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flowers-creativity · 5 years

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Small Things

Fandom: The Musketeers Characters: d’Artagnan (Charles d’Artagnan), Porthos du Vallon, Athos (Comte de la Fere), Aramis (René d’Herblay), Jean Tréville, OCs Warnings: Violence, bullying Summary: d'Artagnan has found a new home and purpose in the Musketeers. But there might be some things that are wrong. They're only small things, though. Porthos is good at noticing small things.

AO3 link

Chapter 1

Chapter 2 Chapter 3

They were small things, really.

d'Artagnan knew his life was not turning out too bad. He had come to Paris and almost killed an innocent man for his father's death, but then he had not only been forgiven for the whole sordid affair but had even been granted the friendship of the man he had tried to kill, and of his two brothers. Even Captain Tréville seemed to be appreciative of his talents, especially after the whole thing with Vadim, and so he was allowed to stay and train with the Musketeers, even if he had no money to buy a commission, no one to sponsor him or even enough money to pay his way as a recruit. The Captain had insinuated that him fulfilling his duties alongside his friends and maybe putting in some extra work around the garrison would pay for his equipment and training at least in part, and so he was happy to muck out the stables or chop vegetables for Serge after his duties were done.

Word had it that Tréville was from Gascony himself, and he sometimes heard it in a turn of phrase or something else that made his breath catch at a sudden feeling of familiarity in the man's presence but he hadn't asked the Captain about where in the region he had come from, not sure if this wasn't too personal a question to ask your commanding officer – even if he was not officially a Musketeer – and afraid to discover that the Captain's support was out of some sentimentality towards their shared home or people he might have known back there, not earned on his own merits.

Also, the thought of talking to someone who knew Gascony just hurt too much on days when the buildings of Paris crowded in too closely and he longed for the wind rippling the tops of the grain on the fields like waves. There was barely any wind in the narrow streets of the city.

Not that he talked to anyone who did not know of Gascony about those bouts of homesickness either, of course. It didn't matter.

He was not destitute – he had seen poverty, at home and even more so in the streets of Paris and the Court of Miracles. He had written to his father's right-hand man; Phillipe had agreed to keep things running on the farm until he could make a final decision on how to proceed with it, and he now received a small stipend every month. It was enough to pay for his lodgings at the Bonacieux', keep himself fed and keep up appearances by giving Constance a few coins when she darned and sewed up what little clothes he owned. He did his best to swallow his Gascon pride whenever Athos or Aramis paid for all their wine at the tavern at night, knowing the others would have had the coin for it, or whenever Porthos let him win at cards and grumbled good-naturedly about “Must be your lucky day, lad”. He might be young and inexperienced but he wasn't stupid. But they meant well, so he let it go without a challenge.

He hadn't forgotten about his father's original reason for coming to Paris, but after his passing, he did not see how to help his people. His father had been an experienced, well-respected member of their community, and his words carried weight even beyond it, so there had been hope in him petitioning the king. In comparison, what could an orphaned farm boy hope to achieve? So he had written back home, advising the other leaders in the community to send someone else, hoping the next man to come to Paris would have more luck on the road and with the king. And maybe, when he had gained his commission and made a name for himself in the regiment, he might still be able to help, even if this day seemed a long way off.

And then there was Constance. He knew he was skirting a dangerous edge at times, even if he told himself she was just a friend. He could not have chosen a better woman to fall unconscious at her feet on that first day in Paris. Constance, sweet, determined, caring, fiery, practical and mischievous Constance, so many contradictions wrapped into a lovely package … and married, so married. He was sure that she did not feel much love for her husband but she held her vows sacred, and he couldn't help but admire her steadfastness.

All in all, d'Artagnan had a lot on his mind. That's why little things didn't even register first.

He knew you could never been liked by everyone. He had learned that lesson a long time ago, and why should Paris be different than a small town in Gascony in this regard, especially when you were still young, bull-headed, with a bit of a temper and the inability to keep your mouth shut when you really, really should sometimes? So he had Athos, Porthos and Aramis' friendship, he got along well with Serge and had found a younger friend in the stable boy Jacques, and most of the other Musketeers were friendly enough. So what if there were a few who turned up their nose at him, whether at his inexperience, his mended and darned clothes, or maybe the way he still felt like a country bumpkin when he was surprised by some aspect of the city life and the King's court? He hadn't come here to be liked by everyone, he had come here to become one of the best soldiers France had to offer. Or at least that was why he stayed.

So, little things.

He came out of the kitchen one day to find that his pistol, which he was sure he had left in a dry spot with his other things under the balustrade, was no longer in that spot but was laying in the mud of the courtyard, churned up by a few days of torrential rain and the coming and goings of men and horses. He looked around but could see no one who might be responsible for this, so he sighed and picked it up, pulling out a piece of cloth, and set to cleaning the mud off it, already hearing the words Aramis would have with him if he saw his weapon's state.

Another time he reached for his tack to saddle up for a ride and some training with the others outside of the city, looking forward to breathing fresh air for a few hours, away from the din and smells of too many people living in too little space, and his hand caught on the nail, leaving a long, shallow red scrape along his finger. The top of the nail had broken off, turning it into a sharp, unforgiving little dagger. He swore under his breath, wiped away the few small blood drops and went to saddle his horse.

The next time, his gloves went missing. He knew he had tucked them into his belt, at the small of his back next to his main gauche, but they were gone. Maybe he had lost them when he had been wrestling with Porthos for fun a bit earlier? But searching the whole courtyard did not turn up anything. He found them in one of the boxes two days later while mucking out the stables, smelling strongly of horse shit.

Then he was walking past a building when someone upended a bucket of dirty wash water out of the window. Within the blink of an eye, he was drenched and sputtering. Porthos and Aramis had lots of fun pointing out that he was looking not unlike a wet dog after its owner had given it a good bath while Athos made a disapproving noise at all of them and told him to go clean himself up. Still, he could have been more unfortunate, he supposed – what if it had been a chamber pot?

And so on.

They were little things, and he didn't think much by it.

***

Porthos noticed little things.

It came from his time on the streets, he supposed, where little things could be the difference between a full and an empty belly, a successful theft or a wild flight from the Red Guards, if you even had the chance to flee at all. The shift of a hidden purse – or a dagger – beneath the clothes, a small change in the expression that told you had been noticed and needed to beat a hasty retreat, the signs Charon, Flea and he used to signal each other when they were running the street together. Those were skills that had served him well as a soldier, too. Aramis, Athos and he were good at communicating with each other with few or no words at all and they had sharp eyes, too, but meaning no disrespect to his brothers, he knew he was better at spying these small details. Athos was quiet and watchful but had the tendency to get lost in his own head. Aramis, on the other hand, if he did not employ the singular focus of lining up a shot, almost saw too much and lost the overview of which details might be important.

Porthos had learned to differentiate between the small things that were just that, small and unimportant, and those that told a story. So he noticed how their youngest seemed to have a really bad stroke of luck as of late: d'Artagnan's things went missing and kept cropping up in places where he hadn't left them for sure, often in a state poorer than they'd been. There was an unusual amount of stuff breaking around the Gascon, resulting in the one or other minor injury or just more time spent cleaning his things than usual. And even if Aramis and he had had a lot of fun with the wash water incident, he did notice how it lined up with those other things.

He could not yet put a name to it but he knew it awakened some uneasy feeling in his belly, and it was a feeling he knew well.

Then he overheard some of his fellow Musketeers talking, and he only needed to hear the tone in which one of them said “that Gascon farm boy” to know what he had been suspecting was right. There was no need for insults or words plainer than those; Porthos knew the sound of disdain and derision well enough.

He did not speak to the men but made sure to make note of their faces and the names belonging to them before quickly moving away. He would observe some more and then speak to his friends.

Nobody messed with one of his brothers.

Especially not when he remembered all too well going through something similar to what d'Artagnan was currently suffering.

***

There were more little things, more small accidents, and Porthos had seen three more men discussing something covertly with those two he had originally overheard, Gros and Larue. He finally felt it was time to tell Athos and Aramis, and together they would decide what to tell d'Artagnan and the Captain and what to do.

Porthos was a patient man, something people often failed to notice, believing him quick to anger and explode. Oh, he could do that, too, but he knew the virtue of patience, especially in cases like this.

But this time, he wished he had gone with the sin of wrath instead. Because he had waited too long. The next thing was not so small any more.

He would forever curse his horse for making him late to training that day. Though really, the poor beast could not be blamed for falling lame the day before so he had gone to check on it after muster, and who knew what difference it might have made. By the time he got to the practice area, most of the other Musketeers had split up into groups and pairs and were engaged in the first rounds of training. He spied Aramis at the shooting range, demonstrating the loading of the pistol with practised ease to some younger soldiers, and Athos was standing with his arms crossed as he observed those crossing the blades, as he was wont to do if not actively involved in sparring himself. d'Artagnan was paired with Maçon, another younger Musketeer, and a man large enough to almost rival Porthos' own height. Maçon was lacking Porthos' fluidity of movement, though, relying far too much on his strength alone, and as such was having a hard time keeping up with d'Artagnan whose speed and agility easily made up for the difference in strength. The Gascon was positively dancing around his opponent, and there was an amused twinkle in Athos' eye as he observed the pair. “d'Artagnan is having Maçon's pride for breakfast,” he remarked as Porthos stepped at his side, and the dark-skinned man snorted with mirth.

“He's a good sort, though, so I'm sure he will survive,” he returned. It was true, Maçon was not a prideful man but well aware of his failings, sometimes overly so, and Porthos had attempted to teach him ways how to employ his strength in less brutish ways. Those lessons were slow going but there was hope for the young man in his eyes.

Athos nodded and started to turn away from the sparring partners. “How about us, then?” he suggested to his friend. “Or are you needed over there?” He motioned his head towards where hand-to-hand combat and wrestling was being trained. While they never had been explicitly been appointed to it, most of the other Musketeers acknowledged the Inseparables' superiority in their respective specialty and readily accepted them acting as trainers, Aramis for shooting, Athos for swords and Porthos for hand-to-hand.

“Nah, not today – I'd rather do blades,” Porthos said with a grin. It was always fun to spar with his friends, and he relished learning from his older friend who still had a thing or two to teach him, even after all those years they had spent soldiering side by side. Plus, he knew that Athos enjoyed the challenge, too, since Porthos had the ability and willingness to think outside the box and employ some unconventional techniques which kept his more traditionally trained friend from becoming too rigid in his forms.

He was about to draw his sword and salute Athos when a sound from those around them watching d'Artagnan and Maçon drew his attention back to the pair. Something seemed to have broken d'Artagnan's concentration, and he was looking away from his opponent. It was just a moment but enough for Maçon to take advantage of it, and the larger man brought his sword down in a powerful overhead swing. d'Artagnan just managed to bring up his own blade to block it and was forced a bit backwards as Maçon pressed his advantage, bearing down on the smaller man with all of his impressive strength. d'Artagnan went down on one knee, and it was clear to everyone watching that he would need a manoeuvre based on agility rather than strength to escape from the bind his momentary inattention had landed him in.

But before he could do that, a sharp sound rent the air, and d'Artagnan's sword broke, splintering near the hilt. Maçon was as surprised by this as his opponent and was unable to stop as the sudden disappearance of resistance pulled his blade and the strength behind it in the direction they had been aimed at. There was a snap and then a pain-filled cry from d'Artagnan as the blade hit his shoulder with punishing force. Both opponents toppled over, and Maçon could just wrench his sword aside as he landed on d'Artagnan to prevent further damage. As it was, the impact forced the air out of the young man's lungs, and while Maçon immediately gained his feet again, apologies spilling from his lips, the Gascon remained on the ground, looking dazed. Porthos rushed over to him immediately, and he heard Athos call for Aramis behind him.

“d'Artagnan?” Porthos asked as he carefully reached out to touch his friend's shoulder, hesitating at the last minute and switching hands to touch his right, instead of the left he had instinctively reached for – it was the shoulder Maçon had struck.

Pained brown eyes blinked up at him, and the Gascon made a sound that was barely more than a gasp. He struggled to draw breath, and his skin had paled beneath its natural olive tone.

“Breathe, d'Artagnan,” Porthos instructed him, lightly squeezing his shoulder. “In and out, slowly – you can do it.” It took a few tries but finally, d'Artagnan's panting returned to a more natural rhythm. By that time, Aramis had arrived and was nudging Porthos' side to make room for him to check on the injured man. “Where?” the medic asked.

“His left shoulder,” the large man answered, seeing that his friend was entirely busy with breathing through the pain and shock of the accident and could not respond. Aramis nodded and started to palpate the shoulder with gentle hands through his clothes. Porthos stood, giving him space to do his work, and looked around. There was quite a thrum of spectators around them, and he made shooing motions at them, accompanied by a glare and a low growl, to make them stop their gawking and return to training. Athos was standing nearby with Maçon whose face was painted with misery and regret. Athos had a hand on his shoulder and was talking to him in low tones. Porthos had no doubt that he was trying to assuage the young man's guilt at having hurt his comrade – for someone as prone to guilt-tripping himself for any and all things befalling him and those around him, Athos did not suffer it lightly when others did the same.

Concentrating on Aramis and his patient again, Porthos offered: “Maçon fell on him, too – better check his ribs as well.” Aramis only nodded, being in the process of untying d'Artagnan's doublet to more directly assess the injury. “Looks like his collarbone is broken,” he murmured. Porthos winced in sympathy – that was a painful fracture, as he knew from experience. d'Artagnan had his eyes closed, breathing heavily to withstand Aramis' poking and prodding, until the medic sat back on his haunches and said: “That seems to be the worst of it – his chest will bruise a bit but his ribs are whole. Let's get him to the infirmary so I can bind that injury.” He gently touched the young man's cheek. “d'Artagnan, I'm sorry to cause you further pain but we need to move you. Can you manage?”

The Gascon drew a deep breath and opened his eyes, meeting the marksman's gaze with his customary determination. “Don't worry,” he answered, “I'm fine.” His voice was rough with pain, clearly belying his words, but he did his best to push himself up with his right arm. Aramis quickly placed a hand on his chest to stay the movement. “Don't try moving yourself, we have you,” he told him with a small smile. “Porthos?”

Porthos nodded and moved to d'Artagnan's other side, taking his right arm and pulling it over his shoulder to lift him off the ground as gently as he could. Nevertheless, the jostling had the Gascon turn grey, and he hung his head low, his breathing speeding up once more. Porthos stood still, holding onto his friend, until he had settled and nodded slightly to indicate he was ready. Aramis took his arm on the injured side, not pulling it over his shoulder but supporting it, with his other arm around d'Artagnan's narrow waist. Athos and Maçon were trailing behind as they slowly made their way towards the infirmary.

Inside, Porthos helped d'Artagnan settle on a cot and then worked with Athos to carefully strip the young man of his doublet and shirt without causing him too much pain while Aramis gathered what he needed to immobilise the injury as best as possible. That was one of the difficulties of a broken collar bone – in contrast to a broken arm or leg, it was hard to bind it so that the bones could not shift, requiring the arm on this side to be immobilised as well. d'Artagnan would be forced into inactivity for at least a few weeks, and he knew his friend would chafe at the setback in his training and his hopes to gain a commission.

Stepping back, Porthos frowned as he watched Aramis work. Something about the accident had him unsettled, and after a moment, he decided to follow his gut instinct, turning and leaving the infirmary. He noticed Athos giving him a quizzical look but he didn't react to the unspoken question.

Outside, he hastened back to the training area where normal activity had resumed. Looking around searchingly, he could not find what he was looking for and finally took the arm of a Musketeer standing around and waiting for his turn to spar. “Have you seen the blade d'Artagnan used, the one that Maçon broke just now?” he asked.

The man looked at him in surprise and shook his head. “No, I think someone must have cleared it away,” he replied.

Porthos cursed as he released him. Of course that was reasonable but somehow it made the suspicion spike that was growing in his gut like nausea. He turned away from the confused look of his fellow Musketeer and went to search for the blade.

It took him almost half an hour until he was successful, and a grim smile of satisfaction quirked his lips until it hit home what his discovery meant, even before he had checked the sword which was not d'Artagnan's normal weapon but a training blade. Someone had removed it, and they had not placed it with the other damaged weapons awaiting repair, nor onto the pile of scraps to be thrown away. Rather, it had been hidden behind a barrel near the stables. Someone had made an effort to conceal it but hadn't had the time to remove it completely, which was his luck. But this action meant he did not actually have to check the sword to know something was not right.

Nevertheless, he let his gaze and fingers carefully wander over the blade, and looking at where it had broken near the hilt, he quickly found what he was looking for. Part of the broken edge was not jagged like the rest of it but rather straight and smooth. Porthos let forth a stream of curses and was halfway back to the infirmary before he was even aware that he was moving.

Athos and Aramis looked up when he burst into the room. d'Artagnan was resting on the cot, his chest and shoulder swaddled in bandages, his arm strapped to his side, clearly under the influence of one of Aramis' pain draughts. Maçon was nowhere to be seen – Athos must have sent him away. Porthos strode over to Athos and placed the blade and its hilt in his hands. “Someone's tampered with the blade,” he growled. “It's been filed down to weaken it.” Turning around, he started to pace the length of the room, flexing his fists open and closed. “This time, they've gone too far. They'll pay for this!”

His two friends shared an alarmed look, and Aramis moved to intercept his steps, placing a hand on his arm. “Calm yourself, my friend,” he implored. “Please explain – what do you mean?”

Porthos stood, chest heaving as he struggled to gain control of the rage burning in him, and as he locked his gaze on d'Artagnan's still form, the weight of his knowledge came crashing down on him. “I shoulda done somethin' earlier,” he muttered, “I shoulda stopped it. I knew what was goin' on, and I didn't step in, and now it's come to this. I've failed him.” He hung his head low, unable to meet his friends' eyes. He had thought it was just little things, which certainly were annoying and bothersome to the young Gascon and would hurt once he learned the malicious thoughts behind it, but he hadn't thought they would actually move to hurt him so. And now d'Artagnan had paid the price for his misplaced trust in his fellow Musketeers, even though he knew what some of them were capable of if they disapproved of who joined their ranks. Maybe he had thought d'Artagnan was safe because he was targeted for another reason, lulled into a false sense of security by the pettiness of their actions so far … Whatever it was, it meant he had underestimated the danger and had placed his young friend at risk.

“Porthos,” he heard Aramis' voice, and his friend's hand gently grasped his chin to lift his head up, his eyes searching for his gaze to catch and hold it. “Talk to us. What's going on?”

He scrubbed his hand over his face before taking a deep breath and looking from Aramis to Athos. The older Musketeer still held the blade and hilt, and his eyes were piercing as he looked up from them and met Porthos' gaze. Unable to hold it, he looked away again, shame engulfing him once more. “You noticed that d'Artagnan had suffered a bit of bad luck lately?” he began to speak wearily. “Things goin' missing, gettin' soiled or breakin' ...” Quickly looking at his friends, he saw them nodding.

“It seemed strange to me, and a few days ago, I overheard some others talk about our friend. Nothin' special, just ...” he spread his hands in a helpless gesture, “just the tone they used, you know?” They probably didn't, something in him said with bitterness though he baulked at the disservice he was doing his brothers. “But I didn't know for sure if there was a connection, so I waited some more. Didn't catch any in the act but more little things happened to d'Artagnan, and I saw the ones I'd overheard talk to others, secretly-like. Was about to tell you but then ...” he gestured to d'Artagnan, “this happened. I didn't think they'd go that far! Didn't ...” For a moment he trailed off and looked elsewhere, bile rising in his throat. “Didn't wanna believe there's more of them like this,” he finished, his voice barely a whisper.

Silence reigned as he had ended, and he sat down heavily on an empty cot, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees and bury his hands in his curls.

“Oh, Porthos,” Aramis breathed quietly, and Porthos felt a hand settle on his back. Another hand joined it on his shoulder, and he managed to raise his head to meet Athos' clear, cool gaze.

“Don't blame yourself, brother,” the older man said. “The only ones to blame are those willing to hurt someone else just because they believe them beneath them.”

At his side, Aramis nodded, his expression warm and full of absolution. “I'm sure d'Artagnan would tell you the same if he were awake,” he told him. “You did your best to watch out for him, and it is not your fault that they moved too fast for you to prevent this.”

Porthos bit his lip, wanting to believe in his friends' reassurances but unsure if he really deserved them, feeling stripped bare after some of the things he had revealed. Finally, he nodded and leaned back a bit, looking up at them. He would try to put these feelings aside for the moment, though he certainly felt the need to search for d'Artagnan's forgiveness, too, once the young man had recovered to some extent. “Alright,” he said, “alright. What do we do now?”

Athos went over to the broken sword he had set aside to come to Porthos' side, picking it up and studying the edge with narrowed eyes. “Who are the men you're suspecting?” he asked, running a thumb over the metal. “Maçon?”

Porthos shook his head with fervour. “No, I don't think he was involved. He's a good lad, it was just bad luck that he was the one responsible for the blade breakin'. You've seen how much he regretted hurtin' d'Artagnan.”

Athos nodded curtly. “Who, then?”

“Gros and Larue,” Porthos answered, “and I saw them speakin' to Royer, Travert and Borde.”

Athos bit back a curse. “Royer gave d'Artagnan this blade,” he said. “There was a problem with d'Artagnan's sword, the hilt had loosened a bit. I told him to get one of the training blades until it had been fixed.” A shadow passed over his face, and Aramis, always quick on the uptake, pointed a finger at him in reproach. “Don't you get started,” he admonished. “Heed your own words, Athos.”

Despite everything, Porthos had to suppress a snort of laughter at that, and Aramis flashed him a grin speaking of his relief to see his friend come out of the fog of guilt and anger somewhat. “So, Royer,” the marksman said. “It's not presumptuous to assume he's been involved in this, at least. Should we go confront him? Or go to Tréville?”

Athos put the two pieces of the sword aside, scratching his beard thoughtfully. “I hesitate to go to Tréville yet but he will need to be informed soon,” he mused. “They were willing to get d'Artagnan seriously hurt with this.”

“He did get seriously hurt!” Porthos exploded, gesturing towards their young friend. “How much more should he have to suffer from these men?”

Athos held up a placating hand. “Peace, my friend. I apologise if my words made it sound as if I'm downplaying what happened. But I want to have as much details and evidence as possible before going to the Captain. Royer is a given, I'd say, but I want all of those responsible to get their just desserts, not just him.” He held Porthos' gaze, the blue eyes unwavering in their certainty. “I swear to you, we won't let further harm come to him, none of us.”

Aramis nodded, giving Porthos' shoulder a comforting squeeze. “Let's not disturb our friend's sleep for now and move to another room to talk about how best to find out more?” he suggested.

***

Later that day, Porthos was found at d'Artagnan's bedside, Athos and Aramis having returned to their duties after they had talked. Normally, Aramis was loathe to leave their side when one of his friends was injured, but while the Gascon's injury was a painful one, there was little to do besides what he had done and no risk of his conditioning worsening; so the marksman had seen that Porthos' need was greater than his own right now, the large man still not able to shake his guilt at not having prevented the incident. Both his friends had repeatedly tried to dissuade him from the notion but had finally given up, understanding that it would most likely need d'Artagnan's absolution and bringing down those responsible for it before he could let go.

Porthos was thumbing idly through a book some former inhabitant of one of the cots must have left behind. He was not an avid reader like Athos or Aramis but right now it provided some welcome distraction from his thoughts which kept circling around the events of the day, his emotions swinging between remorse, fury and despondency, while he waited for their youngest to wake from the sleep induced by the pain draught. He was glad to see that d'Artagnan's colour had returned and he was breathing easily, the pain held at bay by the draught and the stillness of sleep, and for that reason he wished the young man would stay asleep for some time longer – and a part also wanted to delay the inevitable talk they would need to have, while another part could not wait for it so he could beg for d'Artagnan's forgiveness and hopefully alleviate his guilty conscience.

Some little movement caught his eye, and he put the book aside, leaning forward to watch as the Gascon slowly woke, eyelids fluttering a moment before he opened them lazily, his gaze searching until it fell on him. “Porthos,” he murmured, bringing up his hand to rub the sleep from his eyes. A look of confusion passed over his face at the discovery that his left arm was restricted, and Porthos quickly placed a hand on the one bound to his body, holding it in place. “Easy, d'Artagnan,” he said, “Aramis strapped your arm so the bones won't shift when you move it.” Knowing fully well how the combination of pain and Aramis' medicine could addle the mind, he asked: “Do you remember what happened?”

The young man closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply, then nodded. “My sword broke, and Maçon's blow broke something in my shoulder – my collarbone?”

Porthos smiled, glad to know his friend's mind was clear. “Good,” he praised. Seeing d'Artagnan swallow and lick at his dry lips, he helped him sit up and scoot back to rest against the wall behind the cot, then reached for a cup of water Aramis had left next to the cot. He held the cup to his lips for him to drink, ignoring the glare he got for his troubles. “How's the pain?”

“I'm fine,” the Gascon replied. At Porthos' unimpressed snort, he relented and amended: “It hurts but it's not too bad. I can handle it.”

“Alright.” The dark-skinned man nodded. “Do tell when you need some relief. Remember, you'll heal faster when your body doesn't have to waste energy on battlin' the pain.” It was a lesson they had had to drill into the young man repeatedly – though Porthos had to admit it might have been slightly easier if the Inseparables themselves were better at emulating their own advice, none of them particularly good at accepting their bodies' limits after an injury and loathe to be fussed over.

“Aramis and Athos?” d'Artagnan asked.

“Had to go back to their duties – they'll be by later,” Porthos replied.

d'Artagnan nodded, letting his head fall back against the wall and closing his eyes. For a while, they sat in silence until Porthos could no longer bear it. “I'm so sorry, d'Artagnan,” he blurted out.

d'Artagnan startled and opened his eyes, looking at his friend with confusion written all over his face. “What for?” he asked.

“For this.” Porthos gestured to his bandaged shoulder.

If anything, d'Artagnan's frown deepened, confused not only by Porthos' words but also the abject misery on the normally so affable man's face. “Why? You were not involved, you weren't even near me,” he questioned.

“Yes, but ...” Porthos scrubbed his hands over his face, searching for the right words. “I knew someone was targetin' you, and I failed to protect you.”

d'Artagnan already opened his mouth for a quick retort, most likely to protest that he didn't need protection, but reconsidered and instead asked: “Wait, what? Targeting me?” He studied his friend and at his nod, asked almost gently, reading the guilt that was positively radiating from him: “How about you tell me from the beginning?”

Porthos sighed softly but did as he was bid, explaining about his suspicions about d'Artagnan's “bad luck”, the covert discussions between the five Musketeers he had observed, and finally the tampered blade that had lead to the injury. “I shoulda told you and the others earlier,” he finished with another wave of sorrow, “or get them to leave you alone on my own. And if I hadn't been too late to practice today, I'd have seen Royer givin' you the blade, and--” It no longer held him in his seat, and he started pacing again, berating himself for his failure to do something to prevent harm coming his friend's way.

“Porthos,” d'Artagnan interrupted him, dark eyes wide with worry at his friend's distress, “it's not your fault, you couldn't have known--”

He shook his head violently, not letting him finish. “I shoulda known, I know what men like this are capable of, I shoulda--”

“Porthos, please!” d'Artagnan struggled to sit up straight with no arm to support himself since the unbound arm was stretched out towards the large man pleadingly. “Calm down!” His efforts to reach forward to his friend jostled his broken bone, and a pained gasp escaped him.

The sound of pain was Porthos' undoing, destroying the last of the tenuous hold he had on the emotions running wild in him, and the Musketeer backed away, nearly stumbling over a chair standing in his way. “d'Artagnan, I … I'm sorry, I can't--” With these words, he whirled around and stormed out of the room. He almost collided with Aramis who chose just this moment to open the door but barely spared a glance at him as he ran. The marksman looked to d'Artagnan, silently asking what happened, but the younger man just shook his head. “Go after him!” he implored and sank back against the wall in his back as Aramis obeyed and hurried from the room, cursing his inability to go after his friend himself.

It was several long minutes until Aramis returned. He shook his head sadly, and d'Artagnan's face fell. “He's gone?” he asked, nevertheless.

Aramis nodded. “Yes.” Despite his size, Porthos was a fast runner, and his knowledge of the city's streets stemming from his time as a thief growing up on them meant he was exceptionally skilled at giving pursuers the slip and not being found when he did not want to be. Aramis breathed a deep sigh and sat down in the chair so recently vacated by the dark-skinned Musketeer. “How are you?” he asked his young friend.

“Fine,” d'Artagnan answered automatically and ignored the displeased huff Aramis made at the predictability of the answer, his eyes still on the door. He was struggling to keep himself from attempting to go after Porthos himself, even though he logically knew that he had no better chance to find him than Aramis, especially not while hampered by his injury. “But Porthos ...” He trailed off and finally turned his gaze away, looking at the marksman instead. “I don't think I've ever seen him like this, and I've seen him shouldering the blame when there was none to bear before – all three of you.” Athos most struggled with the decisions to make on a mission, d'Artagnan, but also his two older friends, willingly deferring to his natural leadership skills; Aramis was always fretting about doing the right thing in caring for his brothers when one of them got injured; and Porthos always felt guilty when he was unable to protect one of them or on the rare occasions when he didn't know his own strength and caused them damage. But even considering his prior knowledge of d'Artagnan's harassment, his reaction seemed disproportionate this time.

Aramis inclined his head in assent. Truth be told, he had wondered all day at that, too. He thought he had an inkling of what might explain it but was unsure how much of it he could share with his young friend or if it was Porthos' story to tell. “As we have you,” he pointed out instead, referring to all those times d'Artagnan had felt it his fault when things had gone wrong, blaming himself for his inexperience and lack of proper training as a raw recruit.

The Gascon was not so easily distracted, though, and pressed on: “Do you know why?”

Aramis sighed but couldn't help the worry on the young man's face warming his heart, and he decided that his friend deserved to know – he hoped Porthos would forgive him for telling. “I may have an idea,” he admitted, “but I didn't know this particular wound was still paining him so much.” His hand went to the crucifix around his neck, and he fidgeted with it for a while, trying to sort through his thoughts. d'Artagnan, to his credit, let him take his time now that he felt some answers might be forthcoming.

Finally, Aramis began: “When Porthos joined the regiment, things were … difficult for him.” He snorted at his own understatement. “You may be able to guess why. It was not only his skin but also his childhood on the streets and his association with the Court of Miracles that had many of our comrades at the time looking at him askance.”

d'Artagnan nodded. “What did they do to him?” he asked, and Aramis could not repress a small smile at the protective tone of voice, as if the Gascon wished to travel back in time and prevent any harm coming to his friend.

He shrugged. “For the most part, many were satisfied with avoiding him and pointed looks. Then there were similar things to those you've experienced recently, I believe, and there were more than enough insults hurled at him during that time, too.” He threw a sharp glance at the recruit. “I take it they haven't taken that approach with you? Or is there anything we should be aware of?”

d'Artagnan shook his head. “Nothing but the occasional unkind remark,” he said easily, and the marksman nodded, halfway satisfied, while another part burned with anger and shame at his comrades with the knowledge that those harassing their young friend didn't even have the courage to make their feelings clear verbally, hiding behind their anonymity.

“Porthos took it all and didn't let it bring him down,” he continued, pride at his friend's mettle evident in his voice. “He has a thick skin and certainly wasn't a stranger to insults and harassment before, but I can't even begin to imagine what it took to withstand all of that in those first few months. Porthos and I became friends soon enough, having felt drawn to each other as soon as he joined and we met, and with time, many of those who were less hostile were won over by our friend's generous nature and his skills as a soldier – or some of them may just have tired of their games, I do not know.”

The young Gascon smiled at the praise and affection for his friend displayed by Aramis but the marksman's face grew serious again, and d'Artagnan looked at him with trepidation. “But?” he prompted.

Aramis cleared his throat and looked away, the memory clearly still hard on him, too. “When it became clear that he wasn't to be driven away, some of them conspired to get rid of him, more … permanently,” he said quietly. “They almost managed to do it, too – to get him killed.”

Brown eyes widened at those words, and d'Artagnan breathed a shocked “What?”, unable to imagine one of their brothers-in-arms turning against one of their own in such a way.

Aramis' voice was bitter as he continued: “They bid their time – we almost thought it was over since the earlier harassment had all but stopped. But when Porthos was sent on a solo mission – which was a more regular occurrence back then since we didn't have the numbers to send out pairs or groups unless strictly necessary –, they sabotaged his weapons and supplies. We never found out if the bandits that attacked him were part of the plan as the conspirators never admitted to sending them, though I do suspect it was so. Be it as it were, while he managed to kill the two men, their attack left him severely wounded and without supplies, hours from Paris. I'll forever be grateful that Tréville became worried when he didn't return when he was due and sent me to search for him, and that I was able to get to him in time. It still was a near thing, and for a few days it was unclear if he survived at all or if he were to lose his hand to the burns of his pistol exploding in it.”

d'Artagnan noticed he had been holding his breath during Aramis' tale, overcome with fear for his friend despite knowing that everything would turn out fine, since Porthos was hale and healthy and definitely still in the possession of two hands. Forcing himself to exhale and breathe in again slowly, he asked: “But you did find out who it had been?”

The marksman nodded. “Once Porthos was well enough to tell us what happened, the Captain was ruthless in flushing out those responsible. One of them was named as a possible suspect, having been seen near Porthos' horse before he departed, and he was quick to fold and name the others. They were all punished and stripped of their commission in disgrace, and Tréville told everyone that he would not accept anything like this ever again, and whoever did not want to serve at the side of those like Porthos due to their past, skin or anything else had better leave before he found out.” A faint smile tugged at his lips remembering the Captain's incensed words, though there was little actual humour in it. “I think seeing that this threat has been forgotten has opened up those wounds again for Porthos,” he added soberly. “Though I do not quite understand why he didn't come to us or the Captain earlier but--” He shrugged. “No use dwelling on that,” he finished. “All we can do now is bringing those men down, and make sure both you and Porthos can heal.”

d'Artagnan protested: “I'm fine, Aramis. It's Porthos I'm worried about.” As his older friend sighed, he rolled his eyes and amended: “Alright, my shoulder really hurts, and I'm not happy about being banned from training for weeks, probably – and I'm certainly not happy about some of those who might be my brothers-in-arms one day disliking me that much that they'd willingly do me harm. But I'll be good once we've dealt with them and my shoulder gets better, I'm sure. But Porthos ...”

Aramis reached out and took the Gascon's hand, squeezing it lightly. “It does you credit that you're so much more worried for your friend than for yourself,” he said, warmth and fondness colouring his words. “Knowing that and that he has your forgiveness for his perceived failure will be a huge balm on Porthos' soul. Still, do not deny yourself the comfort we're offering because you believe Porthos' need to be greater. I'm sure Athos and I will be able to give both of you our support without overtaxing ourselves.” The last bit was spoken sincerely but with a quirk of his lips and a twinkle in the marksman's dark eyes.

d'Artagnan returned the grin and the invitation to some banter gladly. “Are you sure? I believe it of you but Athos may strain some emotional muscle with that.”

The medic laughed and released his hand, getting up. “You might be right. Now, why don't I give you something for the pain – just something mild to take the edge of, I promise it won't make you sleep if you promise to rest later in turn – and then I go get Athos, and we can tell you about what we've been planning to do so far to make sure we get all of them?”

d'Artagnan bit his lip as if holding back another protest that he was fine but nodded his assent. Anticipating his next question, Aramis added: “You know as well as I that Porthos won't be found if he doesn't want to be. Let's give him some time to cool off. He'll be back by breakfast tomorrow, I'd wager.”

The Gascon looked unconvinced and worried but finally decided to accept his older friend's judgement, knowing how long the two of them had been friends. If anyone knew what to expect from the large Musketeer in this situation, it was Aramis.”Alright,” he agreed softly.

#the musketeers #small things story #small things #d'Artagnan #Aramis #Porthos #Athos

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neverwatchedonepiece · 6 years

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461: The Beginning of the War! Ace and Whitebeard's Past!

Yeah, I can see why Ace crumbled and joined him.

Really enjoyed the reveal of Ace’s past and how he achieved his infamy. And it turns out Ace was an infamous, powerful pirate in his own right before he joined Whitebeard. That, I was not expecting.

Loved that part at the start of 461 when Luffy was chatting to Ivankov and pulled a Hagrid. Ivankov was wondering if Dragon would show up to the execution because he was certain, absolutely certain that Dragon would not allow the WG to kill his own son.

Luffy, the oblivious rubber child, said within earshot of the entire breakout crew: “Wut? No, Dragon is MY dad. Ace’s dad is Gol D. Roger. He got the cool one, eh? Wait... I shouldn’t have said that. I really should not have said that.”

Oh, Luffy.

Whitebeard

Then, finally, after I don’t know how many episodes of waiting, the main event arrived.

@mrkashkiet asked if I had any predictions on Whitebeard’s powers. I said my first predictions were for a fruit power. Then, when I learned about Shanks and his lack of fruit, I figured maybe Whitebeard would be one of those guys who is so strong he doesn’t need a fruit. If Whitebeard did have a fruit, since he is a big, physically powerful guy, I guessed he would have earth or earthquake powers to compliment the muscles.

Argh, I was so close!

Whitebeard’s entrance was understated but even that showed his supreme confidence in his power. The other two ships popped up beside his, revealing he had brought all fourteen of his commanders with him. Then, in deathly silence, came the chink, chink, chink of someone slowly, deliberately ascending a flight of stairs (there’s those stairs again. Might start shipping Oda x Stairs).

Of course it was Whitebeard. I cheered.

I loved the casual threats he sent Sengoku’s way. “It’s been a while. You’d better be telling me that my adorable, fiery son is alright?” Sengoku was sweat dropping like he was out at Nandos with the lads and regretted slathering on all the Vusa sauce to show off.

Then Whitebeard turned to Ace and was like, “Yeah, just gimme a sec, son.”

I thought, such bravado from the whitest of beards. But it was not mere bravado.

Whitebeard built up power and (this was so badass I’m still not over it) punched the air so hard it cracked. I wasn’t sure what was going on at first. I figured it was lightning (but then that had already been done with Enel) but Sengoku kindly explained the technique. Whitebeard has eaten the Tremor Tremor Fruit (not sure I got that right). It causes sea quakes! Not earthquakes. Argh, I was so close.

Then the action cut to flashback.

I have never welcomed a flashback as much. Come to think of it, I always enjoy One Piece flashbacks. Up until now, they’ve always served a plot purpose or as a reminder to a viewer (like remember when Luffy beat this guy two hundred episodes ago?) This is in contrast to something like Naruto. If you’ve seen it, how many times did you see Naruto having that sad day on the swings? Exactly.

The flashbacks revealed that Ace has ticked off some awesome boxes, just like Luffy.

Ace’s Past

The flashback opened with a young, fresh-faced Ace, waving goodbye to little Luffy. Almost immediately, Ace was causing chaos. He founded the Spades Pirates (I see what you did there, Oda) and tore the place up to the point he got himself into the OP News.

Garp was mad. He wanted Ace to become an accountant.

Whitebeard also read the OP News. Sage old man that he is, he shook his head. These young whippersnappers are too hasty. Whitebeard revealed that Ace even refused a request to join the Shichibukai (now that’s really something. I wonder if Sengoku had his suspicions about who Ace was. Maybe Garp was behind the request, subtly prompting the Marines to enlist Ace because it would keep him safe?)

But that wasn’t all. Foolhardy young Ace went to visit Shanks.

He dragged his crew with him up Caradhras a snowy mountain. Spade Crew expressed doubts because this was The Shanks they were crashing in on, uninvited. But Ace was like, “It’ll be fine, stop bitching!”

Ace rocks up with his crew and Shanks was not in Saving Tiny Children Mode, but in Badass Mode. He wasn’t too keen on Ace impinging on his chill time until Ace said, “Nah, I’m not here to fight. I want to say thanks for saving my little bro.” It’s amazing what mentioning Luffy’s name does to Shanks. He thawed immediately and it was party time.

The reveal that Ace wanted to become Pirate King when he was younger was unexpected. I totally assumed that he had grown up hating Roger and everything he stood for, so that when Whitebeard came along as a substitute father, he latched on.

The reality was different. It took a long time for Ace to come around. Now that I think about it, I like that much better. Ace gave up his dream to be the Pirate King but it took a long time, a lot of convincing and it was his own decision, taken after a great deal of thought and only when trust, mutual respect and a real relationship was established. Good.

I love that Ace fought Jimbei for five days. No idea why Jimbei felt obligated to screen Whitebeard’s appointments like his secretary, but it was cool to get a feel for how tough Jimbei is as an opponent.

I felt sorry for Ace when after he collapsed, done with Jimbei, Whitebeard sailed up out of the mist and was like, “So I heard one of you was looking for a fight?”

Exhaused, Ace said, “Yes, that would be me. Run, crew!” But Whitebeard was just too strong. Luckily, Whitebeard had taken a liking to Ace (maybe he saw Roger in Ace and suspected?). He extended a massive hand and said, “I like you. You are cheeky. You are valuable. Become my fiery son.”

It was a hard pass from Ace, but he woke up on the Moby Dick. He was not happy. Ace tried (hilariously) to assassinate Whitebeard over a hundred times and got reckt.

He met Thatch, the 4th Division Commander who came a cropper courtesy of Blackbeard (rip, Thatch). Thatch was nice. He gave Ace some good advice: “You can either get off this ship and start again, or stay and wear Whitebeard’s mark.”

Ace stayed. He made such a name for himself that the Whitebeards started talking about making him 2nd Division Commander. Ace was like, “Who, me? But there are people there who’ve been around longer.”

One of those people was Blackbeard!

That was another interesting thing to learn, that Teach was one of the original Whitebeard crew members. It makes his betrayal all the more disturbing. Ace was sitting casually, with him, worrying if BB would be offended if he went for 2nd Division commander. Blackbeard said: “Don’t worry...

Technically true, but also a such a huge, bare-faced omission of truth it’s equivalent to a lie. Sneaky, evil Teach.

The moment Whitebeard finally won over Ace fully was when Ace knocked at his door one night and told him about his heritage. Instead of being angry that his old rival’s son had infiltrated his crew, Whitebeard was cool about it. “That doesn’t matter. We’re all family.” Whitebeard didn’t care that Ace was Roger’s son. He cared that Ace was his son. Excuse me while I dab my eyes with a nearby handkerchief.

Then Thatch found the Yami Yami no Mi and it all went to shit, complete with black and white “is that a dagger I see before me” flashback with Teach looking demonic and pleased.

Ace was distraught when he found out. He took Teach’s betrayal personally. As Teach’s commander, Teach was his responsibility. Worst of all, Teach had disgraced Whitebeard, Ace’s father’s, name. Whitebeard tried to stop him, said, “This is an exception. I have a bad feeling about this,” probably knowing what fruit Teach had stolen. But Ace was too wrapped up in grief and anger to listen.

Ace knows that now. He admitted to causing the omnishambles that is about to kick off. He should have listened. Why did they come?

But Whitebeard said he told Ace to go? Wtf? I don’t get that yet, but I hope he will explain himself in 462.

Good episode, though. 10/10 would watch again.

During a late night father-son chat, Whitebeard reveals the secret of how he sculpts his facial hair.

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safdsdg · 3 years

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getseriouser · 5 years

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20 THOUGHTS: Bugger

FAR too many assumed we’d be having the biggest grand final in over 30 years this time last week

Half-time Friday night we all thought we’d got it wrong but alas regular programming prevailed and they then expected Saturday to be the breezier of the two prelims .

Yeah nah.

Now we have third playing sixth in a Grand Final no-one saw pre-season, mid-season, to start the finals or even last week when it was a one in four chance.

Expect the unexpected they say. And they are usually right on that.

1. Tigers just win, by five goals plus. As soon as that siren went Saturday, and thousands of male Collingwood supporters suddenly sprouted innies, thousands of Richmond fans grew really firmly in the trouser knowing it was only the expansion kids ahead of them next week now. Giants have won two games by under a kick in the dying minutes, once lucky, twice you’re kidding yourself, three times though, yeah nah.

2. Actually, lets knock out some Brownlow before getting back to the on field. Interesting year, probably the greatest field of live chances going in for some time. So much analysis available these days that someone out there will get it right but about a dozen others, whilst looking super schmick with their spreadsheets and formulas, will be way off. This column has no idea although liked Fyfe for a while. Gets 2 or 3 votes in each Dockers win. Nice platform.

3. Otherwise, three randoms to watch – Boak, Yeo and Treloar, could easily podium. And a real smokey from the clouds? James Worpel. One for the exotics.

4. Back to on field, let’s go back to Friday. Cats missed a Scott Selwood type in the midfield. Getting ahead was one thing, and they did that well to their credit. But when it got tough in the second half, when the Tigs were coming, they lacked grunt and determination like the Giants showed in the final term Saturday, to get the job done. And to be honest its plagued them since the bye too. Can look flashy, can score, but when it needs to get ugly for 15-20 mins, think back to the first half of the first final too, no dice. Kinda like when its past 2am on a Bucks night, usually phantom, usually pass out, usually Ryan Babel.

5. Alrighty, Saturday. Yikes. Wet weather clearly didn’t favour the Pies. No excuse but it mattered. Why? Well would you like to know who trained in a down pour midweek? The Giants, in their main session. Probably the best training session in that football history given the conditions that eventuated.

6. So – and thanks to Rohan Connolly for this, who I’m shamelessly stealing from – between 2008 and 2015 only one Qualifying Final winner of 18 lost a prelim final. The last four years where we’ve had a pre-Finals bye, it’s a 4-4 record. Look at the Pies, didn’t turn up until three quarter time, the Tigers at least turned up after half time. Plus last year, the Pies had no right in their matchup with the Tiges and jumped them something shocking in that first half. Might be something to it. Might not be wrong, but there’s something to it.

7. If you look at the Pies, Tigers and Giants, on balance this all looks about right. Richmond since 2017 probably deserve at least one flag and a go this weekend at a second. The Giants these last four years probably deserve a Grand Final appearance for their body of work. And Collingwood these last 18 months, a toss of the coin Grand Final result probably sits about right for them too.

8. Difference between Richmond and Collingwood? One covered their injuries a lot better and was better set up for the pointy end as a result. Injuries aren’t the reason the Pies lost Saturday or that they would have been underdogs to Richmond had they won, but it’s the reason Richmond has a better list and is likely to win a second flag in three. Case in point – Richmond’s reserves win the Grand Final a week before their Seniors probably win as well, the Collingwood reserves didn’t even make the VFL Finals.

9. Bucks getting questioned a bit in the media, ‘oh, that’s 22 years now without a flag, ho hum indeed’. Relax. On that basis we should give Bob Skilton a call, interrupt his midday movie to let him know despite his three Brownlows and everything else he means to South, his Hall of Fame Legend status is getting revoked coz he never won a flag. And that his spot will be taken by Tom Barrass instead, because he has actually won one. That Buckley hasn’t got a flag isn’t news, it might be factual but its not a story. The idea that obviously would clearly yearn for one is also factual, but not a story. Please be serious.

10. Matt De Boer was excellent on Saturday but then again the Collingwood mids weren’t requiring a tag to be kept quiet. Does he got to Dusty and try and ruffle him again like he successfully achieved last time in Sydney? Won’t matter, Martin goes forward and kicks four on him in that case. Whether Martin gets shut down in the midfield by De Boer or not won’t prevent a Tigers’ flag anyway, lets not bother about that discussion all week.

11. Norm Smith tip – no Tiger is in better nick than Shane Edwards, otherwise Bachar Houli for a little value with you preferred corporate bookmaker. But Titch onball will be as dangerous for Leon Cameron as nailing your Tinder date in Bali. You better put a clamp on that otherwise you’re in big trouble.

12. Marlion Pickett was BOG in the VFL GF yesterday. We know that the Tigs have held over Jack Ross and Kamdyn McIntosh in lieu of the incredibly-stiff Jack Graham being doubtful to get up for Saturday. But back on May 28th we said this lad, who was playing for South Fremantle four months ago “would be best 22 by year’s end”. We’ve left it late but whilst McIntosh might be the safer play, Dimma will go very close to debuting the Western-Australian in the hope his mercurial style might just be perfect for an occasion like Saturday. If he’s picked, remember where you heard it first. Or read it first, even.

13. Presume Kevin Sheedy is on standby to present the cup to Phil Davis and Leon Cameron should the Giants salute, the link to Richmond notwithstanding. The GWS best and fairest is the Kevin Sheedy medal, and unless you’re looking to Chad Cornes or Izzy Folau it has to be Sheeds. On the Tigers side, I think about Dale Weightman, otherwise Matty Knights or even Chris Newman if you want to go more recent.

14. So yes, Richmond has been the pick for a while and it remains the pick. They are beatable though. Last four games their opponents all had strong chances they didn’t take. Eagles down here, in the wet, stuffed it and lost by a kick. Brisbane the week after got spooked but did a lot right but too late. First final, Brissy again, they kick straight they’re in it up to their eyeballs and then Geelong was leading by 21 points at half time, kick straighter its over five goals and the Tigs are staring down a repeat of last year. They’re not invincible, but it was only ever going to be a hot Essendon or hot Collingwood who stood a chance this finals series. Yet the Bombers lasted as long in September as Saturday Night Rove and then the Pies made a mess of it like The Veronicas on a Qantas flight.

15. This column gets it right far more often than most and has banged on about the Clarkson-assistants theory for some time. This week’s Grand Final coaches, both ex-Hawthorn assistants. It will mean that after this weekend the last seven premierships will have been coached by Al Clarkson or one of his ex-assistants. Incredible. By this column, that is.

16. More people in Sydney watched the Giants on free to air Saturday afternoon than people in Melbourne watched the Storm on free to air that night. What do we make of that?

I love Victorian footy as much as the next Ted Whitten. This column still lapses occasionally and refers to Fitzroy instead of Brisbane, and it’s only been 20+ years. And whilst this column’s position on the Gold Coast experiment is well documented, the idea of a team in Western Sydney has always made sense to me. The population out there alone is more than Perth, Adelaide and Geelong combined.

So to see GWS successful, largely on their own merit now (Gold Coast with the same concessions stuffed it, and you didn’t see Toby Greene playing on Saturday did we), is a good thing for the comp. Leave Gold Coast and Tassie aside, mind you.

17. Speaking of Victorian footy, can we just kick the AFL reserves team out of the VFL into a legit reserves comp, and let Williamstown and Port Melbourne and Werribee actualy duke it out for a proper VFL title? Williamstown are long-storied VFA club who were looking for their 15th flag in 155 years of history. They lost to a team who sat out two of their players because they might be needed this coming weekend in a different comp. Don’t like it. Split the AFL reserves from the VFL. And the SANFL…

18. Great to see Glenelg, another historic club in this country, win its first flag in 33 years. And yes they were playing Port Adelaide, their biggest rival, but half the opposition Sunday were Port Adelaide’s reserves, not SANFL players, so it’s a similar story. Great for the Bays to get up, but let the SANFL Magpies be just that, and then Port and the Crows can have separate reserves teams playing reserves footy.

19. Speaking of Williamstown, feel for Willie Wheeler. Just a knockabout VFL footballer who had the win on his boot twice in the last term, so to lose by under a kick is devastating.

20. Still not bothered by trade chatter. It’s all glorified brainstorming and suggestion permeating from the Herald Sun lunch room. When something remotely close to an actual story emerges I’ll get interested. Until then I’ll pass on Ralphy and Sammy and Jay-Z getting far too eggplant about what boils down to guesswork or stuff they dreamt about the night before when their partner slept at her friend’s house once again.

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hookysblog · 7 years

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South America

TEATRO RIVAL, RIO DE JANIERO 1/12/16

A long trip via Atlanta gets us into Rio the day of the gig, so it is going to be tough, especially for the lads.

Strange being here the same time as New Odour. I notice in interviews that Gillian says she misses me?…..Aah bless! And Steve cracked on he didn’t even know we were here with The Light at the same time…humh? I find both those statements impossible to believe for many, many reasons.

The Brazilian Press have turned it into a bit of an Us vs Them, which could turn out to be quite interesting. In Chile we are actually playing at the same theatre three days apart….Weird!

Weirder still, we split up after The South American Tour in 2006. Ten years ago nearly to the day (and have been at each other’s throats ever since;) God that takes some stamina that doesn’t it? I cannot believe it myself, very New Order.

Anyway we are staying in Copacabana right on the beach and it is glorious. We have played this club before and it is a bit rough and ready but has a great atmosphere. As I arrive I remember one other thing….It is bloody hot! Poor Old Leadfoot is worn out. The gig goes great (Sold Out again!) and the audience are wonderful, I sign a million things and do a thousand photos, before crawling back to bed;)

BAR OPINIAO, PORTE ALLEGRE 3/12/16

A much-needed night off, here on the 2nd recharges our batteries. The Hotel surprise me with a lovely welcoming gift. How sweet, tasted lovely too.

This is getting tough for me….Must be my age? It really does get harder every year;( Still I manage the gym again, which is nice and makes me feel a lot better. The gig looms large and this is a big place (Sold Out;) and strangely me and Pottsy have a row??? Not over much, fold-back actually;(…It is years since we’ve had one and thankfully it is over quickly. I think we are all frazzled to be honest! It makes you very cranky these late nights and early mornings, and being an old bloke, that’s the worst one. God knows how I handled it when I was drinking etc., Well, I just answered that question really;) I had actually forgotten what it was like to be mad at some one on tour! Me and Jack bang heads a few times but it’s never over anything disastrous. I come up with a new motto ‘Don’t moan….Phone!’ which everyone loves throwing back in my face as soon as I start moaning…..typical.

Ends up being a great gig, crackling with energy. The audience goes nuts for both sets and we struggle to get out with the amount of people clustered round the van. ‘Is this what it was like for The Beatles?’ asks Pottsy.

I think it was worse for them mate, a little.

CINE JOIA, SAO PAOLO 6/12/16

Short flight brings us to Sao, and we have two nights off. Brilliant!

Early on the first night we get a great curry from this really dodgy looking place in the middle of Sao Paolo (Google we love you x). On the way home it starts to rain and one of the gutters bursts, but not with water, with cockroaches!!! An army of them pour out and scare Phil to death (he’d be no good in I’m a celebrity get me out of here). I regale the boys with tales of my cockroach days in Ordsall in Salford. They are suitably impressed/disgusted. We all get sunburnt rotten the next day and finish off with a typical Brazilian Barbecue meal.

Amazing to think how in the old days we would go to loads of these and not eat at all! The Promoters, who always took you, must have thought we were mad. But those days are thankfully gone. Nice early night for me, I was feeling a bit weird to be honest. I think I’m getting a cold again. Leadfoot’s got one and hard as I try to stay away from him, it is impossible with his magnetic personality. The gig day dawns and I still feel rough but steel myself and go to the gym, which works….I feel much better….Hooray! Before I know it my old mate Heitor picks me up and after a Japanese meal in Japantown, Sao Paolo. (Turns out Sao Paolo, has the largest Japanese population of any city in the world after Tokyo, go figure?) My other old friend and our Promoter Giuli, drives us to the gig. Now this gig’s stage is the highest I have ever seen, even higher than The Glasgow Appollo. So the audience are way below. A great very young crowd goes mad from start to finish. We play great. It is hotter than hell…again. One wonderful moment when this old geezer climbs up on the stage and goes to crowd surf off during Warsaw, but the crowd just part and won’t support him and he has to jump down going flying arse over tit, bet he’s aching today;)

We play Atmosphere for the Brazilian team lost in the air crash. I watched the funeral in Port Allegre, and it reminded me of Princess Diana’s funeral in England. It was very moving and the footballers were so young. It seems to have affected all the Brazilian people very much. As I sing I see many people in the audience crying one girl in particular makes me choke up too and I have to really pull myself together to get the words out. I think it was because Heitor my friend, a doctor, was a volunteer in Columbia to bring the players back home to Brazil. He was telling me all about the scene and what had happened, a shocking waste of life because of one man’s greed.

A real tragedy.

We give them mercy with Love W. T. U. A. and the ‘Sold Out’ house goes bonkers! Wonder how we’ll fare in the comparison stakes eh world? We shall have to wait and see won't we……Off to Chile very early tomorrow.

TEATRO CAUPOLICAN, SANTIAGO, CHILE.

God we are knackered. Bed at 2.30a.m. and up at 5.45a.m. for our trip. I am in shock. It’s still dark, but every one is very happy after such a great gig last night. At the airport it takes over two hours to check the equipment in and get to Departures, then a 4hr 45min flight, then 1 hour in immigration and an hour and a half in Baggage to get the equipment out. It seems it has been stored until tomorrow for some reason? We get to our bus, and I must admit it has seen better years, probably around 1960 I reckon. Our greeters seem a bit sheepish and very quiet, almost avoiding eye contact and certainly no conversation. By the time we arrive at the Hotel there is no time to rest and the lads go straight to the sound-check. I crash out (you are allowed if your over 60) and I am just nodding off when all the phone start, almost all at once. At first I thought it was someone pissing around. Then I realise not only are the lads phoning me but also my manager. I finally get the very bad news that the Promoter has not sorted out the advertising for the gig. He had billed it as ‘New Order’ in a cheap attempt, I presume, to get sales off ‘The Others’. He had been warned about their removal and facing legal action, so I had no option but to pull the gig.

I am devastated. This gig in particular was the one I was looking forward to;(

Three days after them? same venue? it was the perfect opportunity to show our worth. We had been checking with this Promoter a lot, to make sure the show could go ahead, I am not daft. This was a problem, even though our gig was booked 4 months before they announced theirs ….Boo… Hiss(hey it is pantomime season;). Right up until the last minute the Promoter had assured us there would be no problems. He is an idiot.

After doing so well in Brazil to be treated like this here was terrible. We have played here twice before…. both sold-out, why this promoter acted like this I do not know.

I can only apologise to all our fans and ‘The Others’ and say when we come back again it will not be with him.

A welcome early night gets us ready for more obscene travelling.

NICETO CLUB, BUENOS ARIES.

Up at 6.30a.m for our flight to the beautiful place that is Buenos Aries, the Paris of the south. A gorgeous city…… but we are tired, very tired. Thankfully gig wise we are back to normal, with another ‘Sell Out’ and what a gig it is! An absolutely bonkers reception for both sets! I am amazed! It is so welcome after the shenanigins of yesterday.

B.A. I LOVE YOU! All thoughts of that awful night over 10 years ago are forgotten and forgiven…..You made an old man very, very happy. It is times like this that make all the effort worthwhile. Crawl to bed.

Almost human 10a.m start to …..

MUSIC BOX, MONTEVIDEO.

Our last gig, on this tour.

Jack tells me we have done 49 since Glasgow….WOW! What an achievement. My wife, dog and daughters have forgotten me but it was almost worth it….ha ha! Weird hotel this one, great pool and gym, and a strange 60’s style casino, all of which I have to ignore because of my cold, now in full bloom. The gig is nice and there is always a weird feeling at the end, no matter where you are or ‘who’ you are with. Tonight is no different. The gig goes great and we give Andy Poole, our ex-keyboard player a great send off. He is leaving us for pastures new, sadly.

Adios mon ami! Love Hooky ‘16

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getyourgossip0-blog · 6 years

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David Hopkin: Livingston manager to speak to board after winning promotion

New Post has been published on http://getyourgossip.xyz/david-hopkin-livingston-manager-to-speak-to-board-after-winning-promotion/

David Hopkin: Livingston manager to speak to board after winning promotion

David Hopkin has led Livingston to successive promotions

Livingston manager David Hopkin intends to speak to the club’s board about his future early this week after leading them back to Scotland’s top flight.

Livi completed a 3-1 aggregate win over Partick Thistle in the Premiership play-off final to return to the top flight, having last been there in 2006.

Manager Hopkin, who took over in 2015 and won last year’s League One title, is out of contract this summer.

“I’m going into speak to the board tomorrow,” said Hopkin.

“We’ll sit down Monday, Tuesday and I’ll have a chat with the board,” added the 47-year-old.

“It’s a magnificent achievement – two promotions in two years is fantastic. You can see today, I think the club deserves it.

“We’ve worked hard to try to get the fans back. It’s fantastic. Hopefully, next year they’ll all turn up and that’ll be us. I’m delighted for everybody connected with the club, delighted for my family. We’ll have a right good night tonight and football’s out my mind until next week.”

Livingston are heading back to the top flight after a 12-year absence

Former Scotland midfielder Hopkin took charge of Livi in December 2015, but could not prevent them being relegated to League One that season.

But they bounced straight back to the Championship a year ago, and finished runners-up to champions St Mirren this term, before overcoming Dundee United then Thistle in two-leg play-offs.

“It’s everything,” Hopkin said. “I didn’t expect it to happen and this is the hardest way to go up.

“We do things the hard way here, but I’ve got to give great credit to the players. They were magnificent for me.”

Keaghan Jacobs scored in both legs of the Premiership play-off final and is contracted until the end of next season, as is veteran forward Lee Miller.

However, defensive stalwart and captain Craig Halkett, and goalkeeper Neil Alexander, who saved a late Conor Sammon penalty in Sunday’s 1-0 win at Firhill, are among those out of contract in the coming weeks.

“I certainly hope I’ll be there [in the Premiership next season],” said 40-year-old Alexander, who won three Scotland caps earlier in his career and represented Rangers in the 2008 Uefa Cup final.

Neil Alexander has also featured for Hearts in the Premiership

“The club have made it clear they want me to stay. We have not sat down and negotiated anything yet, but now it is all done, hopefully we will get something sorted.

“Today went to plan. We knew we would be under the cosh for a while, and that is how it proved. But we defended really well, as we have done all season. The boys have been magnificent.

“I managed to make a few saves to keep the pressure off, and it was great to save the penalty and keep a clean sheet.

“There is an unbelievable spirit we have in this team, and I am delighted for the lads.”

Jacobs, now in his second spell with the West Lothian side, added: “I am just glad I could help the team. The boys have been magnificent. That epitomizes the season we have had. It has been unreal.

“This means everything. To be going into the top league, especially with this bunch of boys, it is a magnificent feeling.”

The rise, fall and rise again of Livingston 1995: Meadowbank Thistle relocated to Livingston and renamed after town 2001: Promoted to Scottish Premier League for first time 2002: Finish third in top flight, behind Celtic & Rangers, qualify for Uefa Cup 2004: Win Scottish League Cup 2006: Relegated from top flight 2009: Almost liquidated; demoted to old Scottish Third Division (now League Two) 2010: Win Third Division title 2011: Win Second Division title 2015: Avoid relegation from Championship in play-offs 2016: Relegated to League One (third tier) 2017: Win League One title 2018: Finish second in Championship; beat Partick Thistle in play-off final

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topfygad · 4 years

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Travelmag – Surfing Covid on a final tour as Australasia shut down

At the tail conclusion of February a mate and I set off for a 33 working day vacation to Australia, a journey we experienced planned for roughly six months. Great, improved, ideal butted heads with terrible, terrible, and are you kidding as the Coronavirus roared its unsightly head. Nevertheless, we survived. And we learned precious classes all through this month lengthy tutorial, kinds we will don’t forget whether or not we are at household or overseas.

Our Virgin Australia flight Los Angeles to Sydney went without a hitch. In less than fifteen hours, we landed in Sydney and shuttled to our lodge, Castlereagh, in the downtown space. Its area was fantastic for walking to the internet sites of central downtown, Hyde Park, and Circular Quay. The city was alive and vivid, with only a hint of the Coronavirus running havoc in other world wide places when we tuned in to the evening global information. We joined exuberant fellow travellers for going for walks excursions, museum outings, a harbor cruise, bus outing to Bondi Seashore, ferry trip to Manley Beach, a meals tour in the Surry Hills District, Blue Mountain Adventures with Anderson Excursions, a Ben Folds live performance at City Hall, botanical back garden stroll, crafts market place procuring, and, oh indeed, the emphasize for me: viewing “Carmen” at the Sydney Opera Property. We identified Sydney a delight. If just about anything fell into the class of “bad,” it would be that we grew to become a bit like Mary Poppins on two of our days there with on and off rain and umbrellas that wished to acquire to the sky. In addition to that inconvenience, all was a delight.

As scheduled, we flew Sydney to Cairns and shuttled the moment more, this time to Port Douglas for touring the Good Barrier Reef. On the lookout at the weather conditions forecast for the four days we had been to be there, we anticipated rainy weather conditions. A great deal to our fantastic fortune, the weather conditions was wonderful. We joined Calypso Tours (calypsoreefcruises.com) for snorkeling the reef and touring the rainforest space of Daintree. Colors popped alive as we snorkeled from their upscale catamaran. Vivid blues mingled with yellows and reds of each and every shade. We stopped at a few spots to explore the outer Fantastic Barrier Reef. Just one of the crew associates recognized towards the end of our 2nd prevent that I was tiring a bit. He available to give me a noodle to position close to my waistline as he towed me in and out of the reef areas for our 3rd dive. Absolutely, it rated among the my “best ever experiences.” The upcoming working day we went to Daintree Rainforest, the oldest acknowledged rainforest in the planet, relationship back again 180 million yrs. Range is an understatement to describe Daintree with its shorelines, gorges, rivers, waterfalls, mangroves, vegetation, pools, and mountains. Two cassowaries joined us on a path by the public lavatory space. These large flightless birds look relatively like emus but have violent reputations of their assaults with their 4 inches very long claws. This ancient rainforest arrives alive with these living dinosaur-like creatures. Although in Daintree, we took a boat experience to spot crocodiles in the wild. With no this kind of luck, we decided to expend a day at Hartley’s Crocodile Adventures, a park half way between Cairns and Port Douglas (https://ift.tt/2S4f95a). Definitely, this park did not disappoint. We were being able to feed crocodiles, snap photos of their antics, and comprehensively appreciate their savagery. Throughout our remain in this spot, a couple fellow vacationers and guides mentioned the Coronavirus, typically in a half mocking way that it was probably being unduly hyped by the push. We shrugged off these opinions, not wondering significantly about them in the surreal surroundings of The Wonderful Barrier Reef.

Following our itinerary referred to as for us to fly to Melbourne. Just about every possible kind of cafe surrounded our hotel, Brady Resort, just a block absent from the occupied conference place of the Condition Library. Greek, Italian, and Turkish choices joined walls to kitchens of Korean, Chinese, Vietnamese, and Japanese. One could assert to have relished a excursion all over the planet merely by indulging in the extremely reasonably priced gourmand concoctions in downtown Melbourne. Very similar to our continue to be in Sydney, we relished a foodstuff tour, a strolling tour, road art tour, a ghost jail tour, river cruise, tram journey to St. Kilda Beach front, and a live performance by Melbourne Symphony Orchestra. A emphasize was our working day journey to Healesville Sanctuary (https://ift.tt/2gWGenP). Achieving this wonderful safety area for endangered animals (a lot of influenced by the brush fires) was a snap applying Zoobus (zoobus.com.au). The hour’s drive weaves out of the town by the suburb of Fitzroy and earlier luscious vineyards and palatial households. Veterinarians devote them selves to the wellbeing of the animals, several stranded or rescued from the new fires. Caregivers passionately secure their rates. A experience of serenity welcomes all who visit. I fell in appreciate with the mom, Mani, and her baby, Chimpu (Good Fellow’s Tree Kangaroos). They are an really endangered species from New Guinea, brought to Healesville as component of a breeding software. Chimpu would poke out his head at any time so generally from mom’s pouch, only to be shoved again in by mom immediately after a brief see by the collected website visitors. Their coloration is heat reddish-brown, and their fur seems to be incredibly thick and luscious. It was a superior way to stop our remain in Melbourne, offering us a feeling that with the help of a person an additional, most typically existence will endure.

Things transformed very speedily. On the night time just before we were being scheduled to fly to Tasmania for 8 days, the governing administration cancelled Melbourne’s Grand Prix. This see arrived at 2 am in the early morning. The race was to begin close to 8 am the adhering to day. All at as soon as, crowds were not to assemble. All at when, dining establishments shut. All at when, we read that tours would not operate. Coronavirus was not a press hyped event. It was to be taken seriously. But, we have been soon off to Tasmania, an island off the southern coast of Australia, a somewhat isolated put that appeared to be immune from worldly cares or hazards. We flew without any issue from Melbourne to Tasmania and shuttled to our b & b in Hobart, The Edinburgh Gallery, for an right away continue to be. The inn was loaded to capacity, and no a single spoke of COVID-19. We walked the trail to Cascade Brewery, halting for a tour and a two-man or woman participate in that depicted the plight of ladies inmates at the Cascades Feminine Manufacturing facility. And early the subsequent early morning we were off with Exciting Tassie Tours. We joined 5 other individuals moreover our manual/driver named Carl, a gentleman heaped in understanding and enthusiasm for Tasmania (funtassietours.com).

For the pursuing six times we certainly were being in La La Land. Convicts developed much of Tasmania. Our minds could not aid but ponder how. They had been displaced from their homeland of England, forced to endure hardships and struggles and discrimination, and usually put in physical isolation for infractions. Yet they did extra than just survive. The like of the lads from Charles Dickens’ novels came alive as we discovered about Point Puer, the juvenile boys jail. When not top a tour for Enjoyable Tassie Excursions, Carl will work as a guideline at the Port Arthur World Heritage Historic Web page. He advised us tales of convicts meticulously positioning stones in its beckoning church, its warden’s property, and its blocks of cells. A horse or two graze in nearby pastures, and flowers and shrubs enhance the gardens with their hues. Afterwards, we would cross bridges constructed by convicts—still standing strongly in historic awe. It boggles the brain at the spirit of the particular person even in the harshest of conditions.

To even more our La La Land practical experience, we sample chocolate, wine, cheese, oysters, ice cream, smoked salmon, and honey. We snap photos of orange colored boulders at the Bay of Fires. We stroll together the pure white sandy seashores at Binalong Bay. We visit gorge reserves and travel by means of breathtaking farming and pasture spots. We understand of Tasmanian devils and those people aiding their rehabilitation initiatives. We feed kangaroos with out any hint of social distancing. We visit blow holes and wait around for penguins to monitor to their nests. In Cradle Mountain, we get pleasure from our wander to Glacier Rock and onward to Enchanted Walk to see gorgeous cascades and the Pencil Pine waterfall. Button grass plains, Eucalyptus forests, majestic mountains, and spectacular lakes are in each individual route. Likely my preferred location was Nelson Falls. Its rainforest engulfs its visitor in an ironic mixture of serenity and electric power. In fewer than 30 minutes, one particular leaves the parking lot and is delightfully swallowed in a planet of pristine mother nature. Close by at Mount Field Nationwide Park the 3 tiered Russell Falls attempts to compete. Certainly, it is a shut simply call. And The Wall in the Wilderness Artwork Gallery in Derwent Bridge leaves its attendees speechless when gazing at the massive wooden sculptures depicting the heroic struggles of the adult men and girls who settled in Tasmania a century or so in the past. We were being quite substantially immune from news of the entire world. Or so, we were being until eventually we arrived back again in Hobart.

Hobart smacked us with reality. We had been dropped off at our identical b & b, The Edinburgh Gallery. Only now, we were being its only guests. The borders into Tasmania had been shut except to its inhabitants. The owner was happy to see us and our hearts ached for him as he predicted economic woes for quite a few months. Our scheduled Hobart Town Tour was canceled. The Salamanca Food stuff and Arts weekly market place was postponed. Our boat excursion and entry to MONA, the state’s controversial art museum, ended up also canceled. And Virgin Australia went in advance and canceled our return flight Melbourne to Los Angeles. To place it mildly, we experienced established forth the 7 days just before on a tour, 1 we will lengthy remember and cherish, only to return to a wholly distinct ambiance and an unidentified as to our following 10 days or so.

Continue forward we did. We flew Hobart to Adelaide, with a transfer in Melbourne. We sat as the lone travellers in our shuttle from the airport to our resort in the heart of the metropolis, Resort Grand Chancellor. The management welcomed us with digital open up arms, even lending us a microwave to use in the home. We scooted around the pedestrian only buying area, noting food items only accessible as get out provider, and several individuals out and about. The subsequent morning we liked a town strolling tour and pay a visit to to the excellent anthropological museum. Then we obtained a disappointing e-mail: our excursion scheduled for early in the morning to Kangaroo Island was canceled. Captain Prepare dinner Cruises and Sealink held out until eventually the final moment to do so. We drop a tear or two, confronted the reality, and headed off to Hertz Rental Vehicles to transform our reservation for the ultimate week of our keep in Australia.

Bravo is an understatement for describing the personnel at Hertz. We were being established with a fairly new Toyota Rava Adelaide to Melbourne, with stops at Grampians and The Excellent Ocean Highway. Considering that there were being only two of us and we experienced been in Australia for a lot more than 14 days, quarantine demands had been not imposed upon us. We were being to retain to ourselves as we walked trails and adhere to social distancing procedures. Our checking in at the motels would be via phone. We would not be offered room service throughout our stays. These limitations had been such insignificant inconveniences that they meant absolutely nothing to us. So, off we drove for close to six hours to Halls Gap in The Grampians Nationwide Park.

In our setting up stages for browsing Australia, we predicted crowded conditions in Halls Gap. Right after all, it is a modest city of about 300 permanent people and 6000 beds. We booked our lodging at Gariwerd Motel months in advance. To place it mildly, there was no require for accomplishing so. The supervisor lived onsite. One other few expended two evenings there. And we occupied the second motel home. But appreciate Grampians, we did! We visited the petro station and marketplace before long right after settling in to our room. Couple of persons were out. This, nevertheless, did not halt the congregation of wildlife. Huge white cockatoos flew and landed just about everywhere, squeaking their squeak and pecking up seeds. Kangaroos achieved like clockwork at 5 pm at the downtown park, as if ready to perform soccer with two becoming a member of emus serving as referees. They dutifully hopped all over, ventured close to us for inspection, and then turned to their fellow teammates to go in advance with their activity. Two days of mountaineering and more climbing loaded our bill in The Grampians. A lot more than 150 kilometers of going for walks tracks dot the Grampians, ranging from 50 percent-hour strolls to overnight treks of difficult terrain. Just about every so generally we spotted Aboriginal rock art although traipsing to waterfalls, overhanging ledges, or sheltered groves. Conveniently, we ended up protected in this outdoor paradise.

We felt we had mastered swerving kangaroos by now so we ongoing our trip to The Terrific Ocean Road, keeping at Portside Motel in Port Campbell. The four hour push matched the pastoral elegance of ours from Adelaide to The Grampians. A few cities dotted the streets, great for bakeries for quick to get takeout foods. Our examining in at Portside duplicated the procedure at Gariwerd. Shortly we were off to see the city and sites west. Straightforward obtain is presented for several sights in Port Campbell Countrywide Park. Sheer limestone cliffs tower in excess of fierce seas. For 1000’s of years, waves and tides have relentlessly sculpted the tender rock into a intriguing sequence of rock stacks, gorges, arches and blowholes. We walked down the stairs at Gibson Methods, happy concrete ones now change the 19th century hand-carved kinds into the cliffs. The Twelve Apostles kiosk and path was shut. Loch Ard Gorge proved to be my favourite. We browse of tales of shipwrecks right here of a lot more than a hundred yrs ago. Highly effective waves dart to the sand, tender and warming beneath one’s toes.

The subsequent working day we explored extra of Port Campbell Countrywide Park, with trails skirting the ocean’s cliffs as nicely as a little bit inland. It was a lovely distinct working day, with waves under us laughing and gurgling at a person one more. Nevertheless, we understood that at near by Cape Otway several ships experienced smashed open towards the ocean’s pressure. We drove towards Apollo Bay, on the average halting about just about every thirty minutes at a lookout at scenes that are, without a doubt, indescribable.

The following day we departed Port Campbell to return to Melbourne in anticipation of our flight to Los Angeles, which our travel agent had re-routed on Air New Zealand by Auckland. We fell in adore with the tiny city of Lorne, squeezing alone in between the waters of Loutit Bay and the bush of the Otway Ranges. Locals detest them and try out to shoo them away: huge white cockatoos by the dozens that group on the town benches, railings and beach front pathways. In contrast, we adored them, chatted again to them, and reassured them of their beauty. The town of Anglesea winds close to gum-green Anglesea River, a very tranquil bush placing. Then will come Torquay, wherever even park benches are surfboard formed in Victoria’s surf capital. We realized we had to take a look at Bells Beach, just 7 kilometers west of Torquay for its famous status of its impressive break and annual environment-championship surfing contest. We gazed down on the basically deserted seaside: two lone surfers in their paradise.

Our scheduled time was before long coming to an close and we drove back to Melbourne to remain the night at the Holiday Inn by the airport in anticipation of our early morning flight to Los Angeles. We returned the car and repacked our suitcases for the next day. We had checked a variety of situations with our travel agent that all was established. We were being recommended a several days in advance of that our flight Melbourne to Auckland experienced been pushed up a day, and so we modified our options for this revision. We traipsed to the airport, located the Air New Zealand counter for checking in, and were advised, “You are not able to board this plane. You have a U.S. passport. Only Kiwis are permitted to enter the country.” I told the airline’s consultant that our travel agent experienced explained to us that we could be getting this airplane for the reason that we would be on a transit in Auckland and not be remaining there. I confirmed the electronic mail affirming this. And, so a cellphone contact was positioned in between the airlines agent and the vacation agent. I experienced sent our vacation company information about two weeks right before a copy of New Zealand’s shutdown, only to have them reassure us that our scheduling was legitimate. Considerably to my chagrin, the vacation agent arrived throughout as arrogant to these operating for the airways, as if it were her responsibility to established other people straight about their govt plan.” This is where by it receives terrible: when another person sitting down at a desk in the United States does not apologize for their error and consider to rectify it, but alternatively blames a man or woman and a state half way around the entire world. I was humiliated to be an American who had savored the attractive country of Australia opening its virtual arms to us even in the chaos and misery of COVID-19.

Air New Zealand advised that we phone the American Embassy to learn how we had been to return to the states. We did so rapidly and acquired that United Airlines had one flight each and every day Sydney to San Francisco and then we could fly to southern California from San Francisco. We termed United, booked a flight in two times, and caught a domestic flight above to Sydney. We stayed once more at the Castlereagh Hotel, welcomed back by the personnel we left there about a thirty day period in advance of.

To say we uncovered significantly from this excursion would be an understatement. Australia is a lovely region, and we arrived to value and enjoy it and its helpful folks. Also, we realized matters that have an impact on our angle toward travelling from this issue on:

1. Understand that even the very best of ideas can change. Really don’t get upset with many others who have no command in excess of the predicament and are carrying out the quite greatest they know how to do, particularly with situations that are not in their control.

2. Double up on the compliments to all those in the journey marketplace who are under stress and making an attempt their ideal to accommodate some others – and continue to keep smiling whilst they do so, even if it be at a length of 6 feet.

3. Travel with an individual who can roll with the punches. I have travelled a number of situations right before with Dorothy, a fantastic good friend of mine for about 30 decades. It doesn’t damage also that she has fantastic tunes on her mobile phone, faces worries with grace, and realizes that if need be, we could generally lease an apartment on The Fantastic Ocean Street until the vacation constraints lifted.

4. Respect that our setbacks have been, indeed, basically setbacks! We normally experienced fuel for the car, food stuff for our tummies, beds for our sleeping, and thoroughly clean drinking water for our showers. Social distancing was conveniently doable. Many in the entire world do not get pleasure from such luxuries. Indeed, we need to have to watch them as luxuries!

5. Carry in your heart a prayer and empathy for these less fortunate. This decade it might be these influenced by COVID-19 another time it may possibly be one thing else that rears its ugly head. We are in this planet together and to help a person another collectively. In other words and phrases, give lots of virtual hugs.

6. Build an perspective that “This Far too Will Pass.” Be optimistic. Be cheerful. Really don’t give up on travel. The business requires you! It will bounce back again with your help!

I am residence now safe and sound and audio from wonderful Australia. I’m preserving my length when I undertaking sometimes from household. I’m assured that we will conquer this dreaded virus. Most likely a trip or two could have to be postponed. But, let us do what we can to support those people in the journey sector. Situations will lighten up. Vacation destinations will seek your assistance. With each other, “We’re Heading to Get By way of This.”

source http://cheaprtravels.com/travelmag-surfing-covid-on-a-final-tour-as-australasia-shut-down/

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celticnoise · 4 years

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CQN continues its enthralling and EXCLUSIVE extracts from Alex Gordon’s book, ‘That Season In Paradise’, which highlight the months that were the most momentous in Celtic’s proud history.

Today, midfield mastermind Bertie Auld reveals his disappointment in his recollection of the glorious triumph over Inter Milan in the European Cup Final on May 25 1967 in Lisbon.

BERTIE AULD admitted he had been disappointed he hadn’t been given the opportunity to pit his wits against Inter Milan’s world-renowned Luis Suarez as Celtic conquered Europe.

The masterful midfielder said, ‘Injury forced him out of their team and, immediately in the aftermath of our triumph, the Italians pointed out they would have picked up the trophy again if their much-vaunted Spanish midfielder had been playing. Believe me, that is utter nonsense. Suarez? They could have fielded Superman and they wouldn’t have prevented us from winning that day!

‘The Italians, as ever, we just a bit too quick to delve into that well-thumbed tome, “The Big Book of Football Excuses”, although, to be fair, their manager, Helenio Herrera, and a few of their players were just as swift to congratulate us. They knew they had been outplayed, outfought and outwitted.

‘But I really would have loved to have squared up to Suarez. I was on the left-hand side of the Celtic midfield and his favoured position was on the right of the Inter midline. It would have been very intriguing to see how we got on, to say the least. These days you can get live pictures of players and watch them in action at the flick of a button thanks to satellite television. Back then, of course, that was not the case.

‘You rarely saw up-to-date film of foreign players and you had to take what your boss told you about so-and-so’s strengths and weaknesses. They were all a bit mythical back then and you had to accept someone’s else’s word about their ability. Of course, you could catch up with reports in the newspapers, but there was nothing quite like matching up with the guy in the flesh. Genuinely, I welcomed that opportunity in Suarez’s case.

‘Suarez was one of the first football superstars. We all took a sharp intake of breath when we were told Inter Milan had paid a mind-boggling £214,000 to sign the player from Barcelona in 1961. That was massive money all those years ago; easily the world record transfer. Look at the Celtic team that took the field at the Estadio Nacional six years later – it cost a total of £42,000, a mere fraction of what Suarez had signed for.

ON THE RUN…Bertie Auld races at the Inter Milan defence.

‘We were also informed the Spaniard had negotiated a signing-on fee of £60,000 for himself. I didn’t think there had been that much money printed. The player was said to be picking up around £7,000-per-year in wages. Okay, I know an average player in the Scotland’s top flight can now command a figure like that on a weekly basis, but back in the Sixties that was massive dough. If I’ve got my sums right, the Celtic players were lifting something in the region of £1,300 in those heady financial days.

‘So, can anyone blame a wee chap from Maryhill for wanting to go toe-to-toe with this bloke? I would have loved it. I would have thrived on it. Apparently, Suarez was said to be suffering from a thigh strain in the run-in to Lisbon, but we did hear other suggestions that, at thirty-two, he might not have fancied playing against Celtic. He would have known about our high energy levels. He would have heard about our fitness and our willingness to go flat out for ninety minutes. He was a cultured playmaker, of course, but this might not have been a setting for him to show those skills. I’m not say he chickened out, but what I will say is that it did not matter one jot whether or not he was on the field of play on Thursday May 25 1967 – we would have still won the European Cup.

‘Think about this, too. Suarez was not known for enjoying defensive duties. He did all his playing facing the opponents’ goal from middle to front. Would he have chased Tommy Gemmell into corners? Would he have made runs to block off Bobby Lennox? Would he have trailed all over the place alongside yours truly? I doubt it. His replacement was a guy called Mauro Bicicli and he was actually more of a defensively-minded player and, naturally enough, Inter needed those sort of performers the way the game developed. Maybe, then, we might have won a bit more comfortably than 2-1 if Suarez had turned out.

‘I was also disappointed to read about the Italians saying they had struggled for a replacement. They were having a laugh, weren’t they? Inter Milan with their many millions, the most expensively-structured line-up in the world could not find a suitable player to take over from Suarez? A team that had won the European Cup in two out of the previous three years and had also lifted the World Club Championship twice over the same period? Pull the other one!’

Auld continued his observations, ‘I hit their crossbar with a run and shot as we swept down on them looking for a first-half equaliser. I’ve often been asked if I intended a cross because the ball took a strange swerve and ended up heading for goal. Take it from me, that was an attempt at goal. I put a little bend on the ball as I moved into their box and I thought my attempt looked good. Well, it would have had to be better than good to beat their keeper Sarti who was unbelievable. However, the woodwork got in the way of me and glory and the ball bounced to safety. Thankfully, Tommy and Stevie had better fortune later on.

‘But let’s look at that Celtic line-up. We weren’t exactly a cosmopolitan bunch in 1967. For a start, we were all born within thirty miles of Celtic Park with myself, Ronnie Simpson, Jim Craig, and Stevie Chalmers being allowed to boast that we were, indeed, true Glaswegians! The others came from places such as Bellshill, Bothwell, Craigneuk, Uddingston, Kirkintilloch and, in Bobby Lennox’s case, Saltcoats. I always thought that was just a place people went for their holidays; I had no idea people actually lived there.

‘Anyway, the Glaswegians among the lads used to kid the others on about being hicks from the sticks. Big Billy, from Bellshill, was often fond of saying, “Don’t ask me, I’m just a lad from the country, you better ask Bertie.” But we were one big happy bunch, you can believe that. There is genuine camaraderie among us and nothing will ever split that up.

‘What was so special about the team? Well, the word team gives you a clue. We may have had some excellent individuals such as Jimmy Johnstone, Tommy Gemmell and Bobby Murdoch, but we all fitted into a structure. We trusted each other and that was so important. It was comforting to go out on the field on matchday and know you had so many good players around you. Take Ronnie Simpson, for a start. How reliable was he? You instinctively knew he would do a good job. He may not have looked like your typical goalkeeper, but, to me, there was none better. He may have been on the small side, but Ronnie always insisted he was close to 6ft. He must have been using a different measuring tape from anyone else in the world, that’s all I can say! But he was a brilliant shotstopper and was extremely agile.

THE GLORY BHOYS…Bertie Auld and Stevie Chalmers – and their team-mates – show their delight at the final whistle.

‘Do you know, of the team that faced Inter Milan, only Ronnie and myself had played football outside Scotland? Amazing. Ronnie, of course, won two FA Cup medals with Newcastle United while I had my stint at Birmingham City before I returned to Paradise. Jim Craig, Tommy Gemmell, Bobby Murdoch, Billy McNeill, Jimmy Johnstone, Stevie Chalmers and Bobby Lennox had all been brought up through the ranks at Celtic Park, although I believe Luggy may have been on the books at my old club Birmingham City very briefly. Willie Wallace, of course, arrived from Hearts. And Big Jock had never managed outside Glasgow, Edinburgh and Fife. See what I mean about hardly being cosmopolitan!

‘I’ve already said the Boss was the man who deserved all the credit for what Celtic achieved and quite rightly so. He was way ahead of all the other managers of that era with his thinking and planning. He would develop wee things in training and opponents and supporters alike might have thought we were improvising on the pitch during a match, but, believe me, we had gone over these things meticulously in training at Barrowfield. He was a great believer in the old adage, “Fail to prepare, then prepare to fail.”’

Auld added, ‘I missed out on only one game during Celtic’s run to Lisbon – the dramatic last-gasp 2-0 victory over Vojvodina – after failing a late fitness test. Even I was left gasping for air at our truly wonderful support. I swear Celtic Park was rocking that night. Of course, I would have loved for nothing more than to be out there contributing, but the next best thing was watching the action and roaring on the lads. What a game that was. Honestly, the hairs still stand on end at the recollection. It was one helluva exciting rollercoaster ride of emotions. Everything that is good in football was on show that cold, grey, but truly unforgettable, evening in the east end of Glasgow.

‘I was witnessing two football teams at the peak of their powers and it was all spellbinding stuff. Celtic would surge forward in wave after wave of attacks, but the Slavs were an extremely accomplished unit and they looked fairly comfortable as they soaked up awesome pressure while always looking for the out-ball to turn defence very quickly into attack. They were a very polished side with a very good manager in Vujadin Boskov. Charlie Gallagher took my place in midfield that night and let me tell you something about Charlie – he would have been a first team regular in any other team in the land outside Celtic.’

Matchwinner Stevie Chalmers concluded, ‘Lisbon was made all the sweeter because I had been at the club eight years before then, signing from Junior club Ashfield on February 6 1959, and there was absolutely no way I could have ever believed Celtic would one day conquer Europe. After putting pen to paper, I made my debut just a month later, an instantly forgettable 2-1 defeat from Airdrie at Celtic Park. Possibly not surprisingly, that was my only league appearance of that particular campaign.

‘After Lisbon, I came home to spend my bonus money. To be honest, I can’t remember too much about my so-called spending spree. My wife, Sadie, would have got something, of course, and I probably spent the rest on things around the house. Not exactly Flash Harry, eh? But winning the European Cup was not all about money. It was about football and putting Celtic’s name on the European map. We managed that and, of course, Big Jock was smiling afterwards because we did it in the Celtic manner.

‘Ach, I suppose we weren’t a bad side.’

TOMORROW: The sacrifice of a showman.

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stroud5aside · 5 years

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Friday 25 October - Stroud7 Are Champions of Division Two!!

On a day when the new Cheltenham Race Season commenced, it was ‘odds-on’ that it would be trumped by the FNL action tonight. And what a night it was with so many outstanding games!

PREMIERSHIP

There was vital action at the top and at the bottom of the Premiership and let’s start with the match that effected both ends of the table, the game between league leaders Breakaway Boys FC and relegation threatened Not So Athletic.

Breakaway dominated this game but with Scott at the top of his game, in the Not So Athletic goal, and the Unathletic guys defending as though their lives depended on it, this game was destined to be close. In the end there was only one goal in it as Breakaway won by a ‘short head’ with the only goal of the game, that was scored by Brad.

Stroud Old Boys maintained the chase behind Breakaway Boys and produced a masterful display as they swept Netsix and Chill aside, 10-1. With quality on display throughout this Stroud Old Boys team it is difficult to know who to single out. But in their ‘dazzling’ new kit, Kerr, Anthoney, Deano and Freems took it in turn to ‘outshine’ their opponents whilst Butch again looked very impressive between the sticks. With a game in hand on the leaders it is difficult to see anyone stopping them reclaiming the Premiership title.

Nawachusai FC have ‘jumped‘ back up to third, in their see-saw season, with an 8-4 victory over Coaley Crows. Nawachusai maybe ‘outsiders’ to finish in the medal positions this season but I wouldn’t ‘bet against’ them! As for the Crows, they in the ‘claws’ of relegation and need to ‘take flight’ if they are going to avoid the drop this time around!

There was a shock in store for SWR Youth FC, with the team at the bottom of the table, Lioncourt Legends, producing their best form of the season to beat them 8-3! Lioncourt were ‘outsiders’ to win this game before kick off but dug deep to win ‘against the odds’ with Ollie claiming 5 goals whilst Joe and George performed heroics at the back to keep Fin in check! As a consequence of this result SWR slipped to fourth whilst Lioncourt moved up to sixth place and out of the relegation places.

DIVISION ONE

Both the ‘fancied’ teams to be promoted to the Premiership met tonight in a fascinating contest. Without a goal in the first half Ebley Street Elite appeared to have the game won, with their goal in the second half, until Dylan hit the equaliser for the ‘stayers’ Adidas All Stars right at the death to make it a ‘dead heat’ at 1-1 on the final whistle! Ebley remain one point ahead of Adidas at the top but both look Premiership bound.

Walker Construction were is ‘festival’ mood tonight with a sparkling display against relegation threatened Hot Coles. Ryan looked a class act for Walker and but for Neil’s heroics in the Hot Coles goal, this result could have been much worse for them! But the ‘going’ was not good for Hot Coles and an ‘accumulator’ of goals meant that Walker won 10-2!

A much closer contest took place between The Spice Boys and the disco dancers, that make up Warehouse Warriors! This match was so close it needed a ‘photo-finish’ to decide the winner and Warehouse Warriors just about edged it, 2-1.

The ‘going’ has been ‘heavy’ for Vic Vets this season but tonight they went the ‘distance’ with Average Joe’s and turned the ‘form book’ on its head to achieve a credible 2-2 draw.

DIVISION TWO

Stroud7 are champions of Division Two in what has been a fantastic season for them. Jack and his team have been the outstanding performers, in this league, this season and remain unbeaten. Well done lads you are worthy champions.

But it could have been a different story tonight in what was a fantastic game against league newcomers and ‘colts’ S5. Stroud7 were ‘odds on’ to win before kick off but they really knew they had been in a game by the final whistle. In fact there was nothing to choose between the teams throughout with Louis outstanding in the S5 goal and Dean the pick of the players for S5. It looked like this game would end in a ‘dead heat’ until the champions scored 2 late goals to ‘put them in the money’ for all three points!

Automech Spanner’s claimed all three points and a 3-0 win against How I Met Your Mata, to allow The Legends to seriously enter the promotion race and medal poisons. And they took full advantage and defeated a below par Randwick Warriors 10-4. Oli and Chris were in fine form for The Legends and for Randwick, Jay made a very impressive debut in goal. The Legends had a ‘bumper’ second half with a 7 goal bonanza as Randwick had a bit of a ‘mare!’

Making Emile Of It were out of sorts tonight against a star ‘studded’ TGR. Harry scored 7 out of the 10 TGR goals in their 10-4 victory. There was a ‘Stewards Enquiry’ at the ‘finishing line’ but the result was allowed to stand!

CONFERENCE

There were no matches in the Conference as both games were ‘abandoned.’ As a consequence SWI FC and IF Legends both claimed all three Points and 3-0 wins. IF Legends have their ‘ears pricked’ at the top of the table but surely these ‘old nags’ won’t take have the ‘staying power.’ Besides there are also three other teams that will hope to go the ‘distance’ to become the first ever winners of the Conference! This title is very much for the taking!

Great night of football lads with some absolute ‘bumper’ games and just a few ‘novice’ performances! We are now in the ‘final furlong’ of this season and the ‘blinkers’ are off as we ‘canter’ towards the ‘finishing line!’

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jacewilliams1 · 5 years

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“In this business we play for keeps”

I rolled the trim wheel forward, gently allowing gravity to add to the thrust of the paired Continentals. The satin air allowed the airspeed needle to nuzzle the top of the indicator’s green arc. The inky blackness surrounding the craft was broken only by a dim, rhythmic, red flash from the anti-collision beacon, illuminating the wingtip fuel tanks, as an oasis of golden lights grew larger off the nose.

The craft, a 1966 Cessna 310K, the oasis, the Dallas/Fort Worth metroplex, the composer and sole observer of this performance, a skinny 19-year old lad in command of Eureka flight 747.

An ambitious call-sign utilized for a bank check-collecting route commissioned by the Federal Reserve Bank in Dallas for the timely processing of paper transactions in the 70s. The run began in Amarillo just before sunset and, after multiple stops, returned just before sunrise – if there were no “contingencies.”

Flying a Cessna 310 can still make you feel like Ernest K. Gann himself.

As a devotee of Ernest K. Gann’s 1961 book Fate Is the Hunter, I looked upon this route as my own AM-21, the designation of Gann’s usual route as a DC-2/3 pilot with American Airlines in the pre-World War II years. That route in the northeastern U.S. provided Gann with numerous “learning” opportunities as a new copilot with a variety of captains and their unique personalities.

Prior to becoming the commander of Eureka 747, as a 17-year old high school student, I was scolded one morning in homeroom for reading Fate, but I had a very hard time putting the beautiful work down. The experiences that Gann described provided me an understanding of the airman’s world that I had hopes of becoming a part. So much of my foundation as an aviator came from the fascinating writings of Gann, St. Exupery, Len Morgan, Richard Bach and others gifted with the pen. Their elegant way with words provided me with a deeper appreciation of professional aviation along with some very good advice that has stayed with me throughout my flying career.

Crossing directly over a very busy DFW airport en route to Love Field, I listened with envy to the clipped, professional conversations between controllers and airline pilots. I imagined that one of the laconic southern drawls from a Braniff flight might be one of my heroes, Len Morgan. Oh how I wanted to exist in that world and had since a boy, filled with awe, watching three “Greek gods,” resplendent in their black uniforms with gold stripes, strolling across the ramp at O’Hare. The occasion was my first flight on an airliner, an event in which the TWA 707 would play a part in changing my life forever. Innumerable airliner models and several cardboard aircraft cockpit simulators installed in my tiny bathroom shower stall followed.

Countless hours were spent watching the sky, from the roof of my Texas Panhandle home, turn cloudy with contrails. With the aid of a slightly out of date Official Airline Guide that my mother secured from a travel agent friend, I would try to figure out what line and which flight I might be observing. The moonlit nights spent shivering on that roof are some of my fondest memories.

I didn’t actually know any pilots but I knew that their calling was special and I wanted to become a part of that brotherhood with the sacred responsibility of safely transporting passengers from A to B. But dues were required to be paid before access to that hallowed world called a cockpit would be granted.

Few dreams worth having are achieved with shortcuts and in flying airplanes there is no substitute for experience. The increase in airman wisdom is recorded on paper in logbooks.

More importantly, the experience gained is remembered in your mind and heart, the rewards being increased skill, finesse in the craft, and survival. There were the summer days between high school and college when I began flying charter flights. Memories of waiting on a pasture airstrip where the increasing heat and dying breeze would make getting the Cessna 210 airborne before the barbed wire and incarcerated cows a near-run thing. I recall those perfect West Texas evenings at dusk on a small town airport, with the gentle wind providing my airplane a soothing voice. I heard her stabilizers telling me, “Be patient lad, enjoy this moment, and know that an airliner cockpit awaits.”

There were my early days of instrument flying, where relief replaces tension as emergence from the clouds reveals the airport ahead after an NDB approach in a crosswind. “Double the correction and pull the tail,” I can hear my ex-Navy chief instrument instructor bellow as if he were sitting next to me.

And those special times, in coat and tie, that I warmed the right seat of a corporate turboprop trying to sound grizzled on the radio and desperately attempting to commit no error that would result in not being invited back. The road is long but my youth allowed me continuous enjoyment in the humbling gathering of experience. But I was also completely, unashamedly in love with flying and the world of aviators. A finer coterie of folks I could not imagine and I was immensely grateful for the work that I was provided, bringing me closer to my goal.

Getting ready for the fight…

Later that summer evening with Eureka 747 westbound from Dallas, a long line of brilliant flashes across my course indicated an uncomfortable meeting would be required to complete my mission. My desire to confront the bully without getting a bloody nose brought to mind Gann’s similar challenge over the Catskills 40 years ago. As a relatively inexperienced copilot, Gann learned much from Captain Ross that evening as he experienced his first bout with a thunderstorm. His wisdom gained that night was on my mind as I entered the clouds and, as Gann, I had no onboard radar and so would be looking for the least dazzling spot to make my way.

I did have a huge edge that night that Gann would have very much envied: a helpful Fort Worth Center controller doing the best he could with his 1976-era radar to provide me a clue of where the worst demons lurked. Captain Ross’s advice to Gann was with me as I lowered my seat all the way to the floor, turned up the instrument lights, pushed the props into low pitch, and slowed to maneuvering speed. While mesmerized by St. Elmo beginning his dance across the windscreen, I could also clearly recall Ross’s comment to Gann: “I think we’re going to take a pasting.”

The first indication that my foe was indeed legitimate was a very smooth but completely uncontrollable climb that was dramatic enough to dispel any thought I may have had of resisting it. Nor did I attempt to utilize the elevator trim to reduce the force on the yoke that held the aircraft more or less level in its heady accumulation of altitude. For I had a very good understanding of what goes up must come down and preferred to offer no assistance to that state when the time came.

The match continued as expected with the fire hose of rain, the turbulence, the lightning, and… the thunder. Gann beautifully describes the difference in the sound of thunder on the ground versus at its source: “…a hellish timpano and you wish you were deaf.” I am afraid but the fear is more of apprehension than terror as I waited to see what jab the brute has yet to throw. Suddenly, as if becoming bored, Eureka 747 was released, spit out actually, from the storm. A beautiful moonlit night, and a newfound respect, was this rookie’s reward as I looked over my shoulder at the cauliflower battlements that had permitted me to pass.

The lights of Lubbock beckoned on the horizon and I felt a sense of humbled accomplishment for performing the work for which Gann and Ross had prepared me. As I shut down the engines in front of the FBO, listening to the gyros winding down, I could hear Ross say to a very weary Gann, “Anyone can do the job when things are going right, in this business we play for keeps.”

Forty-three years and six logbooks later, while enjoying a senior captain’s position with a major airline, those words still resonate with the former commander of Eureka 747.

The post “In this business we play for keeps” appeared first on Air Facts Journal.

from Engineering Blog https://airfactsjournal.com/2019/09/in-this-business-we-play-for-keeps/

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torentialtribute · 5 years

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Aston Villa’s John McGinn and Jack Grealish hoping to dine out on Wembley triumph

Aston Villa sliding by moment came after sacking Steve Bruce in October with the team struggling in 12th position

French superstar Thierry Henry was considered to add va-va-voom to the sleeping giants before they settled on the less glamorous Brummie Dean Smith, whose managerial resume contained Walsall and Brentford.

The judgment has proved inspired. Smith, a boyhood Villa fan, masterminded 10 wins in a row to put them in the playoffs and on Monday they face Derby at Wembley in football's richest game, worth £ 170million to the promoted winners.

Dean Smith has mastered a remarkable promotion push since his appointment at Villa

It came after Villa sacked Steve Bruce, with the club garage in 12 position in the league

"Steve Bruce signed me. At the time I was gutted, and worried, when he went, I thought the new guy was going to like me, "admits Villas player of the year John McGinn.

" We were linked with Thierry Henry and I didn't know whether he liked Scottish players! I was intrigued when Dean Smith got the job but I was lying if I wasn't to say I was nervous, anxious to see if I was his child or player.

'My position changed slightly when he came in, I played a little bit higher up, and after a couple of weeks he pulled me and said, "I don't think you realize how good you can be." It was great to hear from a new manager.

Tammy Abraham's 26 goals on loan from Chelsea will earn him attention from Derby's defense at Wembley but the midfield relationship between McGinn and the gifted Jack Grealish that really makes Villa tick.

Many Premier League clubs regard the pair with envy and McGinn, who was heavily courted by Celtic manager Brendan Rodger last summer, says the partnership is strong on and off the pitch.

Thierry Henry would have been the glamor appointment, but Villa , rightly, went for Smith

'A lot of lads have families but myself, Jack and Olly from the sports scence department always go out for food together on a Thursday night. It started during our winning run and become a superstition. We have similar ages and have similar interests.

'Jack is one of the best I've played with. He's comfortably the best in the Championship – he just glides with the ball. He definitely helps me because he's man-marked so I get free rein to run about!

'Everyone has the perception he's some sort of bad boy but he's a hard worker and a great leader (as captain) about the past couple of months. I think he was unlucky not to be in the last England squad. "

Villa are one of English football's great clubs. Only they can claim alongside Manchester United, Liverpool and Chelsea to have both won the League and FA Cup Double, and the European Cup.

The past three seasons spent outside the Premier League have been tough with financial worries and a beaten play-off final against Fulham 12 months ago.

Tammy Abraham's 26 goals will earn him attention from Derby's defense on Monday

Tammy Abraham's 26 goals will earn him attention from Derby's defense but it's the midfield relationship between McGinn and Jack Grealish that really makes Villa tick. Their partnership is strong both on and off the pitch.

"Myself, Jack and Olly from the sports science department always go out for food on a Thursday night. It started during our winning run and become a superstition.

"Jack is one of the best I've played with. He's comfortably the best in the Championship – he just glides with the ball. He definitely helps me because he's man-marked so I get free clean to run about!

'Everyone has the perception he's some sort of bad boy but he's a hard worker and has been a great leader [as captain]. '

Villa have spent three seasons outside the top flight and lost in the play-off final to Fulham a year ago. For McGinn, though, there's a sense of destiny after beating West Brom on penalties in the semi-final. "I had the feeling it was going to be West Brom's night but big thanks to Jed [goalkeeper Jed Steer] and the lads taking penalties. It doesn't matter how we've done it. We are there. "

McGinn is also aware that Norwich-born Steer might be eligible to join him on the Scotland team. "If we beat Derby, I'll bring him a" See you Jimmy "hat and a can of Irn-Bru!"

Former Chelsea and England legend John Terry will be alongside Smith in the dug-out this time and desperate to ensure history doesn't repeat itself. Those who doubted Terry could be a subordinate to Smith given his own reputation as a leader have been surprised by the chemistry between the pair.

McGinn reveals neither are particularly ferocious towards the players. "Rich (Smith's other assistant Richard O'Kelly) is a bit more the bad cop!" he says.

'The managerial team take different parts of training and are very respectful of each other. There’s no ego and "I've achieved more than the others." Aston Villa into the Premier League. "

The midfield relationship between John McGinn (R) and Jack Grealish (L) really makes Villa tick

For McGinn, it's been a whirlwind 12 months since leaving Hibs, choosing Villa after Celtic left their interest drag on too long.

Though he's played internationals at Hampden and faced the Old Firm at Celtic Park and Ibrox, considering this game as the biggest of his career.

There is also a sense of destiny after squeaking fits West Brom on penalties in the semi-final. 'I had the feeling it was going to be West Brom's night but big thanks to Jed (goalkeeper Jed Steer) and the lads taking the penalties. It doesn't matter how we've done it. We are there. ”

McGinn goes into the game voted by his peers and the club's supporters as Villa's stand-out player this season. He's that weird wide or all-roumd midfielders who can stop, create and score goals.

He's also aware that Norwich-born Steer might be eligible to join him in the Scotland team. "It's been mentioned," hey smiles. "If we beat Derby, I'll bring him a" See you Jimmy "hat and a can of Irn-Bru!"

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peterpanquotes1 · 5 years

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The Review of Reviews: First Impressions of the Theater, 1905

Page 245: Last month I had my first experience of the musical comedy, which I have hitherto avoided. I went to see, or hear, “Veronique” at the Apollo Theatre. I should not break my heart if my first musical comedy should prove my last. But I also had another experience of a much pleasanter kind. I went to see “Peter Pan.” And I heartily wish that every child and every grown-up who has still preserved the heart of a child, or any part thereof, could have an opportunity of seeing that charming spectacle.

Before describing my impressions of cither, I must make a passing note of the reviving popularity of Shakespeare—and of Shaw. "John Bull's Other Island" has been so popular at the Court Theatre last month in the afternoons, that an Irish peer told me he had in vain attempted to book a scat. "House full " in the afternoon has encouraged the experiment of a series of evening performances. In time we may see this delightful play making the tour of the provinces. It is not the only play of Mr. Shaw's that has been performed last month. We have had the sequel to "Candida" at the Court, and "The Philanderer" in the City. Shaw stock is looking up.

But this is as nothing to the run on Shakespeare. Last month three of Shakespeare's plays were performed every night at three of the most popular theatres. "Much Ado About Nothing" has succeeded "The Tempest" at His Majesty's Theatre. "The Taming of the Shrew " still attracts crowds to the Adelphi; and Mr. Lewis Waller has revived "Henry V." at the Imperial. Besides these runs, the heroic and indefatigable Benson has played Shakespeare twice a day at the Coronet Theatre, Notting Hill, where the London public have had an opportunity of seeing "Macbeth," "King Lear," " Richard II.," and "The Comedy of Errors." It is a long time since the sovereignty supreme of the King by right divine of the drama was simultaneously acclaimed on so many London stages. May this be an augury of better things to come!

Peter Pan, the boy who wouldn’t grow up, is a dainty, delightful little magician, who makes old boys grow young again at the Duke of York’s Theater, twice a day, six days a week. I saw it on its 98th performance. I hope to see it again on its 998th, for there is no reason why it should ever grow stale. It ought to share the eternal youth of its charming hero. Mr. .J.M. Barrie deserves the thanks and the congratulations of all who love children and of all who possess the faculty of being as little children. To become as a little child is the secret of entering other kingdoms besides the kingdom of heaven. I frankly own I was prejudiced against “Peter Pan,” because of the legend put about that it was a dramatized version of the “Little White Bird.” That legend is a libel upon “Peter Pan.” The story is not by any means exceptionally attractive: it is tantalizing, irritating, unsatisfactory. But “Peter Pan” is simply delightful, unique, and almost entirely satisfactory.

Imagine one of Hans Christian Andersen’s charming Christmas stories, one of Captain Mayne Reid’s hair-raising romances of scalp-raising Red Indians, and R.L. Stevenson’s tales of bold buccaneers, all mixed up together, and the resulting amalgam served up in humorous burlesque fashion for the delight of the young folks, and you have “Peter Pan.” Grey-bearded grandfather though I am, I felt as I looked at “Peter Pan” that I renewed my youth. It seems as if I had never grown up. I was in the magic realm of the scalp-hunters, the enchanted wood of the gnomes, revealing in the daring devilry of the pirates, and clapping my hands with delight over the exploits of the darling, delightful, invincible Peter Pan. And I wondered as I left the theater whether Mr. Barrie and Mr. Frohman had enough love for little children in their hearts to give some free performances of “Peter Pan” to the poor children of London town, to whom seats in the Duke of York’s Theater are as unattainable as a dukedom. The good old principle of tithes might be invoked to justify such occasional free performances as a thank offering for a great, a continuous and an increasing success. Instead of the ancient hebrew offering of the sheaf of the first-fruits, which was brought to the Temple in thanksgiving for the harvest, it surely ought not to be an impossible thing to get the principle accepted by all theatrical managers and authors that whenever a piece has made its century one free performance should be given as a thank offering — a sheaf of first-fruits offer in thanksgiving to the poor of our people. And what play so admirably suited to initiate this law of thank offering as “Peter Pan”?

“Peter Pan” opens with an immediate initial success — a success achieved by an actor whose human identity is so completely merged in the dog (fem.) Nana, that it is a moot point with many youngsters whether Nana is not really a well-trained animal. Nana, a black-and-white Newfoundland, is the nurse of the three children of Mr. and Mrs. Darling. She puts them to bed, tucks them in, and hangs out their clothes to air by the fire.

Page 246: After an amusing scene with some medicine, the three children — the girl, little Wendy, and her two brothers — in their nighties and pajamas, are sung to sleep by their mother, who is not only a darling in name but in nature. When the mother has gone and the night-lights are out, the window opens, and Peter Pan climbs into the room. Peter is a superb figure of a Cupid without his wings, who, nevertheless, and perhaps because he has no wings, flies much better than Ariel, as seen at His Majesty's “Tempest.” A ruddy-faced, lithe-limbed, beautiful Cupid, not the chubby little Cupid of Thorwaldsen, but the divine boy of Grecian sculpture, a Cupid crossed with Apollo, a magical, mystical lad, with whom it is not surprising that everyone fell in love, from the fairy Tink-a-Tink to Tiger Lily, the Indian Queen. He wakes the little girl, and tells her he is the boy who did not want to grow up, and who, for that good reason, ran away from home, as soon as he was born, to the Never Never Never Land, where he has charge of all the boy babies who fall out of their perambulators. He never had a mother, does not know what a mother is. When the little maid proposes to give him a kiss her heart fails her, and she gives him a thimble as her kiss. Not to be outdone in generosity, he gives her a button as his kiss. Waxing bolder, Wendy kisses him, and explains that that is a thimble; and Peter Pan only knows of kissing as an exchange of thimbles. Peter astonishes Wendy by flying about the room, and she hears the bell of Tink-a-Tink, the fairy, whom Peter has inadvertently shut up in the drawer. Being liberated, Tink-a-Tink, a swift quivering white light, flies about the room. When the bell rings she talks, and Peter interprets her words to the wondering Wendy. At last she perches above the clock, and appears like a little Tanagra figure of light. And here I may make my only criticism. If Mr. Barrie were to go to any of Mr. Husk's seances l>e would hear fairy bells much better worthy the name than the muffin bell of Tink-a-Tink. And if he would consult any of the classics of the nursery he would discover that his white little statuette that perches above the clock may be anything in the world, but it is not a fairy. Tink-a-Tink could so easily be made so fascinating and so real an entity that I was surprised at such a failure in a play that is otherwise so admirably staged. Peter Pan, expounding the truth about fairies, explains that a fairy is born with every baby, but that, as a fairy dies whenever any boy or girl says " I don't believe in fairies," the mortality in fairyland is high. But unless something is done to make Tink-a-Tink a little more life-like than this darting light and white illuminated little statuette, I am afraid “Peter Pan” will raise rather than reduce the death-rate among the little people.

When Peter Pan tells Wendy that it is quite easy to fly she wakes her brothers, and the three kiddies make desperate and at first unsuccessful efforts to imitate Peter's flight backwards and forwards across the room. At last they master the secret, and one after another, the children fly out of the window and disappear. They are off to the Never Never Never Land, where little Wendy becomes the mother of the forlorn “mitherless bairns" who live in the care of Peter Pan, clad in furs, in a region haunted by fierce wolves with red eyes, by prowling Redskins and savage pirates. The interest of the play never stops. The wolves are banished by the simple and approved method of looking at them through your legs. Wendy Moira Angela Darling, to quote her full name, comes flying overhead and is mistaken for a strange white bird. The children shoot at it, and Wendy falls apparently dead with an arrow in her heart. Peter Pan arrives, and, in fierce wrath, is about to execute judgment upon the murderer, when Wendy revives; the arrow has been turned aside by the button which Peter Pan had given her as a kiss. Grief being changed to rejoicing, Wendy is adopted as the mother of the brood, they build her a house, improvising its chimney pot by the summary process of knocking the crown out of a hat of that description. The scene shifts, and we are introduced to noble Redskins and ferocious pirates, in fierce feud with each other—a feud terminating unfortunately in the discomfiture of the Redskins after a desperate battle. Then we make the acquaintance of James Hook, the terrible pirate, whose right hand has been eaten off by a monstrous crocodile, which relished it so much it has spent all its time ever since tracking down the owner of the rest of the body. The pirate, who has replaced the missing hand by a double hook," is a holy terror to all his men. He fears neither God nor man, but he is in mortal dread of the gigantic saurian, which would have eaten him long ago but for the fact that it had swallowed a clock, the ticking of which in its inside always gives the pirate warning of its approach. At last, however, Peter Pan extricates the clock and the pirate meets his doom.

This, however, is anticipating. Peter Pan, who does not understand what love is, inspires Wendy, Tink-a-Tink and Tiger Lily, the Indian Queen, with a hopeless passion. He can only interpret it by saying that they all want to be his mothers. Poor Tiger Lily courts him with unreserve, but he is faithful to Wendy. The pirates capture all the children, and the pirate chief pours poison into Peter Pan's medicine glass. Tink-a-Tink, the faithful fairy, drinks up the fatal draught to save Peter. As she is dying, Peter Pan rushes to the front, and with a genuine fervour of entreaty that brought tears to some eyes, declared that if every child in the audience would clap its hands as a sign that it really did believe in fairies, Tink-a-Tink would recover. Of course there is an 'immediate response. This profession of faith in the reality of fairies revives the dying Tink-a-Tink, and the clanging muffin bell testifies to her complete restoration to health.

Page 247: Before the children are captured by the pirates there is a delectable scene, charmingly true to life, where Wendy, the child-mother, tells stories to the children after they have gone to bed. It is simplyexquisite; the interruptions of the youngster insatiable for white rats, the exclamations of interest and approval, the naivete and earnest make-believe of the little story-teller, are absolutely true to life. The story-telling was better than the pillow fight, which might have been much more realistic, and the dancing of the boy with the pillows on his legs was hardly in keeping with the realism of the rest of the scene.

The last act brings us to the pirate ship, where the children are captive. They are about to be made to walk the plank when the cockcrow call of the adorable Peter Pan is heard within. He slays two pirates who are sent to investigate the strange noise, blows out the captain's lantern, and finally engages the pirate captain in broadsword combat. The fight becomes general. The pirates, discomfited, leap overboard, and the children crowd round the victorious Peter Pan, whom we recognise as the latest lineal descendant of Jack the Giant Killer, and who, although no braggart, is calmly complacent as he reflects upon his prowess. "Yes," he says, as he seats himself after the battle, "I am a wonder." And a wonder he is, a wonder-child of the most approved pattern.

After the restitution of the lost children to their beautiful mothers—where, by-the-bye, in harping on the mystery of twins Mr. Barry ventures perilously near forbidden ground, Peter Pan returns to his house on the tree-tops, when the curtain falls upon him and his beloved Wendy standing, like jocund day, tiptoe on the misty forest tops.

I ought not to omit to mention that the crocodile gets the pirate after all; that the dear, delightful nurse-dog reappears, and is restored to his kennel, in which Mr. Darling has been living ever since the loss of the children; and that everything is wound up satisfactorily. Only we feel sad for Tiger Lily and the heroic fairy Tink-a-Tink; but then, when three people love one boy, it is beyond the power even of a Peter Pan to make them all happy. That reflection is probably foreign to the mind of the younger spectator. Old and young enjoyed " Peter Pan," are enjoying " Peter Pan," and will, I hope, go on enjoying "Peter Pan." For as yet not decimal one per cent, of the children of the land have seen " Peter Pan," and I wish they could all see it—every one.

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deeppeaceyoga · 5 years

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Being Luminous: Power, Freedom, and Focus

People Who Accomplish Things

Robert Benchley famously quipped “There are two kinds of people in this world: those who think there are two kinds of people in the world, and those who don’t.”

Many variations on our concepts of self/other are as wryly funny as they are sharply accurate when they pin down the ways we sort our world. For the moment, I’m taking my cue from Mark Twain, who offered this one: “There are basically two types of people. People who accomplish things, and people who claim to have accomplished things. The first group is less crowded.”

Why can’t we accomplish the things we want to accomplish? I’m not talking about a genie in a bottle or to do lists. I mean getting down to what we’re already supposedly doing: the stuff to which we’re sort of paying attention, and sort of really not. It moves around on the desk or in the garage, it keeps us awake at night, nagging us to guilt, anxiety or depression; it hangs around half begun, out of gas, getting dustier and less interesting to us by the day.

It may come as a surprise to hear that yoga is all about this question, especially surprising if you think of meditation as sitting still or somehow being above all that. Sri Swami Satchidananda, in his commentary on the Yoga Sutra, is deliciously mischievous on this point.

“If sitting like a statue is what you call samadhi,” he writes, “all the rocks in the garden must be in deep samadhi.”

Rather, he teaches, a yogi is involved. “You will be useful; you will be active — more active than other people.”

There are two kinds of enlightened people then, those who can turn their intentions into reality, and those who like the feeling of lighting candles. The third chapter of the yoga sutra, which is called vibhuti, or accomplishment, is an instruction manual for that first, less crowded group.

When it comes to taking action, there are several universal human tendencies that can keep us locked in the cage of thinking about a beautiful thing while it hangs out of reach. One of these tendencies is nonchalance, and another related one is overstimulation. In yoga these two states are referred to as

tamas and rajas, or inertia and excitability

We recognize nonchalance by the way we say “whatever” in answer to a question. (Those clever French call it “ennui” – an exceedingly concise word that comes from the Latin phrase mihi in odio est -”it is hateful to me”.) However, we may not recognize nonchalance or inertia when it shows up as doing what “they” tell us to do, punching the clock, taking our pills, and in general “doing our best.”

We know overstimulation when it shows up as wall-to-wall traffic, industrial or urban noise, or a troublesome series of cellphone ringtones and emails. Overstimulation or excitability is also there in buzzing enthusiasm that spends itself in talking or doing errands, or in the display of good intentions that keep us incontestably, busily working even though we’re not getting to what we say matters.

Patanjali’s chapter on vibhuti describes power as the capacity to make the things we see as necessary really happen. Everything that compromises our intelligence, our luminosity or clarity, in the same moment compromises our ability to make things happen.

Accomplishment rests on giving up everything that isn’t focus

everything that compromises us. Practice puts us in a position to see what isn’t focus, to see the point where wanting to do something and doing something part paths.

Dr. Moshe Feldenkrais was one of the earliest scientists to appreciate the “unity of psyche and soma as the ground of our living.”* As a result of his study of learning and the nervous system, he maintained that the ability to engage, disengage, or reverse any activity, even repeatedly, without being troubled by doing so was an important potential of human development.

Feldenkrais called this development “maturity,” and considered it “possible only when there is fine control of excitation and inhibition and a normal ebb and flow between the parasympathetic and sympathetic.”

What he seems to be saying is we’re fully ourselves when we’re not at the mercy of nonchalance or overstimulation, not occupied with fight or flight, calculation or manipulation: we’re flowing with what’s going on at the moment. Mark Reese, Feldenkrais’ biographer observed this “echoes Eastern practices like Tantra.”

Harvard University’s Dr. Joshua Greene published a fascinating paper this summer, “Patterns of neural activity associated with honest and dishonest moral decisions.” He and fellow scientists

designed a study in which participants were given the opportunity to cheat

if they chose to and make money at it without anybody knowing. Using control groups and statistical analysis, Greene distinguished “dishonest” participants by the high number of cash reward answers they gave. With functional Magnetic Resonance Imaging (fMRI) the researchers were able to observe what went on in the brains of people who were cheating, comparing this with the activity in the brains of a group who weren’t.

What Greene and his team found supports Feldenkrais’ “normal ebb and flow between the parasympathetic and sympathetic” as well as Patanjali’s description of vibhuti. In the neural activity of honest people, there was a simple pattern of direct response. However, in the brains of those Greene observed who were dishonest, there was extra activity in the brain not only when they were cheating, but even at the moments when they were answering honestly.

Greene’s work provides a view of ourselves we can all recognize and understand. The fMRIs display the activity of our constant entanglement with an internal version of things we’re justifying and modifying: the distraction and patterning Patanjali says yoga is designed to end.

Like circuitous decisions about when to tell the truth, the stuff on the desk, the stuff in the garage, and the stuff we believe are not separate issues from what we decide is worth doing with our lives – it is our lives. Once we decide we’re going to focus, not just try to focus, but focus without accepting any other result but focussing, we’re going to be dealing with stuff we’ve been really trying to avoid. Practice is a tool to train our attention and break down our faith in the angles we play and how we weigh the odds.

The most difficult thing about dealing with lack of focus is seeing it for what it is in the first place. Lack of focus is so subtly about this moment and so casually about the one after it.

It’s easy to find yourself thinking, how can this moment be the one that matters?

Alcoholics talk about the difference between deciding to stop drinking while continuing to experience the sensation of wanting to drink, and the idea that a medication will make the desire to drink go away. If you rely on the second, I’ve been told, you don’t stand a chance. Being present is accepting how things really are. That’s not done in the big picture, it’s done in this moment, just as Patanjali says, in discerning and giving up attachment to whatever this moment is not.

According to Swami Satchidanada, “One who has achieved this may look similar to anyone else. But the burnt nature of his or her mental seeds is the difference between ordinary people and the jivanmuktas (liberated beings). They also eat, sleep and do everything like everybody else.”

Liberated beings “may be doing anything,” he tells us, like Feldenkrais’ mature adults, “but they are not affected by what they do.” Practice that imagines another freedom, or freedom in another world misses the point. There are “living liberated people,” he says and we should be among them acting in this world. “Liberation is not something you experience when you die. While living, you should be liberated.”

Sober people talk about the only real kind of focus: the chosen and deliberate kind. They describe very well how it happens: you give it not just a lot of energy, but all the energy you’ve got, leaving none for the calculation of what it will take, or how much you can get away with holding back. You go around finding nonsense to cut out, old business to complete and connections to make because it’s going to take more energy to be free than it did to try to be free, and you’ve decided to make it happen.

Quoted and Cited * tamas and rajas translated as inertia and excitability from Dr. Vasant Lad, Textbook of Ayurveda: Fundamental Principles, Albuquerque, New Mexico, 2002.

Moshe Feldenkrais, Body and Mature Behavior: A Study of Anxiety, Sex, Gravitation, & Learning. Berkeley California, 1949, and 2005.

Dr. Joshua Greene, et.al.,Patterns of neural activity associated with honest and dishonest moral decisions. 12506 –12511 PNAS July 28, 2009 vol. 106 no. 30

Sri Swami Satchidananda, The Yoga Sutras of Patajali Translation and Commentary. Yogaville, Virginia, 1978, and 2003.

from Being Luminous: Power, Freedom, and Focus https://deeppeaceyoga.com/wellness/being-luminous-power-freedom-and-focus/

#yoga articles #meditation articles #wellness articles #healing articles #yoga blog articles #meditation b

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365footballorg-blog · 6 years

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'I told him to be a travel agent' - England boss Southgate, by those who know him best

When Gareth Southgate was first put in charge of the England team, one national newspaper described the public reaction as a “mass wall of despair”.

After the debacle of losing to Euro 2016 and the embarrassment of Sam Allardyce’s tenure, England had turned to what looked to be the safe, corporate option.

Not only that, Southgate’s only previous senior managerial experience involved taking Middlesbrough down from the Premier League, then getting sacked.

But he has barely put a foot wrong.

Qualification for the World Cup was achieved without alarm, the end of Wayne Rooney’s international career was handled with kid gloves, and one of England’s youngest ever squads will travel to Russia in a new system that looks to be playing to their strengths.

Clear-thinking, straight-talking and appearing to be a thoroughly decent bloke, Southgate has somehow got England to a World Cup with optimism and realism in equal measure.

Here, the people who know him best speak of the real Southgate. From being advised to become a travel agent, to throwing up over the Crystal Palace chairman, Euro ’96 and beyond.

Listen to a BBC Radio 5 live special on Gareth Southgate from 20:00 BST on Monday

‘I’m at Palace next year’

Southgate, a boyhood Manchester United fan, attended Pound Hill Junior School and Hazelwick School, both in Crawley, Sussex. He has said both schools were “fundamental” in him taking up football, largely because of his PE teachers. Dave Palmer taught Southgate at Hazelwick.

He was very self-assured. I remember the last chat I had with him as a schoolboy. We were talking about the future and I was asking the boys what they would be doing the following year.

Gareth said “I’m at Crystal Palace” and it dawned on me that was what he would be doing. As a 16-year-old, he was talking with absolute certainty.

In those days, 60-odd boys used to turn up for football trials when they joined the school. He stood out straight away because he was so classy and had so much time. He used to glide around the pitch.

He was a multi-talented sportsman. He played rugby for the school, to the extent that when we went on a football and rugby tour to France, Gareth played both sports. He was quite quick, 200m was his best track event, but he also won the county championship and held the school record in the triple jump.

He was mature, had a good a sense of humour and a big smile. He was respected by his peers and teachers. He was very thoughtful and clever, as well as having a sharp wit. He set himself him high expectations in everything he did, either in the classroom or on the sports field.

There’s always a discussion when someone has so many different talents about where they take their life. He could have taken an academic route, or a sporting route. So many boys I’ve known have had high hopes in football, but there’s never any certainty. Gareth was sure he was on the right path.

‘I told him to become a travel agent’

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Southgate was released by Southampton as a youngster. He came to the attention of Palace youth-team manager Alan Smith, who would later make him captain of the first team. Even after they both left Palace, Southgate and Smith remained close. Southgate visited Smith within 24 hours of missing his Euro ’96 penalty and later, when manager of Middlesbrough, took Smith to Teesside as an advisor.

I had a doubt whether or not he had a career in professional football in him. We had one particular game, which we lost, and I called him into the office and said: “Gareth, I think you’re too bright to do this job. I think you have to make a choice. If it was my choice, I think you should become a travel agent.”

He was upset, but he took it on board. Instead of releasing him, I decided to go the other way and made him captain of the youth team, because I thought he had leadership qualities. Not because of what he said, but the way he went about his job.

I introduced him to an estate agent friend of mine that got him to do some work after training. He was measuring up, mundane stuff, looking to see if a property could be marketed or not. All of these things help build the character that you become. It opened his eyes to what was out there and showed him what is was like to deal with people outside football.

I was there when he threw up over the chairman, Ron Noades. It was a trip abroad and I had let the lads out for one night. Ron had his white shoes on and Gareth managed to do it. I heard plenty about it from Ron the next day. I can’t repeat what Ron’s words were, but I do know Gareth was very apologetic.

No-one can say he has had it easy. He has had to fight for everything he has got, even if he did come from a middle-class Crawley background. To miss the penalty at Euro 1996, to be sacked by Middlesbrough, these are things that chip away from you. They have made him a stronger character.

I know he went for one manager’s job many years ago and he didn’t get it because he was told he was too polite. He has principles. That does put him slightly aside from others. He has a real loyalty. He hasn’t forgotten his roots. These are all things that make up his DNA that have led him to the England job.

‘He was better at song titles than penalties’

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Southgate played every minute of England’s Euro ’96 campaign, that ended with his penalty miss against Germany. When he became England manager, he said he did not think he would ever have to go through a worse experience. Alan Shearer was part of the England team that night at Wembley.

Not long ago, I made a documentary about Euro ’96 and I asked Gareth if I could speak to him. He politely declined because he knew that one thing we wanted to talk about was the penalty miss and he’d had enough of it. Still to this day it will be hurting him.

He took a penalty because he’s brave. The manager was looking around for characters and one or two put their heads down, not wanting to take a penalty. That wasn’t Gareth. After the five designated penalty takers were allotted, the manager was asking ‘who’s after that?’ and Gareth stuck his hand up.

I would never criticise anyone that has the courage, the balls, to put his hand up to take a penalty, particularly in those circumstances. When you have 90,000 in the stadium, 10 or 15 million watching on TV, it takes a certain character to put his hand up to take a penalty. There was nothing that I or anyone else could say to make him feel any better.

Two years later we were at France ’98. Tournaments can be a bit boring, doing the same thing for four or five weeks. We came up with the idea to fit as many song titles as possible into the interviews that we gave.

Because the players’ room was next door to the TV room and the interviews were going out live, once we got the song title in, you could hear a roar when the players realised you’d done it.

Gareth managed to sneak Club Tropicana and Careless Whispers into an interview with Bob Wilson. He was definitely one of the brighter ones, so he was better at that than most. He was certainly better at song titles than he was at taking penalties.

‘He was already like a manager’

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Southgate had caught the eye of Sven-Goran Eriksson when the Swede was manager of Lazio. When Eriksson became England manager in 2001, he had to manage Southgate’s disappointment at falling behind the likes of Rio Ferdinand and Sol Campbell. Southgate was part of the England squad for the 2002 World Cup, but did not play a single minute. He won the last of his 57 caps against Sweden in 2004, two years before the end of Eriksson’s spell in charge.

He came to me and asked for a meeting. He wanted to know how to make himself better. That’s not easy, to keep working, on and on to make yourself better than players like Sol Campbell and Rio Ferdinand. It’s a little unusual. In my experience, players don’t come to the manager.

He wants to resolve problems with talks, more than with shouting. It was easy to speak to him. He was never angry or irritated, he was always very polite.

I could see that he was a thinking man. He thought about the training we did, why we did something in a certain way. You could see that he lived for football. He was very eager to learn and I wouldn’t be surprised if at that time he was thinking of being a manager in the future.

I have had many players who are not interested who the opponent is, they just want to play, but he was never the sort of player that did his training, then left without thinking about it. I’m quite sure he took it home with him. When you have players like that, you can see in the future they will be coaches or managers.

When he was as a player, he was already like a manager, a coach. I’m sure that Southgate, in the past, has talked to a lot of managers with a lot experience, trying to find out secrets and advice. He is a good talker, but an even better listener.

‘They nicknamed him ‘Insurance”

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Southgate ended his playing career to become Middlesbrough manager in the summer of 2006. At 35, he was the youngest manager in the Premier League. He guided Boro to 12th and 13th over the following two seasons, but presided over their relegation in 2009. He was sacked on 21 October 2009, despite the club lying fourth in the Championship. Michael Caulfield was the Boro psychologist from soon after Southgate was appointed until they were relegated from the top flight.

When he was still playing, his Boro team-mates nicknamed him ‘Insurance’. George Boateng said whatever happened up the field, they knew they had Gareth behind them, ready to be used if needed, like an insurance policy.

He went from being a player in the May to the manager in June, so the dynamic had to change. He understood he couldn’t be their best mate, but the players knew he was of good character and he would treat them right.

One day, I took him to see some cricket – Durham v Sussex in Chester-le-Street. It was a low-scoring game and we sat in the Sussex dressing room, watching their batsmen waiting to go in.

He turned to me and said: “I admire these athletes, because they have too much thinking time. How must it feel to watch wickets fall, knowing that you’re next? That is so different to what footballers have to do.” He spoke to them, wanting to know how they coped with it. He never stopped asking questions, trying to learn. Not once did he talk about himself.

Gareth is brave. Not the physical bravery of leading your country into war, but the kind that means he will always front up.

In our last home game of the 2008-09 season, we had to beat Aston Villa otherwise it was pretty certain that we’d go down. We only drew 1-1. When the final whistle was greeted with boos and jeers, a lot of managers would have shaken hands then disappeared down the tunnel.

Gareth marched into the centre circle to applaud the fans. Even though he wasn’t being well received, he made sure he turned to all four corners of the ground. It was fight or flight and he never looked back.

‘The Marines link goes further than running through mud’

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Southgate replaced Allardyce after one game of England’s World Cup qualifying campaign in the autumn of 2016. They secured their place in Russia in October 2017 with a game to spare but, since then, have changed their system. Assistant manager Steve Holland has been with Southgate throughout his tenure as England boss.

One of the the things he identified on taking the job was there was an issue on the back of the Iceland defeat and previous tournaments. I’d be fair in saying the sum of the mass didn’t quite balance between what it delivered. Why was that? Was it handling a pressure situation that left the players not delivering what they do for their clubs?

He has gone about trying to change that. We have a link with the Marines that is beyond climbing up trees and running through mud, but how these guys drop into other countries in the middle of the night and handle the pressure of if they are one step out of the plan, they get shot? They know what really is pressure, how to handle that, and we have learned from that.

In terms of watching England players in club football, I’m sure England staff in the past have been 100% committed, but it’s impossible that any of them have watched more matches than we have done this year. The same is possible, maybe, but not more.

If there’s an early kick-off and a late on Saturday, we’ll do two games. Regularly, there’s Tuesday and Wednesday in the Champions League, then Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Every Monday morning, after a weekend of fixtures, we’ll meet to discuss the games that we’ve watched.

We went to the Confederations Cup in the summer of 2017 and had the chance to discuss how England had been playing. We’d played a 4-2-3-1 formation in qualifying. We watched potential opponents – Germany played 3-4-3. We were looking at the opposition, trying to imagine where our team stood up against them.

We made some decisions that we felt would take the team to the next phase. We still had to qualify, so we didn’t want to bring those changes in too early. Once we qualified, we had a game to spare, and we used that game to play with three centre-halves. That is what we have done ever since.

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'I told him to be a travel agent' – England boss Southgate, by those who know him best was originally published on 365 Football

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