Eddie Betts: The Boy From Boomerang Crescent Read online

  That wasn’t the only time my love of adventure and speed got me in trouble. Mum says I got concussed three times as a kid. Once, I was riding a motorbike and fell off and hit my head. Another time, Dad and I were on the bumpy-cars at the show and got hit so hard that I was knocked out cold – my family were very panicked! And the third time… well, I can’t remember.

  Mum reckons I had no patience and that everything I did had to be flat-out. She always laughs out loud remembering the time I went roller skating – she reckons it was the funniest thing she ever saw. I’d never been on roller skates before, but that didn’t stop me from going at top speed from the start. I’d go at a million miles an hour until I ran out of room, and then, since I didn’t know how to stop, I’d just crash into the barrier. Then I’d turn around, go a million miles an hour in the other direction until I crashed again.

  * * *

  Early life for me was in Kalgoorlie, living in a rented three-bedroom house in Cavalier Crescent, just up the road from Nanna and Pop’s. We spent most of our time at their place, since there were always plenty of people around and lots of fun to be had there.

  Nanna had so many grandkids, and she used to offer up a 50-dollar prize to whichever one of us went to school the most in a year. I was obviously competitive from an early age and really wanted to win. One morning, I woke up at 5am, got dressed, jumped on my bike and rode in the dark to Nanna and Pop’s place to tell them I was ready for school. I’m not sure they were too impressed that I was waking them up so early with the news, so they told me to jump in bed with them and I went back to sleep. I did win the $50 that year – but I’m probably lucky the bet wasn’t laid for my high school years. By then, I hated going to school, and even cash wouldn’t have changed my mind.

  I only ever ate Weet-Bix. I’d have three for breakfast, three for lunch and three more for dinner, all with powdered milk and sugar. Pop used to make his tin cup of tea with powdered milk and when he was finished I’d take the powder and milk it up with warm water, then pour it over the cereal, sprinkle on some sugar and top it all off with more powdered milk. It sounds pretty gross now, but I remember it tasting great when I was a kid. To this day, I usually eat Weet-Bix for breakfast before every training session and game.

  When I got a bit older we used to get to Nanna and Pop’s by 7.30am every school morning and Nanna would have a massive pot of porridge cooked for all 16 of us cousins. We’d eat that while our parents headed off to work and then we’d get going to school. The house was perfectly located in between the primary school and the high school.

  It’s funny remembering all these stories from my childhood. I remember growing up with my family was deadly; we were free to play and there were always people around to comfort us when we needed it. The ‘nuclear’ idea doesn’t apply to our family. My family isn’t just my mother and father and siblings – it’s also my Aunties and Uncles, my cousin-uncles, my cousins, my cousins’ cousins, my friends, my friends’ cousins, and on and on. I always had someone to sleep in the same bed with and we would share everything – money, food, thoughts, stories, laughter.

  Most of my life in Kalgoorlie revolved around my Pop’s place at 12 Boomerang Crescent. There was an alleyway next to his house that went down to 27 Starlight Street, my Aunty Tessa’s house, who was basically my other mum. All my male cousins lived there too, and that front yard was our playing field, our training track, our basketball court and our tackling chute. We used to chase and play with each other up and down there, back and forth between the two houses, until it was too dark to see. Our goal posts were shoes and socks and the basketball hoop at Pop’s was an old milk crate with the bottom cut out of it, nailed to a tree.

  We also used to play this game called ‘Boondies’ where we’d make forts in the backyard. We’d dig up holes and the dirt was so hard that it’d come up in rocks – the game was chucking these clumps of dirt and rocks at each other.

  My biggest influence growing up were my brothers – or my cousins, to use the whitefulla term. I idolised my Dad and Uncles, but it was my older cousins who I wanted to be like the most. I grew up mimicking them – and they were mimicking their fathers. Every year, they’d play footy at the Blackfulla Carnival and I was their water-boy from the age of seven.

  I had a few cousin-brothers who were younger than me – Kevin, Donald, Richard – and we wanted to compete against the older boys. The ones who were a few years older than me – Victor, Tim and Andrew Champion, Russell ‘Rusty’ Carbine – well, there’s no other way to say it than that I wanted to be just like them. I wanted to be with them and to be a part of their pack. We’d play full-contact games of footy and, of course, I’d lose most of the time – but that always pushed me to get better. I hated losing. Sometimes I’d even cry. There were times when they weren’t interested in me hanging around, but I was always ready to play whenever they were.

  We would go bush heaps and spend whole days out there hunting, shooting and mucking around. There were plenty of old mines in and around Kalgoorlie, and we used to go looking for them and find the ones that had water in the bottom. They were our swimming holes. We’d make water slides out of the clay or just jump off rocks into them. We also had ‘the Tree’, which we tied a rope to and would swing off into the water all day. I vaguely remember jumping off the big cliff at the place we called ‘Open Cut’ – but I’m pretty sure a few others fell off it. Mum didn’t like us going to that place. She thought it was too dangerous.

  * * *

  When I ask Mum what she remembers about me growing up, the first thing that comes to mind for her are the times I had brushes with the monarch (the WA police) or wulja (the SA police), although I reckon you could argue that the law was brushing against me more than it needed to.

  One time, when I was in primary school at Kalgoorlie, one of my cousins ran down to tell Mum the police had ‘got me’. Mum skittled off to the police station and asked to see me, but they told her I wasn’t there. Mum was left standing in front of the station, asking whoever would listen, ‘Where the hell is he? You arrested him and now you can’t find him?’ She demanded that they ring around all the hospitals to see where I was. When they still couldn’t locate me, she rushed over to my Aunty’s house – to find me sitting there watching videos on the couch.

  What had happened was that a few of us had been wandering around the Kalgoorlie streets near dark, and the cops put their ‘spotties’ on us and lined us all up against a fence. Then they asked for our names, which we gave them. I remember one of the coppers saying, ‘Well, the winner is Mr Betts: you’re staying with us. We’ve got a warrant for you.’ And then they cuffed me. I told them I hadn’t done anything wrong and that they couldn’t have a warrant for me, but they put me in the back of the police car. The rest of my brothers scattered – including Tim, who took off and ran straight to our house. He was the one who told Mum the cops got me. Mum went barrelling off to the police station, but I was still being held in the back of the car. Around then the coppers finally worked out that the warrant they had was in fact for my dad – also Eddie Betts. They asked me if I knew where he was, and I told them I had no idea (even though I knew he was just around the corner).

  Eventually they let me out of the car but by then it was dark. I was eight or nine at the time, but already old enough to realise that it could be dangerous for somebody like me to be outside by myself after dark in the streets of Kalgoorlie. The coppers knew that too. Whenever you saw headlights coming in your direction you understood there were two threats: it was either the coppers that were going to pull you up or a civilian car that you were going to get chased by.

  Another time, the cops chucked me in the back of a paddy wagon after I had been riding a motorbike up and down the street next to Kalgoorlie high school, which was at the end of Pop’s street, after school had finished for the day. Mum saw what was happening and barrelled up, demanding to know why I’d been arrested. The whole time, I was crying my eyes out. I had refused to give them my na
me and address. I was just too scared. I was scared of the cops themselves and I also thought I’d get in trouble at home. One thing’s for sure, though: there were plenty of white kids riding motorbikes around that school and the coppers never picked them up.

  When I was growing up, being stopped by the police was always a possibility. It was a reality hanging over us. It was an expectation. Sometimes, when something bad has consistently been a part of your life and it’s caused you nothing but fear, that fear just becomes normal.

  That’s not to say I didn’t do some things that were wrong. Mum still tells me about the day a police van pulled up out the front of the house with one of my cousins sitting in the front seat and me in the lock-up bit in the back. She guesses I was about 10 years old. We had broken into the house around the corner. I can’t even remember why we did it, but Mum reckons one of us took a poster, one took a balloon and another took a cup. Apparently, I took a spoon. To this day, I have no idea why I wanted it. I do remember being the one who had to climb through the window at the house just because I was the smallest.

  * * *

  When I think back to my childhood, what I really recall is that it was all about family. We never went without and we were raised with a strong sense of belonging. Our family made sacrifices for each other and we learned to put others before ourselves. We were taught to respect our Elders and our traditions, and, most importantly, we were taught to have a strong sense of self-identity. I believe that these sorts of family connections not only keep us together but are the reason why our Culture has survived and thrived for so long.

  Mum also reckons that even back then she used to tell people she was going to have an AFL-playing son. I certainly didn’t end up playing just to make that come true, but she always did everything in her power to make sure her kids could have the opportunity to play at the highest level.

  Sport was very important to me as a kid. It allowed me to feel like there was somewhere I could belong outside of my family networks. It was where I thought I could fit in best. I was good at it, and it gave me a way to break down barriers without any awkward conversations. I played footy first, basketball second and all the others a distant third – but it was soccer that got my name in the paper for the first time.

  ‘BETTS PUTS ON ONE-MAN SHOW,’ says the headline in Goldfields Magazine of 2 June 1994. I had booted 11 of 13 goals for the Under 7s Boulder soccer team against the YMCA Blacks. Apparently, I was the difference between the two sides. ‘YMCA tried hard all game but just did not have an answer to Betts’ goal scoring prowess,’ the paper reported.

  * * *

  Growing up in the ’90s in Kalgoorlie wasn’t easy for my family. The ongoing impact of colonisation and accompanying trauma was felt throughout the community, and my family certainly wasn’t immune to the intergenerational side effects of this. It was only one generation above me that some of my family were stolen; some came back, some never returned, but the impact of children being taken away was etched into our minds and, it’s been proven, in changes to our genetics forever.

  We experienced family and domestic violence so regularly when I was young, and it was usually related to alcohol misuse. Sometimes the pain of the past, or even the present, became be too much and family members would drink alcohol to get by, or basically to numb themselves.

  Us cousins had to learn how to care for each other during repeated episodes.

  Aunty Tessa’s daughter, my sister Ella Smith, and I learnt strategies together to support the young cousins if something was going down. Ella and I were the middle-ordered cousins and therefore, while the older brothers were out of the house, we were generally home looking out for the smaller kids. We became experts on managing situations, reading people, diffusing tension and even sheltering the younger cousins.

  Ella and I have always been really close. We have a strong bond that was developed through our upbringing but also continues today, being leaders in our communities, using our voices and raising our kids to be strong on Culture and identity.

  There were times when the violence was too much for some of my Aunties and my mother, and occasionally they took things into their own hands. They were strong and resilient and not afraid to call it out if they saw something that wasn’t right. The safest option for our family was not to phone the police; we were never sure what would happen if the cops came, so we tried to manage things ourselves internally. Calling the police was usually the very last resort.

  Getting involved meant conflict and this could be full on, however, there was one thing for sure: my family members never held grudges. Usually by the next morning everyone would be friends again and it was like the day before hadn’t even happened. Our family Culture is usually very peaceful, so alcohol-fuelled violence just brought out the worst.

  As we all went on to get jobs and undergo further education, my whole family’s approach to violence changed. My mother now works in our community with domestic violence survivors and uses Cultural healing practices to heal our people.

  I sometimes wonder about the burden on her now, especially since I’ve had kids, and how protecting not only yourself but your children from violence must have been really tough.

  Dad didn’t want me to play soccer – simple as that. He had worn the blue and white of the Mines Rovers footy club in Kalgoorlie and that meant I was going to as well. Mum took me down to the club to get a game in the Under 11s, and after all that alleyway football with my cousins and brothers, I was hooked.

  I vaguely remember turning up for the first training. I was still a shy kid, but that club was a little bit different for me. I felt comfortable there because I knew most of the kids through school – and because several of my family members were playing in the older grades. Even before I picked up a football, I felt like I belonged on that paddock.

  My first coach was Trevor Tasker, who was one of the local firemen. His son Damien played with us, and we made it to the grand final in that first year but lost. It was all about having fun in those days and that suited me, because for years I had been playing more competitive footy in that alley with my brothers. Those games were intense. Playing for the Mines Rovers Under 11s was just about being free and chasing the ball. I was so busy having fun that I had no idea if I was any good or not. I hoped I was, because I wanted to be like my dad, my brothers and my Uncles. (I had one Uncle who was so starving for the ball, you knew not to kick it to him: Trevor ‘Hungry’ Sambo would never pass it off.)

  I can’t remember specific games from that time – not even my first match. But the overwhelming memory I have when I think about those games of footy is running – running and chasing that ball. I think I kicked six or seven goals in my first or second game. The footy back then was so different from what it is for kids now. There weren’t ‘zones’ or places you had to be: if you wanted the ball, you went and got it.

  To get to the games, we’d ride our bikes or grab a lift with anyone we could. There were two main ovals we had to get to: Boulder City’s, which had two club rooms, and Railway’s. We hated Railway; they were our great and fierce rivals.

  After a match, if I was lucky, Mum would give me 10 or 20 bucks and I’d be able to stay and watch my brothers and relatives play in the 17s, 18s and seniors. I used to love sitting around and watching those games.

  * * *

  There wasn’t really a date when Mum and Dad split up. It was more that he went off to prison and took ages to come back, and they just moved apart.

  I remember going there to visit him – walking through the police doors to sign in, sitting in a room with the other visitors and waiting for the man in the green uniform to come in and say hello. Dad would be happy to see us, but I can’t remember saying anything to him. My mum and sisters might have different memories – I can’t say. Dad was away for a long time and it was during that period when Nanna started to get sick. Nanna was gentle and loving and so important to us all, but she was diagnosed with cancer and she passed away soon after that.


  Nanna was a major support for Mum and when she was gone Mum soon began to battle with depression. I was about 11 when the situation was at its hardest. Again, I have no clear memories of it, but often Mum’s sisters would come and take me out of the house to stay with them for a while. Without a doubt, that was the toughest time our family has ever gone through. None of us ever saw the inside of a child welfare office though, because someone would always step up and help.

  My memory is patchy with this stuff. Some people have suggested that I might have forgotten in order to protect myself. I’m glad I don’t remember it all. And I don’t blame my parents for anything. Not one bit.

  After Dad got out, I’d head over to Port Lincoln to see him and I’d play footy there too, running out for Mallee Park. It was an all-Aboriginal club, and again, it felt like home to me. A lot of the players there were really talented – probably more talented than me. I got to play with my cousins there too. The style of footy we played was very different – every single play and move was done on instinct. I loved that. That year, I was runner up in the Under 14s Best and Fairest for the Lincoln League.

  The games were easy enough, but getting people to training wasn’t. I always turned up just because I wanted to kick, but on average the most we’d get to any session would be about 10 players. I never got annoyed at people for not showing, though – it was just one of those things. I was still happy to be there, even if there were only nine others playing with me.

  My love of footy, combined with shuttling between Port Lincoln and Kalgoorlie, started to interfere with my schooling. To say I wasn’t a massive fan of school at that time is an understatement. I enjoyed travelling and moving around, but missing a lot of school is one of the biggest regrets of my life. I spend a lot of time now talking to kids about how important education is and why life has been harder for me without it. Now, though, I also have the knowledge to understand why I didn’t feel overly safe at school as a kid. The education system I was in was built for certain types of people, and I wasn’t one of them. Our Indigenous perspectives are different and at times that can make things complex for a kid like me in a classroom. In the end, when I finished primary school, I still couldn’t read and write. In class, I just used to hope and pray that they wouldn’t ask me anything.