For months I'd wondered about the Brunswick Trugo Club. I'd seen signs pointing the way, but never bothered to discover where they led. Given the large immigrant population in my neigbourhood, I thought it might have been the name of a private association of ethnic Italians.
Nope. Trugo is a sport invented by Melbourne rail workers in 1924. Last week, I called Gerald Strachan, the president of the Brunswick Trugo Club, to ask if I could come by to see the place and learn about the game.
"You're absolutely welcome to," he said. "The season ends soon, but we meet on Tuesdays at 11AM, and we also have a hit on Sunday afternoons."
The clubhouse and grounds are are at the back of a small public park nearby, tucked into a verdant corner and enclosed by a high chain link fence. I arrived thirty minutes early, but Gerald and some of his clubmates (about eight people well into their retirement years) were already setting up. The game is relatively simple. Players hit a dense rubber disk with a heavy, double-ended wooden mallet, the striking surfaces of which are cushioned with swatches of rubber from either recycled crepe shoe soles or thongs (flip flops). The disk has a hole in the middle, and is about the size and density of a hockey puck. It's an industrial product, once used on train couplers as a cushioning device. The object of the game is to hit the disk hard and accurately enough to have it roll between two posts at the end of a 90-foot green.
Gerald demonstrated the correct stance and swing-- back to target with feet planted on either side of the disk for a vigorous backwards swing through the legs. Then he handed me a mallet and, before I realised it, I was playing a game against another club member. My first hit rolled dead centre.
"That always happens with beginners on the first few strokes," Gerald remarked. "Then it all goes to hell."
So true. Whereas my first four disks rolled smoothly and briskly between the yellow posts, the next four, then eight, wobbled crazily off course and veered out of bounds. An ill-timed soak at my end of the court from a malfunctioning sprinkler didn't help my accuracy, either. My fouls were retrieved eagerly by Champ, Gerald's 7-year-old Jack Russell terrier. Champ is a trugo fanatic and a daredevil. He routinely positions himself at midfield, in the direct path of the hard rubber puck (which, should it skip high at the receiving end, could knock your teeth out) prepared to pluck it off the green if it's a bad shot.
"He only takes them if you muck up the hit," Gerald explained. Champ was having a ball.
Things improved dramatically at halftime, when my opponent and I switched ends. Now I had the dry end of the court and he had the wet one. Suddenly, my game got better and nearly every one of my hits scored a point.
I have no idea what the final score was, but everyone was having a good time and no one seemed to care. I went inside the clubhouse to make myself a cup of coffee, then returned to the courtside bench where the others sat in the sun, smoking heavily and barking friendly gibes at another pair finishing their match. ["That was a shocker, Lois! You're miserable!"]
Trugo is a threatened species. Only six clubs exist, and it's a game played almost exclusively by pensioners. Public awareness is a serious problem; very few Melburnians know of the game, so recruits are scarce. When a club member dies, there is usually no one to take their place. The Footscray Trugo Club, which had been Melbourne's oldest, closed in 2009 for lack of players. The smoking probably doesn't help, either.
I don't want to see trugo disappear, so I'll do my part. I've got my eye on the start of the competitive season in August.
 |
| Headed for the trugo club? Not this way, you're not. |
Nope. Trugo is a sport invented by Melbourne rail workers in 1924. Last week, I called Gerald Strachan, the president of the Brunswick Trugo Club, to ask if I could come by to see the place and learn about the game.
"You're absolutely welcome to," he said. "The season ends soon, but we meet on Tuesdays at 11AM, and we also have a hit on Sunday afternoons."
The clubhouse and grounds are are at the back of a small public park nearby, tucked into a verdant corner and enclosed by a high chain link fence. I arrived thirty minutes early, but Gerald and some of his clubmates (about eight people well into their retirement years) were already setting up. The game is relatively simple. Players hit a dense rubber disk with a heavy, double-ended wooden mallet, the striking surfaces of which are cushioned with swatches of rubber from either recycled crepe shoe soles or thongs (flip flops). The disk has a hole in the middle, and is about the size and density of a hockey puck. It's an industrial product, once used on train couplers as a cushioning device. The object of the game is to hit the disk hard and accurately enough to have it roll between two posts at the end of a 90-foot green.
 |
| A trugo match at the Brunswick club in 2008. |
Gerald demonstrated the correct stance and swing-- back to target with feet planted on either side of the disk for a vigorous backwards swing through the legs. Then he handed me a mallet and, before I realised it, I was playing a game against another club member. My first hit rolled dead centre.
"That always happens with beginners on the first few strokes," Gerald remarked. "Then it all goes to hell."
So true. Whereas my first four disks rolled smoothly and briskly between the yellow posts, the next four, then eight, wobbled crazily off course and veered out of bounds. An ill-timed soak at my end of the court from a malfunctioning sprinkler didn't help my accuracy, either. My fouls were retrieved eagerly by Champ, Gerald's 7-year-old Jack Russell terrier. Champ is a trugo fanatic and a daredevil. He routinely positions himself at midfield, in the direct path of the hard rubber puck (which, should it skip high at the receiving end, could knock your teeth out) prepared to pluck it off the green if it's a bad shot.
"He only takes them if you muck up the hit," Gerald explained. Champ was having a ball.
Things improved dramatically at halftime, when my opponent and I switched ends. Now I had the dry end of the court and he had the wet one. Suddenly, my game got better and nearly every one of my hits scored a point.
I have no idea what the final score was, but everyone was having a good time and no one seemed to care. I went inside the clubhouse to make myself a cup of coffee, then returned to the courtside bench where the others sat in the sun, smoking heavily and barking friendly gibes at another pair finishing their match. ["That was a shocker, Lois! You're miserable!"]
Trugo is a threatened species. Only six clubs exist, and it's a game played almost exclusively by pensioners. Public awareness is a serious problem; very few Melburnians know of the game, so recruits are scarce. When a club member dies, there is usually no one to take their place. The Footscray Trugo Club, which had been Melbourne's oldest, closed in 2009 for lack of players. The smoking probably doesn't help, either.
I don't want to see trugo disappear, so I'll do my part. I've got my eye on the start of the competitive season in August.
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