Bowled Out!
When I was studying to be a minister of the Gospel, my student churches were two adjacent wooden churches in the inner slum areas of Melbourne. For seven years during the 1950’s and 60’s the people of those inner slum areas were my parish.
I had been at the church at Newmarket for about three years when the magistrate in the local court, Mr. Mason, asked if I would be willing to become a Probation and Parole Officer. He had seen me come to court with various young boys on charges of car stealing and was impressed by my youthful enthusiasm at helping young felons. His problem was that he had a large number of people coming before him every Monday morning but there was a great shortage of resources to help many of his clients with the result that he was sentencing to gaol people who could, perhaps, stay in the community if they had adequate supervision.
After my appointment as a Probation and Parole Officer I regularly went both to the Children’s Court and to the local Courts at Newmarket and North Melbourne.
Monday mornings were always full of the same kind of charged people who had been locked up over the weekend because of aggravated assaults or drunk and disorderly conduct which had led to the destruction of property or assaults upon persons. There was always a straggly line of sick and sorry looking men, often with bruises and black eyes, torn clothes and dishevelled hair who looked as if their last 48 hours had brought real repentance upon them.
Most of these men had no one close at hand who was ready or able to bail them out and they had spent a long weekend in the cells.
One at a time they were brought before the Magistrate. Mr. Mason looked down from the high, beautifully carved, wooden desk with all of its Victorian grandeur. He looked over his glasses at the man standing before him and quietly and patiently listened as the police prosecutor read out the evidence. He would then ask the man if he had anything to say in his defence and encouraged the man to tell his story. Usually he would start to tell his story from the dock without being sworn, but Mr. Mason would interrupt him, kindly direct him towards the witness box, have him duly sworn by the clerk of courts ‘to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth’ and then, in the most respectful manner, ask him to continue his story.
Mr. Mason always referred to the person in front of him by his surname, calling him, “Mr. Smith or Mr. Brown, please go on with your story”. Even when Mr. Smith or Mr. Brown was the most disreputable looking derelict that you could imagine.
I was always impressed with Mr. Mason’s kindly, patient approach which gave to the person charged with the offence the utmost of dignity.
This is more so when you realize that he may have heard 15 or 20 similar stories one after the other that very morning. All of the men had good alibis, they were not present when the event with which they had been charged took place, they were innocently engaged elsewhere when the police set upon them brutally causing the physical damage that they now evidenced, there had been a great miscarriage of justice, and they were looking for some recompense for wrongful arrest and wilful detainment.
At the end of listening to their statement Mr. Mason would write in his book for some time and then say, “On the evidence presented before me I find the accused convicted of the charge as read. Before I sentence him is there, Mr. Prosecutor, anything known about him?”
The big policeman at the end of the bench, who always wore the royal crown at the top of the sleeve of his uniform indicating that he was a police prosecutor, would rise in his place and begin reading a list of convictions for drunk and disorderly conduct, for assault and battery, assault occasioning grievous bodily harm, disorderly conduct leading to wilful damage of property, and the like. After reading a long list Mr. Mason would interrupt the police prosecutor saying, “And are there any others still on your list that you have not yet read Mr. Prosecutor?” And the police prosecutor would say “Your Honour, there are at least 50 other convictions of a similar manner.”
Mr. Mason would then tell the prosecutor to sit down, and he would deliver a friendly lecture to the man, now back in the dock, about his behaviour and habits and where his aggressive brutality would ultimately lead him if he did not mend his ways. He would then sentence the man to seven days gaol.
At this the unrepentant accused would smile nicely at the magistrate and thank him ,and wish him a nice day, or the compliments of the season, or some other piece of goodwill, and go off to complete seven days inside knowing that, especially in cold Melbourne winters three hot meals a day with a good dry bed at night was far better than sleeping in nature’s hotel beneath the stars with only what he could scrounge for a meal.
In some ways it was a bit of a game between these regular offenders and the magistrate who sought to uphold with dignity and patience the fairness of justice.
As I used to sit in the cold draughty court waiting to be called for a case in which I had an interest, I used to watch these proceedings and think about the men who stood in the dock accused and wonder what their earlier life had been. One day the next name on the charge sheet caught my attention. The clerk of courts cried, “Call Leslie O’Brien ‘Chuck’ Fleetwood‑Smith”.
A tall, shabby man shuffled into the dock, hair awry and face battered. He was dressed in a long, grubby gabardine overcoat. He had a thin, pencil style moustache on the upper lip and suddenly I remembered where I had heard his name.
A couple of years earlier when I was still at high school, the principal of the Box Hill Boys High School was Mr. Bill Woodfull. He was the former Australian test cricket captain and during those unforgettable years of the 1930’s, he had captained Australia. He had faced the body line bowlers of England and partnered Bill Ponsford to many great scores. In his team had been the great Don Bradman while still a young batsman and a remarkable fast bowler, Leslie O’Brien ‘Chuck’ Fleetwood‑Smith.
I had heard Bill Woodfull speak about him. He was an amazing bowler for Australia. He had captured 295 wickets for Victoria in Shield matches and 33 test wickets against England. He was a national hero, a handsome man with clipped moustache, which made him the idol of thousands of women.
When he was married in 1935 the crowds that attended what was to be a small wedding created a traffic hazard which blocked entirely all passing traffic.
When he had routed the English team in Adelaide, Chuck Fleetwood‑Smith was given a civic reception in his home town of Stawell, Victoria. Huge crowds of cheering people chaired him on their shoulders into the town hall. An illuminated address was presented to him. A fat bulging wallet of notes which had been collected from admirers was given to him. Don Bradman had sent a telegram saying, “Fleetwood‑Smith’s bowling in Adelaide was magnificent. Thoroughly merits the honour Stawell citizens are paying him.”
I remembered more about the man who stood in the dock. In the early months of the war in 1940 this charming, urbane and witty cricketer gave up a good job to enlist with the A.I.F.
The then Minister for the Army, Brigadier Street, said in Parliament, “I am very pleased that my old friend ‘Chuck’ Fleetwood‑Smith has answered the call. He has given the lead to cricketers throughout Australia.”
And now here he was on a cold Monday in March, standing before Mr. Mason with bowed head and shabby gabardine coat.
Mr. Mason looked up with a look of recognition and pity, “What is the charge?”. The clerk of the court read out the charge. He had been charged with vagrancy and begging. He had been begging from people in the streets and from old mates who had also attended Xavier College where he was educated as a young man.
Mr. Mason asked him to tell his story and listened patiently. He then asked, “Is there anything known?”
I listened as the long list was read out, and thought of the national hero as he shuffled off to gaol, a disgraceful failure.
I was deeply moved that day in the court and wondered how many more men could tell a story of success in business, in politics, in education, in professional life, in sporting prowess, but who had not been able to handle success, nor the alcohol they drank with it, and who ended up standing alongside ‘Chuck’ Fleetwood‑Smith.
My mind immediately went back to my old school principal who had now gone on to take the No.1 Educational position in Victoria: clean cut, handsome, disciplined. The one thing that differed between ‘Chuck’ Fleetwood‑Smith and W.M. Bill Woodfull was that throughout all of his cricketing career and work in education he had maintained his commitment to Jesus Christ and his membership in the local church.
That was the one thing that was different, and I began to wonder if that may not have been the one essential difference between these two former Australian sporting heroes.
I walked out that day into the heavy air with the wind blowing from abattoirs, started my motor bike and headed back towards the College of The Bible to train as a young minister, thinking about my meeting with some of God’s children in the slums of Newmarket.
GORDON MOYES
