“I don’t understand why there’s so much traffic,” Rob snaps as he drags his truck back into the left lane on South Dowling Street in Sydney’s eastern suburbs, “Its school holidays isn’t it?”
Rob has just picked me up from Darlinghurst, outside the building of his other employer where he has just finished an eight-hour shift. He has been working there, Monday to Friday, since the 1990’s and when he’s not there, he’s selling ice creams at Shark Park in Cronulla for Sydney Ice Cream Vans.
“Look at this traffic!”
It’s a dance Rob seems to enjoy. At times he seems hellbent on using his truck to ram his tenderfoot foes off the road. A moment later, he’s waving a tradie into his lane and giving him a big thumbs up.
“Good on ya, tiger”.
We arrive at the venue at 5.15pm and there’s already a few fans waiting outside to get in.
A DJ is mixing tunes at the south-eastern gates.
One finger on his turntable and an eye on the darkening clouds overhead.
There’s scaffolding and cranes everywhere.
Construction on the precinct means the crowd has been limited to 12,000.
It also means no chance of a scotch and lose a pineapple on a brickie’s laptop at the leagues club before kick-off either.
Closed for renovations. Devastating.
As the fans stream in, I find myself ordering two cans of beer.
Full strength in the Shire!
I’m so close… all I need to do is drink the bloody things.
But no, a snag.
They’re not taking cash – it’s card only. Technology has chewed me up and spat me out into a million little pieces. I tell Rob. He’s shocked too. Ice cream sales are slow to begin with.
Something is happening in the Jersey Flegg match.
Then, in a moment of sheer brilliance, inspiration and pure genius, I fight technology with technology and whip out Google Maps.
Glory!
It’s about a fifteen-minute walk from the ground to the local bottle shop up the other end of Woolooware.
It’s dark now and I’m fighting a wave of Sharks fans, young families, couples heading in the opposite direction. VIPs are in their cars being herded into a makeshift carpark inside Woolooware High School.
A Sea Eagles player is running late.
Andrew Davey?
Or was it Lachlan Croker?
It’s too dark to know for sure.
At one point I stop to take off my jacket as I slog up the treacherous slopes of Mount Cronulla and note to myself how poorly lit the streets are for such an affluent area.
“Some of my old mates back in Campbelltown would have a field day out here” I think to myself as the neon lights of the bottle shop loom in the distance.
I explain my plight to old mate as he sells me a flask of Jimmy.
“We don’t do cash either,” he quips, “just joking mate!”
You bastard.
I get back to the ground and it’s turning into a party now. The threat of rain doesn’t mean much to these people. There’s Mermaids cheerleaders dancing and shaking their pom poms with the DJ. On the other side of the southern stand, more cheerleaders are shouting out for honks from the passing traffic.
The ice cream truck is starting to get tested.
Rob is in his prime now.
Others wouldn’t have the patience to deal with all these customers after doing a whole day’s work somewhere else already.
But Rob is thriving. He’s relishing it.
There’s a line ten metres long but it seems to disappear as quickly as it comes.
“Yes mate” he points at the next kid in line, a ten-year old in the 2022 replica Sharks home jersey.
The kid is caught for a moment, like a kangaroo in the headlights, before coming around.
“Two chocolate ice creams and two blue slushies, please.”
$20…
There you go.
Thanks mate.
“Next!”
A woman steps up but she’s very short. Rob leans forward with his hands pressed against the counter.
“You’re about as short as my wife!” he says with glee.
They exchange a laugh and away she goes with her nut sundae and a can of lemonade.
The players are on the field for first grade and the crowd has built nicely to almost 10,000. A home game at PointsBet Stadium is more than just supporting your footy team down here. It’s a night out. A meeting point for mates. It’s a mini event every second week for the locals. Their big little secret.
Soldiers are now out there too.
The Last Post begins and almost immediately, the entire crowd freezes.
There’s a real respect for our diggers down here.
You can hear a pin drop.
The boys in the ice cream truck have stopped too.
Thursday Night Footy is underway but somebody didn’t tell the visitors.
Manly-Warringah brought a feather duster to a gun fight.
Aussie Prime Minister Scott Morrison is loved down this way but he might very well be replaced by the team’s newest cult hero, Siosifa Talakai.
A tank on two legs.
The type of bloke that puts the fear of God into opposing centres.
At the southern end of the ground, with the rain streaming down, one bloke demands the immediate shifting of the captaincy and halfback duties to Mr. Talakai.
Another says something about Daly Cherry-Evans’ neck.
It can’t all be gold.
Cronulla score again. And again. Again and again.
32-0 at half-time but the party had started long before.
All the while, Rob knuckles down inside the van.
Business is solid but rain and the cold have never been friends of the ice cream.
The rain gets heavier and the ice cream truck becomes a safe haven for a bunch of drenched fans who huddle together underneath Rob and owner Ned who shrug their shoulders.
“At least buy a couple of drinks or something boys!” Rob shouts out with a wink.
There’s a couple of sheepish looks and hands reluctantly go into pockets to scrounge up $5 for a coke.
Money never sleeps.
Neither does ice cream at Shark Park.
Rain, hail, or shine.
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