Sometime last year I received a call from man asking me if I would consider coaching a basketball team.
I said it was impossible for me to engage in such an activity, given I had never played basketball, thrown a hoop, slammed a dunk, or dribbled.
That was not quite true as I had dribbled but I didn’t want to go into that time of my life with a complete stranger.
He was persistent and insisted I explain myself.
“I’m from Bridgetown,” I said, “and when I grew up the only basket I saw was one mum used to take shopping.”
This surprised him and he pointed out that he thought I was from Mandurah. That riled me and I made it abundantly clear that Mandurah died, for me, the day the crabs lost their bite, the canals were built and the town re-imagined itself on the Gold coast.
Then something hard and solid hit a nail and he said: “Hang on, there’s two John Dousts.”
Indeed there is, in fact, there’s five, but I am the only who rejected the H.
The other John Doust, the one who slams a dunk in the Great Southern, is an extremely decent man, as you would expect, even given he spends too much time in Mandurah.
In addition, he is a basketball magician and it was because of him that I finished up at the China Australia game with my ears full of toilet paper because the extremely loud speaker right next to my seat was destroying what little I had left by way of ear drums.
If you see me in the street, please use your lips extravagantly and talk into my left ear only.
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