Drifting part 3...



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Home Sweet Home...

He has two battered knapsacks slung over his shoulders, plastic bags hung like curtains on one arm, tattered clothing from head to toe, what looks to be the remnants of an ancient umbrella in the clutches of his other hand. I’ve seen this gentleman line up for food from local charities, seen him walk from one end of our small city to the other, watched him sit patiently on a park bench in the middle of the city centre. At times, when the weather gets too cold, in that very brief period between the close of shops in the mall and the final lockdown of the buildings, he makes his way through the glass doors and sits by the nearest air vent, calm, quiet, by himself. I don’t know his name, his story, his background, yet in my city of 350,000 people, he is as ever-present as the great House on the Hill not far from here. He is but 1 of the 105,000 Australians who sleep on the street every single night. We’re not talking about Bangladesh or India or Colombia; this is the Lucky Coun...
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Jerseys...

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I’ve put on a lot of jerseys in my life. From a young, naïve kid desperately trying to make a squad for which I wasn’t talented enough, to running up and down the same floorboards as my heroes, right through to pounding the cement with no shoes on just trying to keep up with others. There have been a lot of jerseys, a lot of different jerseys, in a lot of different places. Parquet, cement, blacktop, red dirt, grass, even brick. A lot of jerseys in a lot of different places with a lot of different people. Yet. Yet on that court, none of the differences matter. Not where you’re from. Not where you were born. Not what you believe in. You wear the same jersey as me, and we’re together in this struggle, we’re together in the same goal. Who you are, where you’re from, whether you’re male or female, black or white, this religion or that, none of that matters in the end, because above it all you are my teammate, and I can’t do this without you. I c...
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