10:49 a.m., 11.12.03
The Malvern Poodles

We slept in my brother's room at my parents' house last night, and I found something that made me smile.

I used to coach him and his buddies in an under 15 basketball team called "Jam Time." It wasn't a bad team - in fact, I still play with some of those guys now, and another has gone on to be a bit of an international basketball star.

We played down at the Tooronga Road EcaCentre, and my mum was the president of the competition, largely because nobody else would put up with all the shit that it entailed. The biggest bone of contention, it seemed, was the shoe scuff marks on the floor. Kids would turn up in $200 sneakers that had "non-marking soles" written on the side, and they would still mark the floor, and mum would have to tell them and their pissed-off parents they couldn't wear their brand new shoes on the court.

Fun and games all round. It was in that competition that we used to have to play a separate Sunday game against a jewish team. We used to get our youngest brother to run around flipping the opposition's little caps off their heads and stealing the ball when they were trying to get them back on.

But what I found last night was a certificate for when my brother's team won the grand final that year.

When I had been given the forms to register the team at the start of the season, I had taken the opportunity to rename the team as a shot at my brother. So when the fixtures came out that year, all the Cougars and Cheetahs and other powerful-sounding teams would have been quaking in their boots at the thought of playing...

THE MALVERN POODLES!

The whole team tried to belt me for that one. They got laughed at and ridiculed by every other team in the competition, naturally enough.

And in response, they kicked some serious arse.

So yup, the certificate congratulated my brother and the Poodles on their winning season.

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