Monday, April 16, 2012

#301: Dine Out At The Pizza Hut

What can anyone say about Grenville Dietrich that hasn't already been suppressed by the courts under defamation laws?  Well, quite a lot really.  I remember seeing Grenville line up for North Adelaide after sharing quite a few ales with him the night before at a nightclub owned by a guy who used race Speedway cars on Friday nights.  I say the night before, but I'm being quite kind here; we stopped drinking at around 5am, whereupon Grenville tried to chat my mother up and duly lined up for North Adelaide at around 1:30pm the same day.  He ambled out onto the ground, took his position, attacked the ball, kicked a goal and promptly spewed his guts up.  And they were quite considerable guts indeed.

Grenville got his start with Richmond, but ended up at North Adelaide.  Richmond were more than satisfied with the bald headed goal kicking machine that they had in the form of Kevin Bartlett, and, let's be frank here, once Kevin got the ball nobody else touched it into it was thrown back in from the stands.  Handball is still a swear word in the Bartlett house, so it made sense that Grenville would seek out better opportunities.  And opportunities there were.  Sobriety was a swear word in Deitrichland by the mid 1980s, and Grenville, smelling of piss and booze, was always able to kick a bagfull during a game, even if he did wobble on his feet a bit.  Be it Cobbs Restaurant or Regines Nightclub or the Gaza Clubrooms, Grenville was always welcome to wine, dine and grog on until he passed out.

Now before you think that Grenville was a dud, remember that he was coached by the legendary Mick Nunan.  As a coach Mick was unique - if he had a dud player then he'd make sure that they performed.  If he had a star player then he made sure that they played like a star.  Mick didn't really care what they did on the field, be it Andrew Jarman kissing guys or Grenville having a quiet ralph in the forward pocket, just as long as they did their magic and won the games.  Mick was hard, but fair - if I had to pick a coach to go into battle with, then it'd be Mick Nunan, every day of the week and twice on Sundays.  Mick copped a lot of stick for telling Grenville, mid-game, that he father had just died.  it might sound cruel, but in Mick's world a man deserves to know about such things as soon as they happen.  I agree with Mick there.  If Grenville had been coached by a lesser man then we'd not be here.  

Grenville may have weighed a lot, but it was pure fat.  When he slimmed down he injured himself, such was the disruption to his centre of gravity.  But his best injury came after training one fine night, when he rode his bike in his shorts to the local pizza shop, ordered two large with the lot and attempted to ride home.  Halfway there he went arse up and scalded himself with one of the surpremes.  Picking himself, and the pizzas, up, he went home, sat down and ate his way through the evening, only to discover that he'd not be able to play for a couple of weeks due to burns on his legs.  I've heard of players being taken out by dog bites, but pizza burns is the best of them all, and that's what makes Grenville unique - he did it his way, and nobody else could do what he could do.  And if they tried, then they more than likely would be in a jar by now.

Ladies and gentlemen, hide your children, cover your grog and eat your pizza, I give you the man of the hour, Grenville Deitrich!

Taken from an introduction given a the opening of the Prospect Pizza Hut.


Anonymous said...

That's it, nice and innocuous.

Anonymous said...

Awe, c'mon, owe bout more inoffensive material.