Long-Term Friendship Comes At A Price

I remember the very first time I saw Michael. The year was 1971 and it was our Day One at “big” school, where suddenly we were the pre-pubescent little boys at a place where the final year students were 18 years old and looked (to me) like grown men. Unlike a neighbourhood high school, this was one of Australia´s most expensive and exclusive private schools. Boys only. I knew barely a handful of the other 120 newbies starting on that day. Our classroom held about 30 pupils, all seated at individual desks. The form master was asking a series of get-to-know-you questions which required us to hold our hands up endlessly and wait to be chosen to explain ourselves. My desk was against the wall one on side of the room and, with my arm aloft, I noticed a somewhat strange looking boy on the other side of the room whose raised arm stretched up the wall as he waited to be called. When our eyes made contact, he smiled at me and, without moving his arm at all, his hand wagged a friendly hello. I wagged back. The boy was big, fat and looked like an Italian. Of course, I had no idea who he was.

A smile turned into a friendship and Michael and I spent the next six years growing up together. We played in the same rugby team for all that period, and the same basketball team for a while. We were key members of the coolest gang in our year. As growing adolescents, we went to the same Saturday night parties and kissed the same girls and then compared notes with all our mates at school on Monday. Michael and I shared a common love of horse racing: so we often went to Sydney´s racetracks and placed bets, whilst still well underage. Due to his bulk and Mediterranean appearance Mick, as he was more generally known, was always the one chosen to go into bottle shops to buy beer (again, whilst we were still underage). Later, as 21^st birthday parties began to dominate our social life, Mick was ever present and ever popular. The puppy fat of his earlier years slowly disappeared.

The first time I became fully aware that Mick was from a special family was in 1975 when a bunch of us spent the night at his family´s second residence on Sydney´s northern beaches. On arrival, we were led onto the balcony overlooking the water. We could see at the far end of the balcony that Mick´s dad – who was Lord Mayor of Sydney at the time – was deep in conversation with Australia´s most powerful radio personality. In his earlier years, Mick´s father had played rugby union for Australia on 114 occasions, and was captain three times. And yet, Mick never used that to leverage popularity amongst his peers at a school where rugby was the defining sport and where having a father who had “played for Australia” was like gold dust. Michael´s dad later became President of the Australian Rugby Union from 1980 to 1987. He was subsequently knighted by the Queen of England. His own parents had migrated from Lebanon to Australia in 1923 two years before he was born.

Michael´s mother was born in a country town in Australia to a Lebanese couple. After graduating in medicine, she practised as a GP for several years before undertaking further studies to specialise in psychiatry. As the pinnacle of a life devoted to public service, she held the non-political, vice regal post of Governor of the state New South Wales (of which Sydney is the capital) from 2001 to 2014. She was also the Chancellor of Sydney University from 2007 to 2012. In 2014, Queen Elizabeth II made her a Dame of the Order of Australia. Michael´s mother was the patron of dozens of not-for-profit organisations. (As a side note, could there possibly be a better immigration story than this family?).

Living in the shadow of two such high-achieving parents (both recently deceased) could quite easily turn a person crazy with a sense of inferiority or insignificance. The weight of expectation must have been immense. Countless were the occasions when Michael had to listen to people raving on about his amazing parents. But there was no rebellion. No angst. Instead, he simply carved out his own path, working in several professions in his twenties, getting married and having kids. It´s not a sin to be born into privilege; it´s what you do with it that counts. Mick was a person of the people and for the people, which naturally led to him being heavily involved in many charities across Sydney and beyond. Most recently he fought tirelessly to ease the suffering of Palestinians in Gaza.

The fact that I have been living outside of Australia for most of the past 28 years limited the amount of time that I was able to see Mick more recently. But he was as robust as ever at my 60^th birthday party; and then two years ago we shared a long, boozy pub lunch with another great mate who was in that same classroom so long ago. And that was the last time I ever saw Mick alive.

A couple of weeks ago, his aorta suddenly ruptured and he couldn´t be saved.

It´s not for me to hypothesise about what his immediate family is now going through; nor to put words into the mouths of the near 600 people from all walks of life who attended his funeral. From here in Spain, I am just left to wonder about…sudden loss. The cruelty of it all. No-one warns you that you´ll never again be able to exchange a word with that person, or to shake their hand. One part of my life has now gone for ever and I´m poorer for it. Michael was aged 67, just like me. His unexpected passing has brought my own sense of mortality clearly into focus. But rather than make any change to my lifestyle (which is healthy enough as it is), I´m more inclined to take my cue from Mick. Live every day to its fullest and be decent to everyone, whether by direct deed or indirect deed to those you don´t even know. Michael´s surname through life was both a burden and a blessing. I´ve not mentioned it here because he was his own person: a very decent human being.