My father played Rugby League for the legendary Rugby League club, St George (in one of the lower grades, but nevertheless).
His father, my gandfather, held some sort of committee position at the club, this being significant enough for the St George newsletter, The Dragon, to lead with the headline "Bert Clibrig dies."
Like many sportsmen, my father married a petite, pretty woman. Hence my weedy physique.
When I was about 15 years old, heavily involved in athletics and high school rugby league (in those days played in weight divisions, with an open division for the bigger post-pubertal kids), the St George team came to the large provincial town in which I lived to play an exhibition game against a local representative team.
One of my Dad's friends, Keith, was a local police sergeant. He took me to watch the game, and later to the hotel where the St George team was staying to meet Ken Kearney, the St George and Australian Rugby League captain and my hero.
The team were in the upstairs lounge bar, well into their rehydration session.
Keith and I walked up the stairs together and Keith called out "Hey Ken! The kid wants to meet you."
The great man turned slowly around, looked at me and said "Fuck off, kid!"
It was one of the highlights of my young life.
My hero actually spoke to me!
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