CHC Profiles: David Cashmere

My dad introduced me and my brothers to Camberwell Hockey Club at a very young age. I started playing when I was 6 and reluctantly hung up the boots at 56. 

There was no ‘minkey’ and the youngest junior team was under 12’s so we learned early to cop a hiding from the older players; probably toughened us up. As kids we’d often spend the whole day at Matlock with our mates having fun and watching our dads play. We climbed the huge pine trees and made up hybrid sport games near the giant rusty steel pitch roller at the southern end. Watching the big guys take on the opposition on the old red cinders was a treat and it got pretty willing at times. We wondered if we could be good enough to play like that one day.

After the last match we’d pile into the car and head to the Tower hotel. Pumped up on red lemonade we’d get up to all sorts of mischief exploring the upstairs hallways and rickety fire escapes while the dads held their post mortems over a few sherbets. Dad’s teammates included many of the great players and club characters; people I really looked up to. Keith Thornton, Col Wansbrough, Mike Craig, Al Carnell and Billy Horman were among them.

Juniors

I remember the butterflies and the thrill of preparing for Saturday junior matches. Cleaning boots and tightening studs, laying out the big cotton tangerine CHC shirt with the royal blue pocket and the terry towelling shorts, white for home and black for away. My prized vampire stick marinating in linseed oil in the laundry next to those crappy cane shin pads. Trying to get to sleep Friday night while rehearsing match scenarios and set plays over and over in my mind was always a challenge. We had many coaches along the way but the two I remember most are the great Ronnie Legg and my dad.

Camberwell junior matches were often played at the Wattle Park top oval in the 70’s. The early morning pre-match rituals included stomping and cracking the ice-covered pitch as we wheeled out the nets and heaved them into position, a real team effort. Hitting the first ball hurt like hell and you thought your icicle fingers might snap off, great way to wake up.

As juniors we had a fierce rivalry with Moorabbin HC. Wansy and I would chatter on and off the field about how we should tackle their strengths and exploit weaknesses and certain individual foibles. In some ways it was like the junior version of what would become our classic senior rivalry with Waverley HC. Many of our toughest Moorabbin foes later joined CHC and contributed to our SL1 success against Waverley in the 80’s. There was something special about guys like Greg Read, Rob and Steve Dalton, Neil ‘Punchy’ McClean and Al Hart joining us as young adult teammates. Forging an enduring camaraderie with former foes was pretty cool.

Training

Training at Matlock in the 80’s had a certain gladiatorial feel to it. There will be blood. Some of the sibling rivalry on the pitch was legendary. Wayne and Tony Thornton thrashing it out in one-on-one drills, Graeme and Wayne Amey going head-to-head and Rob and Steve Dalton sizing each other up. The trash talk was relentless and always entertaining. The competition for team positions was fierce and we all tried our best to knock Duck’s block off whenever we got a shot at his net. He loved it. Before our first artificial pitch arrived the post training shower usually involved picking cinders out of your kneecaps and thighs. I don’t miss that.

Under the tutelage of the wily, tough Queenslander Don Argus we worked hard to get truly match fit with back-breaking stick and ball drills and endless leg-burning shuttle runs and hill sprints. In the middle of a drill we’d have to drop our sticks when we heard the Pavlovian catchcry ‘ten to me!’ and immediately belt out another series of shuttle runs from the backline to the coach. Anyone caught lounging in the dining cart would cop a barking spray from Argie.

Strategically we learned how to graft out a game, defend strongly, build real pressure on the opposition and take our chances when the game eventually broke. Thursday night sweaty team meetings huddled in the tiny selectors’ room and moving magnets around the whiteboard was never dull. Everyone got to share their own viewpoints on how we should approach the next battle. I learned a lot about my teammates and perspectives in those meetings, and when Darce, Payney or Kiwi spoke my antenna sharpened even more. Sage advice from the coach ‘you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear’, ‘leave that backstick rubbish at home’ and ‘try not to fly over the target on Friday night’ may have also helped.

The camaraderie off the field was outstanding and underpinned the strong supportive vibe of the club atmosphere, still palpable today. This doesn’t happen overnight and is testament to the hard work behind the scenes by countless club folk, young and old. The post-training cook-out hosted by team manager and barbie king, Peter Collins, has also been part of the club vibe for decades. PC will be missed but that spirit will live on at Matlock.

Match Day

At eighteen I remember the devastation of losing our first grand final in 1982 and the ‘character building’ losses to Waverley in 1983 - bitter pills. I remember some of the very funny on-field repartee (some things just can’t be repeated) and a couple of near all-in brawls when things overheated. A positive enquiry from Mints to Irvine during a match against Yarra after the Olympics loss ‘Where’s your medal Jimmy?’ ouch - he wasn’t happy.

Most of all, I remember the sheer jubilation and wild scenes after beating the all-star Waverley team in 1984. We were the underdogs and not expected to win against the champion team in their prime. With an ex-national coach, three gun Australian players (Colin Batch, Treva King and Nigel Patmore) and the rest of the team consisting mostly of the Victorian senior state team, they were formidable. All of that meant nothing to us. We had the better coach who had instilled absolute belief in all of us that we had what it took to knock ‘em over. We stuck to the plan and frustrated their stars and when the game broke, as we’d learned it always would, we seized our opportunities and made them pay. A stunning 3-2 victory in front of the greatest club supporters you could hope for - it was awesome. The first club premiership since 1959, the long drought finally broken. A sensational feeling.

That victory lead to the best team celebrations I’ve ever had; some of it I even remember. Weeks of solid partying capped off a brilliant season. Grant ‘Daff’ Broadbent and I were pretty shabby in our long overcoats and sunglasses waiting for opening time on the doorstep of the palace hotel. It became our team home for quite a while. I vaguely recall getting up in the middle of the fourth night of festivities to go to the pub urinal only to discover the next morning all my shoes were swimming. I’d gone in my bedroom wardrobe, dazed and confused, mum was not impressed.

The team went on to win many more premierships in that golden era, which is well documented, but that first one in ‘84 is still the sweetest for mine. 

Although there were plenty of highs that decade, the definite low point for me was getting my jaw shattered by a belting Reado undercut during a pre-match warm up drill. Argie’s theory that Greg ‘couldn’t hit the skin off a rice pudding’ was challenged on that painful day. Just another chapter now in my longstanding relationship with the surgeon’s hammer, drill and titanium bolts. Ironically, with no cartilage left and both ankles fused, I have two hockey sticks for legs.

Looking back

Decades on, having played in so many teams at various levels, I feel blessed to have been part of such a great club. I’ve been very lucky to have so many great coaches along the way. People who taught me so much more than how to play hockey. Ron Legg, Mike Craig and Don Argus stand out in my mind, and of course my dad.

For many years the club has been like a second home to me and my brothers. A place to connect and feel the warmth of your extended sporting family. A club that is genuinely committed to embracing everyone and providing opportunity for personal development in caring team environments. The biggest club masters competition in the country is a pretty fair representation of what the club means to people; we don’t want to leave. So many great characters, some now almost as old as the rickety, creaking weatherboard pavilion that once stood on the west side of the old cinders pitch. It’s been a brilliant journey so far. The best hockey club in the country, probably one of the best in the world. Long live CHC, you will always have a special place in my heart.

David Cashmere