And it was a beautiful Maitland pumpkin vine upon which me, and all of us did climb; and there to see them mythical black jerseys shine once more.

And how right or wrong, they were my Saturday heroes dear reader –them mighty Pumpkin Pickers. 

And I’ll never forget the feeling of seeing them surge down out of them yonder Horseshoe Bend stands, how they blurred past me and charged out there for us, our hands reaching to touch their backs, their eyes locked firmly ahead: fell and true.

And I was up in Bulwer Street at the Maitland Leagues Club dear friends, and like the Banjo said, “all the tried and noted riders had mustered at the homestead?” 

And for me it was like being inside a great mythical poem; the giants of my childhood all gathered there under a cold Saturday sky, their faces lit bright by memories and friendships and the pride in their families’ eyes. And what sights and sensations to behold dear friends?

And the stories of their triumphs and battles were told once again. The tales I’d heard whispered all my life dragged up now from the depths – out into the light. 

And the names called out into the air again, like we’d heard before through the crackling speakers down at that lovely ground: Burrows, Adams, Burke, Finch, Trewhella, Wawszkowicz, Ellis. And they stood in their places and raised a reluctant hand. 

And there were others who are sadly no longer here, gone now, unable to stand there beside their brothers: Threlfo, Graves, Harley, Pidding, McMahon, Bell, Callinan – but there were some to stand up for them, to say thank you, to let them be seen again; to be remembered.

And around the room the crooked hands of friends, of mates, clasped to each other once more; those same magic hands that flicked and tackled and worked their magic and courage for the town – it was grand to see them all again.

And the way Jim Morgan’s name was called, and how it was sad that he remained a mystery to me – a great legendary warrior, a Maitland boy always.

And then the legend, Terry Pannowitz: and I was there that sunny day when for him they named the grandstand, I saw him play down there on that beautiful river-soaked soil of ours – and I count myself a lucky man for that, a lucky man for that.

And the way he mentioned his mates and his memories, how he remembered Les Drew, that mercurial wizard who so delighted me back then. And the way he said he had a hero, and how that hero was Merv Wright (pictured), and how the crowd clapped hard and loud to hear him say such a thing.

And then at last they called him up, Merv Wright, the great Merv Wright. 

And he put down his coffee cup and rose up from his chair did Mr Merv Wright, and I could hear them cheer for him again, throughout the hall and through all them Maitland streets and houses and fields, and even them yonder lonely hills out there were a-cheerin. And there wasn’t a one who  wouldn’t cheer for that champion.

And he stood there in front of the town, his face smiling, a hand on his hip, as game as ever – there with his jersey, his forever number 5, with that mythic mighty M above the heart. 

And I’m a lucky man to have seen him standing that dear reader, to have seen them all.

And so it goes. Goodnight.