How was your Friday?
I assume your day was a little different to mine.
My working day started at 7am at the Newcastle Herald offices. I’ve come in to work a couple of hours
early to ensure the boss has no issues with me skipping out a little
prematurely in the afternoon.
I’m off to Sydney
to call the Australian Lightweight Title fight between Robert Toomey and George
‘ Ferocious’ Kambosos at Club Punchbowl later that evening.
I’m meant to arrive at 6pm, which means I have to be out on
the road by at least 3:30pm.
The early mark means I don’t take a lunchbreak, but it helps
me get on the road on time and off on my journey.
I begin my journey to Club Punchbowl, a route I’ve taken
previously, which is a 2.5 hour drive, on a good day.
Today is not a good day.
It’s wet, conditions are tricky and I need everything to
fall nicely into place.
Radio reports tell me that there’s a breakdown ahead, great!
There’s a slight delay, but I get off the highway relatively on track and I’m
now facing the dreaded Pennant
Hills Rd.
It’s a slog and I’ve hit it smack bang on 5pm, but
fortunately it’s not too bad and I’m still on target.
Another delay at Lidcombe almost brings me unstuck, but I
pull into Rickard Rd McDonald’s at Bankstown
with minutes to spare.
I swallow the only thing I’ll have eaten since a 6.30am
Banana in the five minute drive to Club Punchbowl and walk through the doors of
the event at 6.05pm.
Job done. Everything has gone to plan.
Or has it.
The man behind the live stream I’m working on can’t get the
audio equipment to work.
“Do you know how to work this stuff? I’m not used to this
equipment,” he tells me.
I’ve setup similar
operations during my time calling sport on community radio, so I try my best to
help. I turn on the power switch ( YES!) and fiddle around with the different buttons and switches, testing, hypothesising, testing again.
After half an hour of fiddling, I’m handed an instruction
book.
“See if this helps” the man says.
It didn’t.
Long story short, the commentary didn’t happen.
The man in charge ended the search for microphone volume
with this line.
“I’m more interested in getting these cameras right, I don’t
really care about the commentary.”
Awesome.
So I bite my tongue, pickup my notebook, containing the
research I’d spent three nights working on, find a seat at ringside and enjoy
the event.
The promoter comes over, apologises and hands me $100 for my
trouble. It’s quite a bit less than what I was meant to make, but I appreciate
the gesture.
He’s a friend and he couldn’t be more apologetic. It’s not
his fault.
The funny thing is, it’s not the worst story I have to tell.
That would be the time I called a National Youth League
match in Gosford, between the Central Coast Mariners and the Perth Glory.
I arrived in the commentary box to find that the council had
ripped out all the phone lines during the week, meaning we couldn’t connect our
audio gear as required to get the broadcast back to 6RPH in Perth .
So, I called the game with my IPhone on speaker, with a
co-commentator sitting alongside.
There are plenty of other stories too, but it’s all apart of
the crazy ride I started on when I began life in the media as an 18-year-old.
So far it’s taken me to Koori Radio, 2SSRFM, Network Ten,
Greater Western Sydney GIANTS, Gold Coast Titans, Newcastle Herald and hundreds
of commentary gigs across the country.
It’s cost me friends, I’ve missed people’s weddings, and
it’s cost me relationships.
Apparently calling a football match for free on a Saturday
night instead of spending time with your girlfriend is not on.
I’ve stalked, harassed and networked with all the right
people and I don’t know how many times I’ve heard the line – “Keep getting
experience”
If only they knew.
There’s times when I think of packing it in, but then I
realise that everything I’ve put in over the last nine years would be for
nothing.
I’m starting to book commentary gigs with more regularity
and all the right people know I exist, well at least I hope they do.
I’ve peppered their emails and post boxes that often over
the last few years; they should know I’m around.
I occasionally get
allowed into commentary boxes at different events and get the chance to see the
‘pro’s’ do their work.
I sit quietly at the back, scribble some notes and generally
stay out of the way.
It sure looks easy.
Maybe it’s because of the multiple screens they have to
watch the game on, or the stats man sitting beside them, or the producer in
their ear, telling them about the substitution that’s about to happen.
Or it could be because they’re just very good!
There are definitely no technical problems, no incorrect
team sheets, no tinted glass, no IPhones, no poor lighting, no open air boxes. There’s
catering, correct payment, no lost invoices and they don’t have to transport or
setup the gear.
I pull into the service station on my way back to Newcastle and refill the
tank that had been drained by the journey down.
I look at the fuel pump, it reads $87.03.
I pull out the $100 I’ve been handed hours earlier and pay
the cashier.
He hands me back $12.80 in change.
“All that for that” I say to myself.
I jump back in the car and restart the journey home, with
work starting again in a couple of hour’s time.
I slump back into my desk and clock on for another day and
begin typing what you’ve just been reading.
“How was the boxing last night?” a colleague asks.
“Priceless” I reply.
