Beating the Odds

CHAPTER 1

School Days

1969

It was a windy Monday morning in the depths of winter and the school auditorium was icy cold. Four hundred silent young men and boys seated side by side, row by row, in their identical blue uniforms, faced the stage, waiting for the spectacle to unfold. A random cough and a squeaky seat echoed across the great hall. The atmosphere was thick with dread and excitement.

An incident had occurred on the weekend and the full weight of the Marist Brothers’ corporal punishment was about to be administered. An announcement had been made at breakfast over the PA: the whole school was to assemble in the theatre. Brother Dominus, the school discipline master, clad in black cassock, stood centre-stage, staring down at the audience and flexing his cane in anticipation.

‘This morning, gentleman, I have gathered you here for a rather unpleasant announcement. To my very great disappointment, a group of individuals from this school,’ he bellowed, ‘have brought us all into discredit.’ Brother Dominus paused and a general murmur and shuffling of feet permeated the auditorium, before silence descended once more.

‘Would the following boys please stand: Mullins, Tripp, Hanlon, Ippolito, Muir, McNamara, Borbas and Murphy.’

One by one, the young men, randomly seated throughout the theatre, rose like unwilling poppies. Cassock-clad Brothers positioned strategically throughout the hall lent the full weight of authoritarian Catholicism to the situation. Brother Dominus continued his tirade and Alan Tripp felt the mass of four hundred sets of eyes boring into him. Despite Brother Dominus’s tyrannical reputation for discipline, Alan was curiously calm. They were caught and he’d cop it sweet. Bloody funny weekend, though, he thought to himself.

‘This morning we are going to make an example of these rogues who have brought disrepute upon themselves and their school.’ Brother Dominus’s voice boomed across the hall. ‘In an act of vile deceit, this despicable bunch — students whose duty it is to uphold the integrity of this school — have lied and deceived and shamed themselves in the eyes of our fine institution, the community, and in the eyes of God.’ Brother Dominus’s finger shot up, motioning toward the crucifix positioned dominantly on the wall behind him.

He paused for effect, his small brown eyes scanning the auditorium. ‘Smoking, drinking and lying,’ he shouted. ‘When you should have been attending a football match. You have abused the trust of this school. Step forward as I call you. Mullins.’

Dan Mullins dutifully walked to the stage, his face pale.

‘Hold out your left hand.’

The trembling of Mullins’s hand was visible even to the back rows of the auditorium. Brother Dominus took his time, and not a murmur was heard before the swish of the cane cut through the air and found its mark with a frightening crack.

‘Hold out your left hand,’ Brother Dominus repeated to Mullins, who was now squeezing his throbbing palm under his armpit.

The boy held out his hand again, an angry red welt already forming, and he was caned twice more. He winced in an effort to withstand the pain.

‘Hold out your right hand,’ Brother Dominus ordered.

A collective murmur swept across the hall. This was unheard of. Public canings rarely occurred, and even then three was considered the limit, not five! The other boys, still standing among their seated peers, shuffled from foot to foot. This was more than they’d bargained for.

Alan had been caned before. It was always a daunting experience, but more so this time because it was public. He and his band of mates weren’t scared of the Brothers, despite their Draconian punishments. It was just that they had so much fun getting one past the Brothers. It was the only way they stayed sane in the strictly regimented Catholic environment.

When Brother Dominus was finished with Mullins, he called Hanlon to the stage, who was also caned across the palms. Then it was Ippolito’s turn, followed by Muir, McNamara, Borbas and Murphy. The whole event had taken nearly half an hour. Alan was the only one left standing in the auditorium.

‘Tripp, step forward.’

Alan took a deep breath, then walked, almost swaggered, up to the stage, giving off an air of calm disdain. Brother Dominus, scrutinising his passage, rested his cane in the palm of his hand. Alan was not a big lad but he wasn’t the smallest either. He was athletic, certainly handsome, with his bright green eyes, easy smile and shock of dark hair. He didn’t speak much, and when he did you had to strain to hear him, but he was influential among the boys. This was why Brother Dominus had pegged him as the leader of this latest transgression.

‘Well, have a look at you, Tripp,’ he began. ‘I bet you think you’re pretty tough. You would look tough, wouldn’t you, with a weed hanging out of the side of your mouth — yeah, sure.’

Alan couldn’t help himself. Whether it was the pitch or tone of Brother Dominus’s delivery or the image he had just conjured up, the boy burst out laughing, triggering a spontaneous roar from the rest of the hall. Judging by the wry smile on Brother Dominus’s face, even he saw the funny side. The laughter went on for far longer than it should have, acting as a release valve for the pent-up tension.

‘Hold out your left hand, Tripp.’

Despite receiving five of Brother Dominus’s finest cuts, Alan never uttered a sound.

‘Now go to my office and wait there with the rest,’ the Brother ordered. Back at Brother Dominus’s office more punishment awaited them and each of them were given the strap across their backsides.

*

Life at Assumption College was tough. The Brothers’ strict and constant supervision, the corporal punishment, the cloistered confines of a Catholic boarding school, and the school’s heavy emphasis on sport created a unique environment that was mentally and physically demanding. These strains had the effect of uniting the students. By the time they reached matriculation, their shared circumstances had created life-long bonds.

Alan had begun at Assumption when he was thirteen years old and in Form Two. He had figured out the school systems pretty quickly — both the strict Marist Brothers’ approach and the all-important but unspoken hierarchy of the students. From early on he was arranging footy or basketball matches, organising the teams, the courts and even the equipment. He was a born organiser and the other boys were happy to let him lead. He was well liked by his peers because while he could lampoon anyone, he could also take a fair dose of ribbing with good humour.

Alan’s father, Martin Terence Tripp, was a lieutenant colonel in the Australian Army. Alan’s early life was spent moving with his parents and brother and sister to his father’s various postings around Australia and the globe. Terry’s career took them to India, Malaysia and the USA, as well as across New South Wales, Victoria and Canberra. By the time Alan was a teenager he’d been to at least a dozen schools, which was why Terry and his wife, Claire, decided it was time their eldest child attended a boarding school. And so in 1966 Alan was enrolled at Assumption College, Kilmore.

Alan had a loving if slightly distant relationship with his father. Terry Tripp was born in India to English parents and spoke with a cultured upper-class English accent. Alan’s grandfather had been a captain in the British Army in India, and Terry had been raised in a formal English family home until he was sent to Australia in the early 1930s to board at Guildford Grammar in Western Australia. Like Alan, Terry had also been thirteen years of age when he left home.

Despite his years in the army, Terry rarely, if ever, raised his voice to his children. His own upbringing had been so formal and distant from his parents that he found it difficult to be a hands-on father in the early upbringing of his own children, Alan, Ian and Susan.

Claire, however, complemented Terry’s conservative approach perfectly. She was of country stock and grew up in Nabiac, a small town about 250 kilometres north of Sydney that had a population of around 600 people. Claire was lively, sociable and extremely tough. While Terry spoke with the well-rounded vowels of the English gentry, Claire spoke to the point, never mincing her words. She meant what she said and her word was law in the Tripp household. ‘You catch more bees with honey than with vinegar’ was one of her favourite sayings, yet she herself had little time for Machiavellian foresight and was not interested in currying favour with anyone. She didn’t give a stuff what people thought.

But the saying always resonated with Alan. He had worked out pretty quickly that he could influence people and situations far better if he remained on good terms with them. This would become a central tenet throughout his life.

At Assumption, Alan had quickly gained the respect of both the students and teachers. Apart from his amiable nature, it had helped that he was good at sport. Sport was a compulsory component for the boarders, and every day between 3.45 pm and 5.15 pm, all the boarders had to participate in ninety minutes of physical education — a fancy name for a game of Aussie rules football. The Brothers were stricter about attendance at sport than they were about attendance at mass. If you were good at sport, you won respect. If you weren’t, your life was hell.

Luckily for Alan, he loved sport and participated in everything. To the great mirth of his mates, he was known as the fastest ninety-metre runner in a 100-metre race. He wasn’t a champion but he was always willing to have a go.

The Brothers were extremely exacting and authoritarian. So when Brother Campion had called Alan out of class one day, with a smile and a friendly hand on his shoulder, the boy was worried. It was 1968 and Alan was in Form Four. He would never forget being in class, concentrating on the teacher at the blackboard talking at them, chalk in hand. Brother Campion’s knock was followed by his whispered message to the teacher. Both of them had looked in Alan’s direction and motioned him to the front of the class. Alan followed Brother Campion outside to a bench, where he was invited to sit. Then had come words he would never forget.

‘I’m sorry to inform you that your father has been seriously wounded in Vietnam.’

Lieutenant Colonel Tripp was the Commanding Officer of the Australian Army Training Team in Vietnam; essentially, he was the most senior Australian Army official stationed there. As he listened to Brother Campion’s words now, they became something of a blur, and Alan hadn’t been quite able to link what he was hearing with reality. It wasn’t until he’d gone ‘home’ — to the army barracks at Puckapunyal — the following day and spent time with his mother, brother and sister that any of it had started to make sense.

The Australian Army was widely dispersed throughout Vietnam, and Lieutenant Colonel Tripp regularly travelled to where his men were stationed. On this day he and his men were in a bunker just outside Saigon. They were under attack and trying to fend off the onslaught. The noise was deafening as explosions and machine-gun fire were exchanged between the Australian soldiers and the Vietcong. Lieutenant Colonel Tripp’s men returned fire through the gaps in the bunker.

Vietcong soldiers tried to storm the fortress by running headlong at the bunker and hurling explosives into it. Many were gunned down, yet still the assault continued. Lieutenant Colonel Tripp and his men needed reinforcements. They were cornered and the enemy was closing in.

Suddenly, a Vietcong rocket threaded its way through the lookout gap and exploded inside the bunker. Many men lay dead or wounded. Lieutenant Colonel Tripp was alive but suffered shrapnel wounds to his eye and back. Machine-gun fire continued to pepper the bunker. Every man in the bunker had the same thought: would they make it out alive. Reinforcements eventually arrived and airlifted him and the others to safety.

At Puckapunyal, a constant stream of soldiers — some with their wives — had come to show their support: a procession of dull green filing through the house. Claire had been the perfect army wife and handled the news and the parade of visitors stoically. Alan, Ian and Susan were expected to be present and dutiful. After the visitors had left, Claire broke down in tears. It had been an incredibly stressful time for the family, but unlike many other Australian soldiers, Lieutenant Colonel Tripp survived his wounds and had returned home. Lieutenant Colonel Tripp was that year awarded the Order of the British Empire (OBE) which was presented personally to him by Queen Elizabeth II. The following year the Colonel and Claire dined personally with the Queen and Prince Charles at the Duntroon Military College in Canberra.

*

The sting had gone out of the canings but both of Alan’s palms were lined with blood-blisters by the time he returned to the dorm to change for sport at the end of the day. His locker contained his uniform, a few clothes and some personal possessions, all of which he took care to ensure were perfectly ordered. He was almost compulsive in his desire to arrange his belongings. His shoes, for example, were placed toes forward and exactly two finger-widths from the wall, no more and no less.

Alan changed out of his uniform, hanging his trousers and blazer in the locker and folding his school jumper. After sport he would be required to change back into uniform — for dinner, study time and the hour of leisure before bed. The wearing of school uniforms was compulsory even on the weekend; it kept everyone on the same level, according to the school’s ethos.

When the Brothers blew the whistle to signal the end of sport, 400 boys would make a mad dash for the shower blocks. If you were slow and one of the last to arrive, it meant a cold shower for sure, which was pure torture in the cold country climes of Kilmore, especially in the thick of winter. Only the windswept plains of Ballarat could compete with Kilmore as the coldest country town in Victoria.

The Brothers ran the showers like a strict military boot-camp. The boys were firmly discouraged from talking to one another in the shower block, for fear it spawned the ‘devil’s playground’ — a term used often by the Marist Brothers in Kilmore to discourage the students from unsavoury thoughts and actions. (It would become the title of film director Fred Schepisi’s 1976 debut feature, which drew directly on his own unhappy time as a student at Assumption College, Kilmore.)

Alan stood in a queue in silence with the rest of his class, caked in mud from the afternoon’s footy training and clad only in a towel. A loud double-clap by Brother Francis indicated that three minutes were up and each shower cubicle must be vacated within fifteen seconds to make room for the next students. Alan trotted into the shower and turned the hot tap on full, but it was tepid at best. He tried in vain to wash off the mud as best he could.

Clap! Clap!

Alan collected his towel and made his way back to the dorm. Ippolito and McNamara were also getting changed when Alan heard a drawn-out whistle from one of the other lads.

‘Check out the red marks across your arses! Bet you’ll have trouble sitting down for dinner tonight.’

‘Ah, but it was worth it,’ boasted Alan. ‘Just to see that Brother legging it up Collins Street in his cassock, trying to chase us down!’

‘Silence!’ thundered Brother Dominus, as raucous laughter emanated from the dorm.

*

Of all of Alan’s friends, two stood out: Rick Cummins and John Dow. Both arrived at Assumption College in Form Five, and in fact Alan didn’t get to know either of them until the following year, their final year of high school. But once the three became friends, they were inseparable.

Rick was a country lad with freckly skin and curly red hair. He was from a family of nine kids and grew up on a wheat farm just outside Yarrawonga on the border between Victoria and New South Wales. Rick’s mother and father were practical people with little patience for indulgence; everyone was expected to help out on the farm. Rick had no airs and graces, but he did have a cracking good personality. He loved to joke around, and if the joke was on him then all the better. He became known to his mates as ‘Curly’.

By contrast, John Dow was born and had lived in the commission houses in Flemington before his father, Jack Dow, an ex-jockey and one-time SP bookie, made good and moved the family to a terrace house in the same suburb. John was small, with dark hair and a mouth full of wisecracks. He had been sent to Assumption because he was failing at school in Melbourne; he’d been spending too much time at the Flemington racetrack, riding horses instead of studying. Assumption College was 100 kilometres from Melbourne, a safe enough distance from the track.

But John was obsessed with the track. As soon as he finished school he planned to go straight back to Flemington to begin work as a bookie’s clerk. When he invited Alan to come to Melbourne for the weekend and stay with his family, Alan jumped at the opportunity. This was a new world, one to which he had never before been exposed. With eight children in the Dow family and a constant riot of racing folk in attendance, there was always plenty of drama and commotion.

Jack Dow was the classic ‘colourful racing identity’ and like no one Alan had ever met. He wore cravats and winked a lot. He cracked jokes with the lads and had no problem giving big, affectionate hellos — with a hug and kiss — for the ladies, and sometimes a cheeky comment such as ‘nice Salt Lake Cities’.

By this time Alan’s father had been promoted to the position of Director of Military Arts and was the second-in-charge at the Royal Military College, Duntroon, in Canberra. This made it virtually impossible for Alan to use his bimonthly weekend leave pass to visit his own family, so Alan found himself more and more at the Dow house in Flemington. Having had a taste of their world, he wanted to keep going back. He loved the Dow family.

When John and Alan were in Melbourne, they’d always head to the Flemington racetrack. John knew a few people there and would sometimes pick up a day’s work paying out and running the odds. Alan also helped out sometimes, but for him it was just a way to earn some pocket money. As far as career prospects went, he intended to follow in his own father’s footsteps and make his career in the army.

Alan wanted nothing more than to attend Duntroon and become an officer. In 1970, his final year at Assumption, Alan made the trip down to Melbourne to the Watsonia Army Barracks to take his officer exams. He was ushered into a huge mess hall, where he sat the exam with hundreds of other young men, all hoping for the opportunity to win a place at Duntroon. Uniformed soldiers paced up and down the rows of hopeful applicants, who furiously scribbled answers. Alan wasn’t worried. He was a decent student and his dad practically ran the officers’ school. He was a shoo-in to be accepted, for sure.

The following day he caught the bus to Canberra to see his family and spend the school holidays with them. When the bus arrived his father was waiting for him. They shook hands, got into the car and began the drive home. His father was quiet and Alan sensed something was up.

‘So,’ said Alan, ‘how’d I do?’

His father took a deep breath and kept his eyes on the road. ‘You failed, son,’ said Terry. ‘You’re colour-blind.’

Alan felt like he’d been hit with a plank. ‘What? Well, what does that mean?’ he asked. ‘You can still get me in, can’t you? You’re the boss.’

‘No, son, you’re colour-blind. If you’re in the field and a red flag means halt and you charge because you think it’s blue, you’ll endanger lives. You’re not coming to Duntroon, son, and I can’t do anything about it.’

Alan hadn’t even considered what he might do if he didn’t join the army. He was quiet for some time, and at last Terry looked across at his son.

Alan kept his eyes down. ‘What am I going to do now?’

CHAPTER 2

Finding His Feet

1971

Alan walked through the lush, manicured gardens of Melbourne University. It was the first day of the first semester and the campus was abuzz with activity. Young students, laden with books, their faces full of hope for the future, scurried around the stately buildings, many struggling to make sense of their allocated timetables and class locations. Alan kicked a stray pebble. This isn’t so bad.

With his plans for a military career devastated, university seemed the next best option. Alan had enrolled in a commerce degree and was boarding at Queen’s College. When he arrived for his first lecture, in a cavernous amphitheatre, there were literally hundreds of students settling into their seats. So when he saw the curly red hair of Rick Cummins just a few rows ahead of him, he felt a sense of relief.

‘G’day, Curly,’ called Alan.

Rick Cummins was enrolled in the same degree and was boarding next door, at Newman College. John Dow wasn’t bothering with university. As expected, he had gone straight to the track and was working as a bookie’s clerk.

‘Just like school days, eh!’ Rick said.

After a couple of weeks of conscientious application, Alan and Rick began to spend more time at the bar than at the books. They were partying almost every night and sleeping till midday. Neither of them was particularly keen on becoming an accountant, so they skipped a lot of classes and developed their snooker and tennis game instead. By the end of their first year, Rick had failed all his subjects and Alan had barely scraped through.

Rick wasn’t too keen on going back to uni to repeat his first year. He decided he’d spend the Christmas break at home in Yarrawonga so he could figure things out, and he invited Alan to come too. They could earn some money fruit-picking or working Rick’s parents’ farm.

The summer was hot and dry and the fruit-picking was hard yakka — much harder work than either of them, especially Alan, was used to. They lasted less than half a week. They had made approximately $30 between them. It was clear neither of them would make his fortune on the land.

Alan decided to go back to university. His father had completed his posting at Duntroon and had been sent to the Melbourne suburb of Glen Waverley. Rather than stay at Queen’s College for a second year, Alan moved back in with his parents, which he hoped would provide him with more structure and stability to complete his studies. As for Rick, he wasn’t keen to stay in the country either and got a job at the State Savings Bank of Victoria.

For the first time in a long time, Alan shared a bedroom with his younger brother, Ian. They irritated the hell out of each other and went to great lengths in the game of oneupmanship. Alan was still meticulous with his belongings; he’d picked up his father’s military liking for order and cleanliness. Ian was more ramshackle and thought nothing of leaving a pair of old socks in the middle of the bedroom floor. Nothing would annoy Alan more than, after having an argument with his brother, finding all his shoes scattered around the cupboard.

But Ian would get his just deserts. When the lights were turned off Alan would start munching noisily on an apple, which would infuriate Ian; he knew that when Alan stopped munching he’d hurl the core at him, spraying him with juice and bits of apple.

Despite their arguments, however, Alan could never go to sleep without making sure things were okay with his brother. He always had to make things right and would call out to his brother, ‘Good night, God bless, sweet dreams.’

He’d wait for Ian to return the gesture and could never rest until his brother had said the same words back: ‘Good night, God bless, sweet dreams.’

*

To earn a few quid Alan found a regular gig working at the track every Saturday with Cassa Foram. Cassa was a gnarled old racing man who’d been around the tracks for nearly all of his sixty-five years. He walked with a jockey’s bow-legged limp and trained the few strands of grey hair that grew around his ears from one side of his head to the other.

Cassa worked Alan hard all day, running odds and helping with the pay outs. When the crowd died down at Flemington after the last race and the punters were paid off, they drove to the Moonee Valley trots to work the night meeting. It was gruelling work, and by Saturday night Alan was always exhausted. For his efforts he was paid $20.

Rick’s career at the bank wasn’t exactly taking off. A few months in, the manager pulled him aside and said, ‘Rick, this isn’t your game. Take as much time off as you like, whenever you want, to go and look for another job.’

Alan and Rick’s actual full-time job was on the pool table at the Laurel Hotel in Ascot Vale. The Laurel was an institution in the north-western suburbs of Melbourne. The building itself was over 100 years old, and the history of the place was stamped all over it, from the tiles reaching halfway up the walls, to the racing photographs and the smell of stale beer that never seemed to fade. Being so near to the Flemington racetrack, the Laurel had been a popular hangout for the racing fraternity for generations. John Dow and his mates from the track were continuing the tradition.

Compared to Alan and Rick, who were struggling to make ends meet, John was living the high life. He was making plenty of cash and hanging out with