The way of the warrior

calves were bashed black and blue, as the shorter Thai boxers could always spring higher in the air and land on his kneecap or aim to break his leg by kicking from behind that vulnerable spot between foot and ankle. But by reflecting on the wisdom of Bishido, The Way of the Warrior, Ron was still young enough to believe himself capable of daring bravery in battle, at the same time showing respect for others. That was the Oriental way of the gentleman. Together with the discipline of rehearsing moves and stretching exercises and the mere act of focus that he’d never learnt at school, he was infused with self-esteem in spades.

Unbeaten, he remained. Those were the days.

To kill time, now that he was down, Ron watched hundreds of action or fantasy videos, Bond, Rambo, Dr Who, in his second-storey unit, which was compact but darkly lit with a burnt orange penumbra, sitting in the wrought iron chair with leather cushions and half-carriage wheels for sides that his old man had fashioned fifty years before. Often he would look at the glass frame hanging up on the wall at Carlton jumper number 25 signed by Alex Jesaulenko above a photo of Jezza soaring for a mark on the shoulders of Jerker Jenkin in the 1970 Grand Final, while his own grounded knee was giving him gyp in cold weather.

And there were bonzer highlights, like his bouncing days at the old Sunbury concerts, Fleetwood Mac or Deep Purple playing in front of humungous crowds, some six or seven hundred thou, cracking down alongside the cops on blatant shooting up, when the sickly smell of cannabis was tangible, or the six a.m. sweep, where he’d notice hundreds of condoms in the mixed showers and makeshift toilets on top of the hill in front of the stage. And then the revelation in the idols’ motel rooms, the two glass bowls on a table containing cocaine and amphetamines, uppers and downers, and their bizarre requests for a completely black room to sleep in or one with stars painted on the ceiling.

And then he could chuckle at the memory of casual shifts as a stuntman alongside the likes of Mel Gibson in ‘Gallipoli’, sitting around playing poker or gin rummy in a tent for three days, nursing his bruises from falling off a horse during too many takes; yes, it was tough work all right, waiting for the weather in South Australia to clear up and morph into Egypt or bucket down for the assault on Turkish trenches; but if it didn’t, the crew would resort to a giant water tank and hoses. And he still saw