. And after I ended our brief union (after discovering she’d kissed another boy) a succession of other 'puppies' and nameless flings followed before the first serious one came along. Girls were no longer aliens – and, I guess, Sarah was the catalyst for this. She loosened my tongue around the female form – and not least because she was my first kiss. Perhaps it was better this milestone came later than for most, because I remember it vividly. We’d chatted a few times at school; the mutual interest was clear. We'd organised to meet up on a winter’s day at the primary school behind my parents' house in Cobram. She’d rocked up with one of her friends. They both had the grunge look going: dyed black hair; band tee over full-sleeve top; Doc Marten boots. My rebellion, meanwhile, stopped short at longish hair and an undercut. We smoked cigarettes and talked about music. Nirvana. Pearl Jam. Metallica. The Doors. Despite the three-year age gap, we were a level peg: I was naïve and late-developing; she seeming much older than she was. Then her friend made herself scarce. We sat there on the bench, partially hidden by some over-arching trees, our small talk frittering away to thin slices of mumble. I shivered a little: a mix of the elements and nerves. Then she motioned, ever so slightly to move in. I responded, a little uncertain, a little excited, hoping like hell I could find a rhythm and not embarrass myself… my confidence growing as time slowed. It was… well, everyone remembers their first kiss, don’t they?

In death her scent returns to me: the mint chewing gum that barely masked the taste of cigarettes; the musky perfume that lingered long after our 'meetings'. For the myriad changes I’ve undergone in 18 years, all it’s taken is a moment of bewildering madness to throw me back, back, back to before all that – back to being an uncertain boy who was, for the first time, enjoying the touch of a female who cared. Death awakens you in the present and hurls you back into the past. While she was a wild one, and her issues – including battles with anorexia – weren’t restricted to simple teenage angst; the ‘loving and caring’ person, as described in the obituaries of her family and friends, was evident back then.

By only knowing her as a fragile teenager – and not the mother of two and self-employed naturopath she became – I’m not overly surprised she left the big dance earlier than should be permitted. But a lot can happen in 18 years – people grow up, adjust expectations, learn to smile at the world – just as a lot can happen in a split second. I’m not even going to try to predict why and how Sarah came to be driving at high speed along the wrong way of a busy freeway. My thoughts are also with the families of the four people killed as a result of her actions. The whole situation is deeply sad.

And a tiny part of me is gone. Sadly, it’s taken Sarah's death for me to realise this. A hollow consolation, yes, but everything about a young death is hollow.

R.I.P., Sarah.

This (Blank Tape) Life [The Weekend Australian 'Review', July 16, 2011]

This (blank tape) life

• DANIEL LEWIS
• THE AUSTRALIAN
• JULY 16, 2011 12:00AM

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MY father is a technophobe. While he can turn on a computer, he's stumped thereafter.

He calls his radio a wireless. I've tried many times to explain how simple modern technology can be, but he's unbending. That's why I decided recently to go along with it rather than fight it.

At my daughter's christening we stood together and made the usual small talk: weather, river levels, his veggie garden. Minimal eye contact. Emptying beer into our mouths to fill the gaps. But this time music came up. It was uncharted territory for us, unless him yelling at my teenage self to "turn that shit down" counts.

His record collection contains the odd gem, but nothing post-1980. That's 30 years without new music: something I cannot fathom.

Though I do feel somewhat responsible. In the early 90s he'd walk past my sisters and I watching Rage and hear songs about Barbie girls and being too sexy for one's shirt. "That shit is No 1? Where are the Eagles?"

So I was surprised when he expressed a liking for Bruce Springsteen. And not just Born to Run or Born in the USA, but the Boss's stripped-back, return-to-form stuff of the past decade. Encouraged, I bought him Devils & Dust. Then I remembered he didn't use his CD player, and his car didn't take discs, either. I wasn't sure blank tapes still existed, but eventually, nestled among the writable DVDs and AC adapters at the Reject Shop, I found a stack of 90-minute jobs.

Later I underwent the wonderfully manual process of recording from CD to cassette. Remember it? Awaiting the three-second loop delay so to not miss the first track's vital opening strains? Using a pen to write down the song names -- and playing time -- on the cover? Cribbing your handwriting to fit artist and album title on the sticker label?

Devils & Dust runs just over 50 minutes, so I filled the remaining space with Nick Drake's Pink Moon. It wasn't that Moon accompanied Dust's acoustics perfectly, nor that I wanted to get the most out of my $2. I just wanted to fill those conversation lags with something other than Melbourne Bitter.

I found him in his shed, surrounded by fishing gear, and I grabbed a beer. Then I handed over the tape. He held my eye for a moment, said thanks with a slight shudder, then placed it on top of his old stereo. He sat back down on his workbench and rolled a cigarette. Without asking I put the tape on.

We opened more beers and the afternoon got away from us. Music, in its simplest form, was our icebreaker. He talked about his youth, about his grapples with fatherhood when I came along 33 years before.

I sat and listened, thinking that while I hoped to forge a closer bond with my daughter, I loved the bloke as he was. And maybe, before it's too late, I might tell him so.

Published in The Weekend Australian's 'Review' magazine in July, 2011.

"Callington Eagles break drought" (published in The Weekly Times, June 7, 2011)

AFTER 48 consecutive losses at an average margin of more than 50 goals, the Callington United Eagles, the notorious battlers of the Adelaide Hills Football League, have finally broken the drought.

Emotions spilled over at picturesque Callington Oval on Saturday when the home club overcame fellow league battler Sedan-Cambrai by 11 points.

“The celebrations were huge,” says club president Bill Filmer. “You couldn't get in the dressing room for the club song, it was like a grand final. There were tears from people who have been around the club for a long time and waiting for this.”

These loyal fans had endured a wretched run dating back to July 2008. A mass exodus of players followed that season, and a series of lop-sided games against all but Sedan-Cambrai have resulted since, the worst being an 85.25 (525) to 0.0 (0) defeat to Torrens Valley in 2009. “It was completely one-way traffic that day,” Filmer recalls. “At one point our full back ran back through the goals just to waste some time and give them a point instead of another goal.”

After a similarly disastrous year in 2010, Filmer and the board decided to wipe the slate clean. They appointed a new coach, Shayne Mitchell, whose playing and coaching career included a stint at SANFL club Glenelg, changed the guernsey, and, most pertinently, dropped 'Callington' from their name in a bid to change club culture.

“We wanted to get away from being the thugs and easybeats,” says Mitchell. “Little steps, but I'm loving it – I'm here for the long haul. So is the current playing group.”

Mitchell is emblematic of the club's spirit. He makes the 75-minute journey from Woodcroft each Tuesday and Thursday night for training, and coaches the club's under-13 side who are likely to play finals this year.

Filmer says Mitchell has instilled belief among the playing group, and delivered a "hair-raising" speech at three-quarter time with the game in the balance. 

The result, Filmer says, changes the club's focus. "Now there's a much better chance of another win before the end of the year. It's all about belief."

Note: published published in The Weekly Times, June 7, 2011 (no longer online)

"Brad fires more than Blanks in The Big Smoke"

It's 4.30am in New York's trendy SoHo district and, in an apartment above Milady's local Irish bar, Brad Blanks, radio presenter and celebrity interviewer, is woken by his iPhone alarm. It's time for Hamish & Andy's 196cm New York correspondent to launch himself into another day in the city that throbs to its own heartbeat.
“I don't muck around once I'm up,” Blanks says, joining me at a table at The Spotted Pig, a West Village bar. “It's a case of going through the formalities then throwing myself into a cab and heading uptown into work, reading the morning headlines off my iPhone as I go”.
While we hear him regularly on Fox FM in Melbourne, 'work' is at 95.5 WPLJ, the station where duo Scott Shannon and Todd Pettengill's Scott and Todd In The Morning is a New York institution. For years Blanks's first task each day was to put his unique spin on the three biggest stories of the day in the entertainment world for a syndicated daily report. But this report is currently on hiatus, and the station have increased the focus on his celebrity interviews and man-on-the-street stuff. Now when the show starts at 6am each morning, he is raring to unleash his latest killer one-on-one. Blanks is one who wakes with the birds, and yet, enviably, work remains a labour of love.
He's always been an early starter, even back when he was a high school student in Cobram, north of Shepparton on the Murray River.
“Growing up I always thought I would be an actor; first thing most mornings I'd re-enact scenes from famous movies. That was probably a weird choice considering I grew up a football-and-cricket-mad teenager.
“It took some time to realise that even though I loved playing my sport, I was much better in front of a crowd. The yearly Cobram High play was a highlight,” he says with a wistful smile.
He turns his attention to a passing waitress and orders cheeseburgers for both of us in an high-pitched, booming voice.
“Like many kids, we had a childhood that seemed to revolve around television, radio and movies. The special ingredient for me was having a mother who always pushed me and my sister to always think big.”
Part of this 'big thinking' was to get some money behind him first. After completing a Bachelor of Commerce at La Trobe University, he spent three years in London working in its burgeoning financial sector. During this time he used the city as a base while occasionally taking time out to strap a bag to his back and exploring Europe – an experience that helped shape him, introducing him to many different cultures and new friends.
While working during the day he often wrote at night, with grand plans for the next great Aussie sitcom.
“For five years, during university and in my early years of employment, I wrote the scripts and what I called the show bible. Then when I pitched it to a prominent production company they told me my idea was too much like fruit salad. That was when I learnt how TV people talk.”
So Blanks continued wedging his size-13 foot in the industry's closing doors, until he was offered the smallest slither of an opportunity.
“I was given a few minutes' assignment for WPLJ during the Sydney Olympics in 2000. My break-out interview was with a guy dressed up as koala, raising money for the Wilderness Koala organisation. They went crazy for it.”
But it almost didn't happen.
“I had no radio report for that day. The day before I had been calling in live from the Heineken House and the guys warned me it didn't go down so well. So naturally I wanted to top that but was struggling. Then I walked out of a pub near Sydney Uni late that day and saw the Wilderness Koala. I went straight over and interviewed him. The guy's name was Colin; he saved my bacon.”
The sound clip shows Blanks a little nervous but full of Aussie charm – and the first signs of an endless ability to think on his feet. Among questions to Colin was one querying how koalas went to the toilet, given the absence of holes in his suit. When Colin's answer induced a Alf Stewart-esque 'crikey', that was that – the station's producers were hooked.
Blanks says: “Fourteen years on from Crocodile Dundee, and Aussie idiom wins the Yanks over again,” Blanks says.
Blanks spent a further six months living in Sydney, 'doing bits and pieces' for WPLJ, when he realised, at 26 and in his prime, he needed to be closer to the action. New York beckoned.
After touching down at JFK and immersing himself in Manhattan's vibe, he coupled lessons learnt from earlier rejections with a sharp knowledge of American politics to convince WPLJ's producers they needed an Aussie as a regular on their morning program. He's been there ever since.
In the 8am hour, Blanks has his own segment, comprising of vox-pop audio recorded on Manhattan's streets the day before. The results, at least for the many Aussie ex-pat listeners living in New York, are often hilarious.
“The Australian sense of humour is definitely different to Americans',” he says. “You can't be too dry, which has been a problem when I've said things I thought deserved some sort of laugh and it didn't happen,” he says.
That said, Blanks's inimitable style – a strong Aussie accent heightened by boundless, wide-eyed enthusiasm – has won him plenty of fans. Indeed, even in this city of faceless people, no less than three people have said hello since we sat down. No wonder he feels at home.
Does he ever get homesick?
“I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss a meat pie and beer at the footy with mates; as diverse as New York – and the USA – is, it can't fill the void of those simple Aussie things. But there hasn't been an option for homesickness. I made the choice to come here to learn something and have a crack. There is nothing more pleasing than creating your own idea and hustling hard enough to pull it off”.
Hustling is something that has become the norm. When the morning show finishes at 10am he will be busy contacting publicists for phone interviews with their famous clients, “assuring them that his interviewing style won't make them look stupid”.
Blanks's willingness to succeed is obvious when trawling through his website's interview collection; even with no formal training as a reporter, he more than holds his own in a media scrum.
Many of entertainment's shining lights, including Tom Cruise, Cameron Diaz, and, in particular, Ricky Gervais, have warmed to him.
“Over the years I have had a lot of fun with Ricky. For some reason he finds my head weird and at times very topical,” Blanks says. “I reckon in the celeb world you've just got to have fun with them and they'll have fun back. So many people are trying to take advantage of them or roll them.”
Always keen to broaden his network, he snaps up opportunities here and there, often linking him back to Australia. He briefly appeared on Channel 7's coverage of the Beijing games.
Then there's the Hamish & Andy gig, which is a direct result of Blanks's networking skills.
Hamish was an intern on Fox FM's breakfast show when Blanks befriended him in 2003. In December 2005, when the lads were given the opportunity to present a two-week afternoon show in Melbourne and Sydney, he checked in with them every few days, and became a regular member once Hamish & Andy were offered their own show.
“We were a hit right from the first show, when I crossed from Elton John's Oscar party in Hollywood. I've been checking in every week since,” Blanks says.
While Blanks could already be seen as a dream-fuelled young man who had the courage to chase and attain his goals, he is under no illusions he has made the grade. His long-term ambition is to make documentaries in the style of Clive James or Louis Theroux. “I've always loved shows where someone drops themselves into unknown situations and talks to people trying to learn about them... A week down South, in the bible belt of America, would be interesting, too.”

As our burgers are set down and he starts wolfing his down, Blanks says these plans will have to sit on the back burner for a while, offering an exhausting rundown of an average afternoon. Typically, he will head home for a nap at 1pm. A few hours later he's hustling again, emailing and phoning public figures' management for future segments. At 5pm, he can be seen on the red carpet trying to snare a few minutes with a movie star. After watching the movie, he is on his way home.
And waiting there is the love of his life. With such a hectic lifestyle, some may find it hard to believe that Blanks has time for a partner. But last year, he married English-born Juliette, his girlfriend of six years – a period of time Blanks labels “a decent road test”.
He says: “Anyone in entertainment or media has to have an understanding partner. You start to realise they are more important than the job as time goes by”.
Indeed, Blanks has been forced to reshuffle his priorities again this year after their first child, Harvey, was born – two months prematurely – in July 2009. Although he remained in hospital for sometime afterwards while his lungs strengthened, Blanks is now suitably chuffed that all is otherwise well, and his dialogue turns tongue-in-cheek. “Little Harvey decimated my final two months of freedom.”
He winks at me and turns philosophical. “But Harvey also makes me realise the big picture plans will have to be tackled earlier than later. The trick I think for people is to always be working on the big picture, not just because a baby is born”.
One surmises that Harvey won't stop him gravitating toward that bigger picture – even if his new routine includes rising a few minutes earlier each morning to give his little boy a cuddle.

Post-publishing note:
After 10 long years, Brad has resigned from WPLJ as he chases the next adventure. Even if means becoming Mr Mom and looking after Harvey full-time...

Jackson and The Dawn Father

Everything was comfortably familiar in my local cafe this morning. I was sipping a latte and skimming the newspapers, my face partially hidden under a Yankees cap. Happy in my own company, you might say. All around me a flurry of cooked breakfasts and coffee were being distributed to a swarm of 'yummy mummies' and their blessed little people. But where I'd normally consume the papers whilst keeping one ear open to conversation (as a freelance writer it would be remiss of me to do otherwise) the drone of screeching new borns and incoherent toddlers actually won out today – and in particular, one little man.

So, I was reading the The Age's Opinions page (okay, I was reading the sport section), when one little freckle-faced cherub started churning out a noise so piercing that one particular sentence I was ready became something of an unplanned mantra. The death metal backing of the tot, now harmonised by a couple of like-minded others, was similar to what you'd here late at night on JJJ.

Then, just as my threshold of pain was breached, the noise died down. I glanced over at my nemesis with a ringing in my ears. A waitress hovered at his table, chatting away as she handed large lattes to the mother and her friend. Naturally, after she'd finished gas-bagging, the waitress leant down and coo-cooed at the boy, pulling one of 'those faces', where, even as a fellow adult, you wished that old fantasy tale of faces freezing as the wind changed was real, before handing him one of those gimmicky baby coffees, the name of which escaped me at that moment.

“There you go, Jackson, drink your coffee,” the pale-faced mother said, caressing the boy's thin, sandy hair, before turning her attention back to her guffawing friend. I laid the paper down and waited for it to happen. Jackson surprised me by taking a sip before the liquid went all over the floor. “Maybe 18 months is too young for a babycino,” the mother said to her friend, who was already on her hands and knees dutifully wiping up with a serviette.

I went back to the newspaper, wanting to get through one article before leaving, only to be interrupted again by big-voiced J, now doing his 'nana over a banana. Aaarrgghh. Thank God that's not me, I thought, that warm rush of relief akin to that of a late-teen who's had a bad dream about missing a VCE exam, only to wake up and realise they now have a day-job instead.

And that's when it dawned on me, in an arm-hair-stiffening moment of realisation: hang on a minute, that is you. Or about to be... That 'sort of thing', that's youYouYOU...

I shakily took a sip of my coffee. For the first time since Tash, became pregnant eight months ago, the truth had hit me square between the eyes.

It's amazing how one little seemingly insignificant moment brings such realisation, when so many other supposed milestone moments didn't quite do the job. Denial (the oh-so-apt anagram of my Christian name) was my adversary from the outset. I thought back to that fateful March morning, when Tash returned from the chemist. I remember noting how simple the directions were on the pregnancy kit box: a criss-cross symbol meant Positive; a minus, Negative. It didn't matter which way I looked at it – side on, upside down, standing on my head – it was positive. Shock softened my joy; after all, it hadn't been planned, and we'd been cautious in a lax sort of way. I resolved to push it to the back of my brain as Tash assured me we wouldn't tell anyone until she'd safely navigated the first three months.

But there wasn't even any morning sickness. And she was still working. It was like nothing had changed. And while I thought telling people would take me to some other level, it didn't, despite the news drawing tears from my mother, a slap on the back from Dad and some earnest, grown-up advice from my single mates.

As time went on, there was Tash's ever-changing body shape and mindset: I'd seen her stomach expand outwards, droop downwards, her reasoning waver, but somehow a stubborn wall of denial always stood in the way, and I'd refrain looking too far ahead. Baby names? What's the rush, we have six months to go... sorry, make that five.

I'd been reliably told the 20-week 3D scan was when it would hit home the most. Must admit, the little alien-like human writhing around on the screen was indeed an eye-opener but that fatherly feeling remained elusive, and has remained that way even as the final necessities were carried out – the cot, a hand-me-down from a friend, assembled and painted; a baby seat fitted in the old bachelor wagon; the pram purchased; the hospital bags packed.

Even Tash's baby shower last weekend, where I was temporarily surrounded by a bunch of excitable females before escaping to the pub with my brother-in-law (for a couple of light beers, of course), still had the long-toothed bunnies jumping fences in my mind's eye rather than the delicate, wailing, nappy-soiling, vomiting little human who was just about to enter my sphere.

Leaving the cafe, I noticed them all around me. Little monkeys in prams. Toddlers being tugged back from the road by multi-tasking mothers. It's amazing how little you see of things that don't directly relate to you. I began asking myself questions: will I be a dad who avoids coffee shop outings? Will I be one who is suckered into the methods of others before me? Will my child be a babycino drinker? Will I put up a 'baby on board' sticker in my car after years of chastising others for doing the same?

So. I'm finally at one with the knowledge that in a few weeks – or maybe days – I'm about to become one of those people. One of those preoccupied, enamoured, stale milk-smelling souls with licorice-dark rings under the eyes. I may not be ready but, hey, who's ever ready for anything? So thank you, little Jackson, you might have ruined your mother's morning but you made mine.