We know it. In a world of quicker-is-better, acronyms dominate modern communication as linguistic shortcuts, concisely conveying complex ideas in personal, business, and social media contexts.

Resist or embrace, their impact on language is undeniable. They’ve become a grammatical shorthand, streamlining communication in an increasingly fast-paced digital world. From casual texting to corporate boardrooms, acronyms are shaping how we convey ideas. The efficiency comes with a caveat: a potential for confusion or exclusion when acronyms aren’t universally understood.

Balancing brevity and clarity is crucial.

TBH and IMHO, I’m left SMH, when it comes to this. YOLO, so I hope we’ll BRB to all this soon!

NS

P.S.
The exclusion question interests me most and is accentuated by Yumna Hafeez’s recent article on the Social Champ website. The headline reads, “120+ Social Media Acronyms & Slangs for Every Millennials & Gen Zers in 2024”

Anyway, take a look when you have a minute and see how broad your acronym vocabulary is, maybe add a few newbies, or not.

Subscribe now

Share

Standing firm has a cost—the eye-roll, raised eyebrows, the cooling of the room, the label that follows you out the door. Stubborn. Difficult. Doesn’t listen. Not a team player. Labels can be hard to lose.

Conceding has a cost too. You know it the moment you cave. The small erosion. The thing you said you believed, quietly filed away.

Neither is clean. Both leave a mark.

The trick—if there is one—is knowing which path is worth it. Not every disagreement is a principle. Not every principle needs a fight.

But some do. You’ll know which ones. The ones that sit with you afterwards, whichever way you went.

Nick

Subscribe now

Share

“Please” and “thank you” cost little and are certainly a good start. Then the acknowledgement or apology: “I was wrong, I’m sorry.” “What can I do to fix this?” Small tokens that level our interactions, enabling others to know we see them and their needs. This easy-kindness accelerates connection, fosters participation, and enables growth.

Then there’s seeing someone for who they are—or who they are trying to become. Understanding that everyone has flaws, and they might be trying just as hard as you.

“Sawubona.”

Let them tell their story—don’t narrate it for them.

And the kindness of community—not seeking to maximise short-term personal gain, doing work that activates participation and provides a path to progress.

Kindness compounds. It makes us and things better. Try it.

Last week I was fortunate to be the recipient of a very thoughtful act. An honest mistake led to an oversupply of food, I was asked if I’d like it. In the time I felt so grateful. Later, thinking back, I realised it was because I had least expected it.

Kindness lands hardest when it arrives unannounced.

Nick

P.S. Happy Birthday Murphy

Bonus pic. Couldn’t decide. Question. What message do you see in Luis’ image (the top one) Leave a comment.

Subscribe now

Share

NBA teams down 0–3 in a best-of-seven series are 0–150 in coming back to win. Not a cause for optimism. Can the ‘Tics break the curse?

The Celtics made a start, at least, taking out Game 4 at Miami’s Kaseya Center 116–99. Solid defence, forced turnovers, and greater productivity from their starters helped to stop Miami’s momentum. This is after Coach Joe Mazzulla shouldered much of the blame for an abject loss in game 3, where the Celtics turned in a game of unforced turnovers, missed shots, technical fouls, open-prison defence, and incessant whinging at the officials. It all led to a 128–102 drubbing.

Mazzulla said, “I just didn’t have ‘em ready to play; I should have. Whatever it was, I had to get them in a better place. That’s on me—I think they’re doing everything they can—I didn’t execute the right game plan. It’s on me to be better so they can play better.”

Honourable, but a little bit ridiculous if truth be told. Mazzulla’s trump card, Jayson Tatum, was ice-cold again with just 14 points, a bunch of missed three-pointers and several turnovers. Jaylen Brown was equally frigid on a no-show night for the starters.

And what did ‘Slim’ Pat Donnelly think?

Last time out, we left Pat sitting at Mul’s diner bar with a mug of tar-black American coffee and breakfast on the way. It went something like this:

“What’s up, kid? Watta you doin’ here? I thought ya only liked the bars!” Pat said mischievously.

“Well, Pat, I’m actually here looking for you and wondering where you’ve been.”

“That’s a story, kid. Those fackin’ Celtics, I tell ya, something’s up.”

At this point, the Celtics were 2-3 down and had to play Game 6 in Miami. They did have momentum; however, back-to-back wins on the road were unlikely—and, unlikely is just how Pat likes to roll.

Before we get to the basketball, I wanted to check if everything was good with Pat. After all, I had never seen him without a beer or using a knife and fork before!

Pat disliked food, especially healthy options, and only occasionally tolerated diner food. I was curious about Pat’s order.

“Kid, I don’t do suppah, right? Breakfast I tolerate, usually ‘ere, the scran is pretty sweet. Ya know me Ma used ladel ‘ere; she ran the joint, brought most of the cheddar home; the old man, he played the odds—usually lost!” Never went to Shirley, though!” Pat laughed.

Pat’s father was a union worker, and if you don’t get the Southie speak, his mother worked in the diner.

“What did ya say?” His noggin’ wasn’t on today.

“Ahh, I just wondered what you ordered,” I replied.

“The usual, kid. Plain Omelette, bacon on the side, and pancakes, King’s ransom, know what I’m sayin’?

Pat’s food was out pronto. The patrons knew him, although he gave little back in acknowledgment. It might be shyness.

To be sure, though, if he ate the ‘king’s ransom’ every day, it might be ‘big’ over ‘slim’—three full plates filled the counter.

My food followed, and we sat in relative silence working our way through the various plates—they clearly like to keep the dishwashers busy at Mul’s! I finished what I was going to eat, ahead of Pat, which gave me some time to formulate the Celtics dialogue.

Pat beat me to the punch, “Wat you reckon, kid? Fill the gap?” The black pudding and beans were good. “Absolutely, Pat, the food was great.” “And da eggs, wat yeh call that, messed-up?” “No, Pat, we call that scrambled.” “Ya not wrong there, kid!” “Fackin’ scrambled eggs, what next!”

And to the basketball.

“Pat, you mentioned you thought there was something wrong with the Celtics?” “What was that?” I offered, with a dose of circumspection.

Pat took a swig from his “caw-fee” and leaned in closer.

“You know what kills me, kid? I told ‘em, I told ‘em too many times to focus on their fackin’ defence. But, like the broads, they don’t listen. They ‘fink it’s all about scoring points—the three-doosers. Well, lemme tell ya, you can’t win games without solid defence, ‘specially when you’ve got that Butler dude pulling all kinda tricks. And, don’t get me started on Caleb Martin; he’s cutting us up into confetti!”

Pat continued, the audience now growing.

Butler, ya gotta fit him like a damn glove. He’s one tricky roller; gotta friggin’ r’spect im.” “What we do? Let ‘im run the damn floor like he’s one uv us. I don’t get it for a minute.”

I nodded agreeingly, knowing that Pat would be on the money.

Pat’s no dummy when it comes to the basketball caper. The Heat have turned the tables on the Celtics. Showing more heart and belief. Their defence has been exactly what Pat asked of the Celtics; their hustle and speed have lapped their more fancied opponents. And as for Jimmy Butler, I have to agree with Pat, he’s run the show from start to finish!

A change of tack.

“So, where have you been hiding, Pat? “I haven’t seen you around lately.”

Pat sniggered, his eyes rolling. “Ah, ya know, kid, there’s times a man needs a break—not a Shirley break though!” Pat bellowed with laughter. He went on, “Southie’s damn crowded with all these newbie places poppin’ up. Can’t even recognise the old ‘hood anymore.” “Makes ya wanna barf everywhere; just needed some Pat time, know what I’m sayin’” “Not Shirley time, tho, hahaha.” “Stay away from the big-house, kid!”

“I agree, Pat; the place is changing, and in too much of a hurry, like a stubborn teenager.” “Ya damn right, kid,” Pat replied. Kudos from an icon to a blow-in, a heady nod there!

Pat smirked, a whimsical look in his eyes. “Mul’s is a damn institution, though. Been comin’ here since I was a bairn. Still the best breakfast around. Stick ya fancy brunch crap in the trunk—with the wise guys, just good ol’ breakfast and lunch.” Pat added.

Not wanting to discredit his newfound appreciation of food, I went back to basketball and game 6 in Miami. “So, Pat, what’s your take on the Celtics’ chances in Game 6?”

He wiped his mouth clear of the black tar coffee and leaned in like a post-up forward.

“Well, kid, we’ve seen the green haul ‘emselves off the floor before, and no doubting there in a tough spot. The talent’s there; the will is also. They gotta know the ‘hood has their backs; play like it’s a damn pick-up game down the local courts. No Game 7 if they can’t pull off the heist. It’s gotta be a miracle in Miami, kid. Ya, know what am sayin’?”

I nodded, continually impressed by Pat’s passion. “You’re right, Pat. They need to play with freedom; process over outcome.” I held my breath; that sounded way too technical. Nothing came back, I continued. “Boston deserves a championship team.” I’m not sure on what grounds I am qualified to make such a statement. Anyway, I did.

Pat smiled without conviction. “Ya friggin’ right, kid. This ‘ere is a sports town to the core. We bleed green for the Celts. We truly believe there’s unfinished business.”

Pat finished his coffee, and I just stared at mine, wishing for it to evaporate. There was a clatter of dishes out back, more food being ordered, and fresh scran appearing. As we got up to leave, Pat slapped me on the back; maybe a sign of Southie comradeship!

“Thanks for finding me, kid. Good to have someone to talk Celtics with. Here’s hopin’ the boys bring Game 7 back to Boston. I wanna see Butler and Martin with me own peepers; Smart will fit them both with straight-jackets. Mark those words, kid!”

I smiled and shook his hand with renewed optimism. “No problem, Pat. It’s always good to chat with you, my friend. Take care, and I’ll see you after Game 7.” “Sully’s Tap Room?”

“You damn right, kid. Ya starting to get the caper, know what I’m sayin?” Pat laughed for the last time.

As I walked back to the train, I couldn’t help but feel a renewed sense of hope for the Celtics and Pat. If there was one person who believed in them, it was ‘Slim’ Pat Donnelly, the Southie local with a heart as big as Boston itself.

And maybe, just maybe, his unwavering faith would inspire the team to break the dreaded 0–3 curse. The ride back to Beverly was a good one, even if the views couldn’t quite match what I felt inside.

Nick

Subscribe now

Share

Spring’s been bashful in the Northeast, radiating with sunshine one minute, only to be covered up with rolling clouds and dampening rain the next. New England weather—like Melbourne— can be as predictable as the Celtics during finals!

I feel like Boston is meant to be dark and dank. And, if and when it gets hot, it seems like nobody knows what to do. Puffer jackets and woollen headwear are the norm, while t-shirts, shorts, and sunglasses look out of place. To me, it just feels like the kind of city where it’s easier to complain about the weather than embrace it. Growing up in Manchester—where weather-bashing is an art form—I can certainly relate.

Wednesday is ‘hump day’ wherever you are, like reaching the summit of a mediocre mountain; it helps you feel OK about the descent into the weekend. This Wednesday, I was in Boston; the Celtics had just avoided being swept by Miami, and Game 5 was Thursday night at TD Garden.

Travelling into town on the commuter train—after spending the night in Beverly—I pondered how the locals might be feeling after the Celtics slipped to a 0–3 position against Miami. The Heat had been all over the Celtics like a cheap suit. Could they rally on home court? They’ve lost five of the last seven at TD Garden. Or would this be the end of the line for Joe Mazzulla’s Celtics?

It’s an interesting ride from Beverly to Boston’s North Station. The line hugs Massachusetts Bay, originating in Newburyport, then reaches the North Shore and winds through a very unremarkable landscape. You first get sight of the city skyline at Chelsea—yes, that place nobody wants to go! Then it’s on to North Station, which is an extension of TD Garden. Pretty handy if you’re travelling in to watch a game.

I planned to cross town to Southie and see if I could locate ‘Slim’ Pat Donnelly.

Pat had been missing in action for a few days now, so I wasn’t too confident in finding him. I was pretty sure he’d be pissed at the way the Celtics had been playing. He did tell them to look after their defence first!

I made it to Southie a bit after 11 a.m. There were a few options available: I could go over to the ‘Mad Hatter’, and I’m pretty sure it would be cranking by now. There were a couple more bars close by that might appeal to Pat on this intemperate Wednesday, or I might wander without any purpose, hoping to cross paths with Pat. I took the last option; it felt too early in the day to be in a bar.

Broadway is the main thoroughfare in Southie; it runs in a north-south direction from City Point in the south to Andrew Square in the north. It serves as a crucial transportation artery, connecting Southie to Downtown and other surrounding neighbourhoods.

Recent years have seen a revitalisation and resurgence, with new restaurants, bars, boutiques, and residential developments emerging. This is a long way removed from the shady history of its past. Clearly, Pat would have preferred it to remain as it was.

I was slowly making my way towards Mul’s, an institution when it comes to classic Irish diners. Mul’s has been feeding the Southie faithful since 1937 and holds a special place in the hearts of locals and visitors alike. Home fries, French toast (not as posh as it sounds), corn beef hash, eggs anyway you can imagine, pancakes, bacon that looks like gammon steak—it’s all there; the menus are as thick as the Bible!

I had black pudding and baked beans on my mind; I must have been salivating as I nearly walked clean by Mul’s. Oh, I didn’t mention the coffee. Mul’s takes American coffee to a new level—terrible. It’s my only knock on the place, saying that I still drink it; you have no choice. There’s no refusing a refill at Mul’s.

With a spare seat at the bar (that’s a diner bar) and a full view of the grills and kitchen, this was me for brunch. By the way, if you make it to Mul’s, or any other diner for that matter, do not mention brunch. It’s either breakfast or lunch.

“What are ya goin’ to have?” The server asked. It looked like she’d been here since the place opened! Searching for my best Aussie accent, I went back with, “Some black pudding and baked beans, please.” There was an awkward silence. “What na eggs?” she shouted, just so everyone in the place could hear. “Of course, sorry, scrambled, please?” Honestly, I can never remember the over-easy stuff, so I just go scrambled, which isn’t always appreciated!

With my order in and the tar-black coffee on the way, I settled in for some classic people-watching. First, a span to the left, then back to the kitchen, and finally a sweep to my right.

“Holy hell, Pat, how long have you been there?” Yes, it was an uncanny coincidence that “Slim’ Pat Donnelly was sitting on the next stool!

“What’s up, Kid? Watta you doin’ here? I thought ya only liked the bars!” Pat said mischievously.

“Well, Pat, I’m actually here looking for you and wondering where you’ve been.”

“That’s a story, kid. Those fackin’ Celtics, I tell ya, something’s up.”

To be continued.

Nick

Subscribe now

Share

In the midst of a self-help revolution, it’s easy to lose sight of what comes naturally. Phil Collins plays drums like he’s spraying a wall with graffiti. Ricky Ponting’s swivel-pull looks as hard to him as a dog chasing a cat. No one could, or ever will, moonwalk like Michael Jackson. Pavarotti hit a note like Tiger Woods hits a golf ball.

What am I saying? Don’t forget what you do well. The daily tasks that need no thought, no effort.

Conversation comes easily to me—I’m told I write in this tone. Sport didn’t require much effort—cricket provided a living. I’ll stop there before I run out of superpowers.

Academic circles call the self-improvement uprising “the self-help industrial complex.” Let that be—it’s everywhere. But today, stop for a minute and ask yourself: what are my superpowers?

I hope you surprise yourself. Happy Friday.

Nick

Subscribe now

Share

Turns of phrase, taken literally, can be offensive. Not intentional—the literal meaning is hidden in the commonality of the phrase.

Listen to interviews on radio, TV, podcasts, wherever there is debate—I guarantee you’ll hear a counter: “No, listen...” Of course I’m fucking listening. It’s foghorn loud to me. Why? Because I’m ready for it.

Here, Australian Football dominates winter sports. A prominent pundit—ex-player, of course—continually goes to “now listen” or “no, listen.” The commonality becomes permanent. We oblige, we accept, we imbibe.

Language shapes us quietly. The phrases we swallow without noticing become the phrases we repeat without thinking.

Now listen—are you paying attention to what you’re actually saying?

Nick

Subscribe now

Share

The formula for a perfect handshake is surprisingly difficult. You have to approach, stand, look, engage, squeeze, time, and release in exactly the right way—otherwise it gets fucking weird. And skipping it altogether? Not an option.

Then the awkward letting-go phase. There’s always one who grips too hard and hangs on too long—the alpha lion beating his chest, challenging you to stay engaged when all you want to do is ghost.

We’re in the male domain here, but engagement has shifted, hasn’t it? Interpersonal relationships in the wild have had centuries to evolve. Online? Not so much.

People tweet in ways that offend. Peddlers build empires that feel completely false and somehow sell things you wouldn’t give away. WhatsApp messages arrive daily that, at first glance, read as rude and in-your-face.

The lowercase movement grinds — which is why, for this publication’s title, I use lowercase—but you know what I mean. The internet wasn’t built for cordial introductions. It is a town square.

I tripped last night, responding to “Hi, how are you?” with “G’day, I’m good.” Thirty years ago it would have been “Hello, fine thanks, and how are you?” Consider me conditioned.

People like us like people like us. (An often used quote.)

And the perfect handshake? Today, naturally, a handshake is usually seen as a threat more than a disarming form of intimacy and parity. Keep shaking!

Nick

Subscribe now

Share

But really, what is it?

Late last year, I sat down with the coaching staff at Geelong Cricket Club. The brief was simple: check in, ask questions, bat around the answers, and hopefully find a few hooks to carry into the month before the Christmas break. It was coach focused, not player performance driven.

I thought it went well—always too long—but it seemed most people took something from it. I closed with what I believed was an important question: ‘What is your coaching philosophy?’ Not the club’s—yours.

It was the only line I’d properly parboiled beforehand. Walking home, I realised I didn’t really have an answer for the very question I’d asked.

Circling back to the original question: what is coaching? How can I answer or explain it when I wasn’t able to define my own philosophy?

That night, I sat at the kitchen table and thought long and hard. I looked through old notes and eventually came up with a sentence that, at least for now, best defines my method.

I'll keep it to myself for now—only to say it became evident that I'm probably closer to a teacher than a coach.

For you—sit down and try to define your own method in one sentence. Whatever it is you do in daily life. If nothing else, I promise it’ll be reassuring, and might surprise.

Nick

Subscribe now

Share

Our son was nameless for three days. We were sure a girl was coming—girl’s name locked in, boy’s not so. I’ve asked him how he feels about it. It’s one of those names that can be shortened, then shortened again. He’s OK with the middle ground. Eighteen months later, his sister was named—on time.

And the golf bit?

Well, if you’re a couple who might have some naming to do in the near future, I have a validated resource for you to consider.

Professional golf. A myriad of nationalities exist, short and long names, double-barrelled options, and the occasional self-naming. JT Poston is an initial first name — James, Tyree. Succession names are common on the US tour: Harold Varner III—with respect; bin these.

Here are some more options from a recent tournament: Aldrich, Romain, Ockie (favourite), Mackenzie, Elvis—yes, Australian Elvis Smylie—Laurie Canter (another favourite), Ryggs, Robin Williams!, Ryo, Sami. To name a few.

Tom Kim rates a standalone mention. Born Kim Joo-hyung in Seoul, South Korea, in 2002, Tom’s unique name story began at age five when he became fascinated by Thomas the Tank Engine and decided to rename himself after the beloved character.

If you’ve made it this far, give it some air—you just never know. And, good luck.

Nick

Subscribe now

Share

PS. Congrats to Englishman, Aaron Rai, on winning the USPGA earlier—the first Englishman to win the PGA, and likely the first Aaron.

A job worth doing. Sounds simple enough.

These days, though, even the simple is complicated.

Misunderstandings, technology, dishonesty, laziness, stupidity, and ulterior motives, to name a few, can all combine to form a tangled web that stops jobs from being done properly.

And the evidence?

Boundary umpires not being able to throw a ball in. Cricket’s DRS assiting umpires to eliminate the howler we all enjoyed. Professional golfers use every conceivable technology to hit every imaginable shot—only to miss a two-foot putt. Night roadworks with witches’ hat choreography. GPS sending drivers through lakes. Goal reviews—”Back to football here, starting to get the picture? Darce is pissed ‘cos his Magpies went down to the Swans”—did it pass over the post or not? Logins, what’s my username, where did I save that password, why do I have three different accounts? On hold. “Your call is important to us. Please wait for the next available operator, who is likely overseas and sleeping.”

We don’t do emojis here. Darce closed with the “Person Shrugging” emoji, which likely closes the post better than a statement.

“I don’t know” or “who knows.” 🤷 “I’ll tell you, Darce knows!”

P.S. Loved having Darce's voice in today's post. If you'd like to contribute a "Reader Sunday post" — send me a DM on Substack. All welcome.

Nick

Subscribe now

Share

Get the Substack app here. You can DM me from the App.

Englishman Tommy Fleetwood had an average week and missed the cut—a surprise to most. Fleetwood has many admirers. For those who don’t know him, he’s a professional golfer, he’s very good, and equally decent away from the course.

And do you know what he does better than almost every other sports celebrity? I’ll tell you tomorrow. No, that’s what the others do.

First, when interviewed, he listens to the question. You can see and feel it. Second, he answers that question—no statements, no skipping to his own agenda. He answers the ‘farking’ question and parks a period, waiting for the next. How refreshing?

Tommy Fleetwood listens. In a world dominated by statements and agendas, that might just be worth more than a major.

Nick

Bonus image. Happy Saturday.

Subscribe now

Share

For some, it’s here, others are waiting. Either way, why do Fridays feel different from a Monday?

It’s more than proximity to the weekend; it’s a collective emotional shift from grind to enjoyment. The air feels different; happy hours beckon; it’s like everyone’s leaning slightly forward into what Saturday and Sunday might bring—time for you, or you and someone else.

Worth acknowledging that not everyone gets their weekend on the weekend. Shift workers, service professionals, the people who make Friday night possible for the rest of us. And our sports stars who play weekends so we can watch — “They get paid too much to have weekends!” Fair enough. Still.

I’m a desperado. Thursday is my Friday. I know, a hopeless attempt at stretching the window from two to three.

Friday is a feeling. You don’t have to wait for it.

Nick

Subscribe now

Share

Monday, grocery shopping. I needed tea. Yorkshire Tea was on the shelf, but Twinings was on special—cheaper, but not my preferred brew. I talked myself into it — was it my non-Yorkshire bias?

Tuesday morning I poured the new tea. It didn’t land. Wednesday I went back and bought Yorkshire at full price. Woolies got me!

The paradox. I knew what I liked—even though it carried the name Yorkshire, it was a trusty morning companion. A special lure for what gain?

We do this more than we admit—overriding instinct for a shortcut, compromising what we know for what feels like a better deal in the moment. Then we course-correct at a cost—financial, emotional, or otherwise. Loyalties soften with distance. What felt important then barely registers now.

Loyalty costs more when you abandon it first.

Nick

Subscribe now

Share

The Roses Match
Wisden - Yorkshire v Lancashire: County cricket’s great rivalry through the ages
Wars of the Roses

I wrote on Monday that the ideas keeping us awake at night are often the ones we’re most afraid to share. Not because they might fail—but because they might succeed.

Me coming clean.

Back to 2017. The first and most complex idea, cricket-related. Back then it seemed such a stretch, the technology underpinning it was still in the domain of hardcore developers, meaning the financial barrier to entry was high, even though the concept was simple. I had, and still have, a tagline: "Elevate Your Game, Anytime, Anywhere." It was mapped out in my head. I shared it with someone close to me—a non-cricket person—she said, "Do it, share your knowledge, make a difference." And here we are—a tagline and little else. The desire and knowledge are still there, and the barrier to entry is lower now—with help, I could spin up a platform in a week to test. But I still sit on my hands. Why? Maybe it’s that fear of success!

Any more? Of course!

A second cricket idea—more community-based, built around language and words, and possibly easier to bring to life. Sharing it here has at least given it some air.

And two non-cricket thoughts, one in particular. The bones date back to Covid—a cryptic picture puzzle with a twist. If I had to start one today, it would be this—see the image below.

Finally, to challenge my mother’s long-held belief that I am just a dreamer—I helped build a live application currently in beta. Cricket-focused, with a heavy bent on community and inclusion. It’s called PlayStats, available on desktop, mobile, and through the Apple and Google Play stores. You can check it out here.

Mum, I’m working on it.

Nick

Ps. Here’s a teaser for the “cryptic picture puzzle” idea. See how you go; leave your answer in the comments.
It’s a “Person”
And a clue: “An 18th century American revolutionary whose legacy fermented long after the last battle was won.”

Subscribe now

Share

Saturday night we chatted while trying to keep warm, watching St Mary’s host St Joseph’s in the local GFL. I knew what he knew, but he had to play the “I can’t tell you” game. Monday morning confirmed he was off to Pakistan and likely to make his ODI debut as a 19-year-old.

And the “I told you so” bit—forgive the self-indulgence.

I coached Geelong CC for four seasons. We selected Peake as a 17-year-old, ignoring the seniority grumblings, because we did, and my eye told me Peake was different.

Picked Round 1 of the 2023-24 Premier season, he debuted against Melbourne—69 from 100 balls in a 50-over win, controlling the middle of the chase against solid competition. Two hits later, a maiden century against Greenvale. Five innings in, 319 runs at 159.5. "Unsustainable," the senior cartel muttered! Haha, mayo there.

It was after the Greenvale game that I bumped into Peake’s mother, Sarah, who has ridden every wave with him.

“How friggin cool is that—a first grade hundred!” Sarah said.

“Yeah, he played nicely, good partnership with Josh at the end,” I said, coaching hat squarely on.

“How good for Ollie, it’s unreal.” Sarah continued, as every proud mum should.

And I caved. “You know he’ll play for Australia.”

“No, ye reckon?”

Yes, I did then, Sarah. And I do now. Congrats to all the family.

Nick

P.S. I intended to continue with the Ideas post and come clean about my hoarding—that will be tomorrow. This was too topical to pass up.

Subscribe now

Share

Written Jan, 2024: Ollie Peake, where to next? SpeakingCricket: Nick Speak

But why do we hesitate to share an idea? What makes us scared of the wild? And what if someone steals it?

Generally, these folk are more afraid of success than failure—I place myself in this category.

An idea unhinged is safe. It cannot be stolen, but will never be proven, criticised, or used in the real world—whatever that is!

Don’t be afraid to succeed or fail.

Nick

Subscribe now

Share

A bright spot that resurfaced was a story I followed at the time — Save With Stories — a community-driven fundraiser on Instagram. Authors and others reading books for children on camera, raising money for @savethechildren and @nokidhungry and helping kids stay connected at a difficult time, through a world of fiction. A timely reminder that not being able to play golf paled into insignificance.

At the time, I read a book with someone I cared about, still do; we were 12,000 miles apart—A Gentleman in Moscow (Amor Towles). It was a unique experience that remains with me now.

Story time can still be alive if you want it to be.

Nick

Subscribe now

Share

A Gentleman in Moscow

Fridays: happy hour, or one more than normal. Monday a lockdown night. Tuesday: look for a taco. There’s a steak night, a parma night (parmi). Thursday, the AFL juggernaut gets rolling—get your tips in on Wednesday, and we gift you a free pot—who drinks pots anymore! A movie night? That ‘ell be Sunday. With little effort, your week is set—I know, pretty narrow and centred on drinking and sport, but you get the drift?

No doubt there is comfort in being guided through a week’s scheduling by knowing what you can find on any given day. However, if you are free to make choices, you should.

Spontaneity is your 15th club here. Have a cocktail on a Monday; go to the cinema on a Thursday night—if you crave something that doesn’t match the day, go and do it.

Play the week. Don’t let the week play you.

Nick

Subscribe now

Share

Unintentional, but #29 was my son’s number in college lacrosse. Endicott briefly considered retiring the shirt… then thought again. Haha, sorry K. Always proud of what you achieved then—and what you’re achieving now.

So, trust has been on my mind. If pressed, I would say writing soothes me; it doesn’t always come easily, but when it does, it helps to fill holes and gives a reassuring sense of purpose.

Paul Auster, the American novelist who passed last year, had this to say about writing (spoiler, wanna be writers look away):

“Don’t be a writer; it’s a terrible way to live your life. There’s nothing to be gained from it but poverty and obscurity and solitude. So if you have a taste for all those things — which means you’re really burning to do it — then go ahead. But don’t expect anything from anybody.”

Honest, if nothing else. And yet, here we are.

Twenty-nine days of turning up. Some posts have landed, some haven’t—I feel the difference even if I can’t always see it. Am I being preachy? Probably, sometimes. Enough storytelling? Not always. Enough comedy? You can be the judge.

I always felt you write a narrative for yourself, and that’s the thread you follow from one day to the next—this isn’t the case, you write for something bigger than you, the readers and beyond. And the trust? Well, you leave that with the reader, right? One of the first rules Paul Auster would have you follow is, “Show, don’t tell.”

29, 99, 109, whatever, trust the narrative. Keep going. Fail a little better.

Nick

Subscribe now

Share

Links:
Paul Auster: a great American writer of sophistication, innovation and intellect