Bazza’s Name Echoes Through the Pub
As Mick reads his poetry, Bazza drifts somewhere between a schooner and the seasons, writes John Longhurst. “Bazza, Bazza, BAZZA!” rang through the pub as Mick placed schooners on the table with the confidence of a seasoned pilot. Bazza smirked, lifting his glass slightly, “I do worry when I hear my name called three times, Mick. It’s either really good news or really bad news.” Mick grinned, eyes twinkling with mischief. From his shirt pocket, he drew neatly folded papers and announced, “I’ve written a poem, Bazza.”
Mick’s Bodalla Ballad Begins
Without delay, Mick pulled out his glasses and cleared his throat. The words, “The Fella From Bodella…” echoed through the room. Bazza’s brow furrowed, “It’s Bodalla, Mick. And it looks more like a ballad, given its length.” Mick, a touch defensive, waved it off, “Yeah, whatever. Had a bit of trouble with the rhyme. Now listen up.” He launched into his ballad, his voice rising above the clink of glasses and hum of semi-trailers outside slowing on the highway.
Bazza’s Mind Wanders to the Seasons
The patrons on the left sought refuge, moving closer to the front door. The mechanical hum of trucks offered some relief from Mick’s recital. Bazza, ever polite, stayed. His eyes wandered beyond Mick’s shoulder, catching glimpses of the fading sun and the amber glow of autumn. He rubbed his mouth, stifling a yawn, as Mick continued, his schooner occasionally punctuating the verses.
From Summer Memories to Autumn Peace
The changing seasons stirred memories within Bazza. He recalled his youth, when summer ruled supreme. The heat, the coconut oil’s sweet scent, the zinc cream strip across his nose — all symbols of carefree days at the beach. Evenings meant carnivals at Batehaven, where excitement masked sunburn and stings. Nights fell with Daryl Braithwaite’s voice filling the air, while parents claimed their quiet time.
Now, autumn had become Bazza’s season of choice. The sun rose gently, filtered through hues of orange and yellow. The air felt balanced, leaves weary from summer’s intensity turned shades of defiance. The ocean still welcomed the brave, though mists sent tourists packing. Mornings on the beach were sacred, locals exchanging silent nods as they left footprints on freshly washed sand. The struggle of the sun to warm the day reminded Bazza of campfires’ dying embers.
Mateship in a Moment of Poetry
Mick’s ballad, like a semi-trailer’s long hiss of air brakes, finally ended. “Bazza, Bazza… are you with me Bazza? What do you reckon?” Mick’s voice pulled Bazza back. Bazza blinked and offered, “Yeah, yeah, Mick… now what’s the good news?” The pub, the poem, and the schooners all merged into a moment of shared mateship — a ballad of its own.
