JUSTIN LANGER: Tim Picton tragedy and the importance of making an effort

On Friday morning, Optus Stadium in Perth was the venue for the memorial service of my colleague and friend, Tim Picton.

The last time I saw Tim he had texted me to see if I would come down and visit the MinRes suite on the second day of the Ashes Test match at Optus.

Filled with several of my friends from MinRes, I was happy to see them all out of the office and enjoying the cricket.

Tim was happy and laughing.

After a while I returned to the commentary box and as the day went on Tim bantered with me over text messages about how good Travis Head was and how he would fancy himself against England’s bowlers. Of course there were laughing emoji attached to each of these messages.

A month or so later, tragedy struck. Never in any of our wildest dreams could we have imagined the heartbreaking twist of fate that was to befall our friend.

Felled by an alleged coward punch in the early hours after a night out in the city, Tim remained unconscious in hospital until be tragically passed away on Monday.

One of the hardest working executives I have ever met — bright, talented, kind and caring — it seems unfathomable that he is gone.

Such a senseless moment in time, has changed the course of lives forever.

With hindsight, I am so glad I made the effort to visit the Min Res box that day. Such small things make me reflect on how important it is to “make the effort” in so many aspects of my life.

Australian businessman and entrepreneur, Mark Bouris, hosts a podcast called Straight Talk.

Fit, healthy, and strong in his views, Bouris said something over Christmas that has stayed with me.

Staring down the barrel of a camera lens, he said: “This is one of the most important questions you are ever going to ask yourself. How many more Christmases have I got left?

“If you live to the average age of an Australian today — 81 for a male, 85 for a female — the maths aren’t that hard.

“How many Christmases? How many grand finals? How many Father’s or Mother’s Days? How many Boxing Day Tests?

“You, me, all of us have got to start thinking about this. Think about how we are going to optimise that period. How do we optimise where we get to.”

The follow-up to these thoughts centred mainly around optimising health and well-being.

But events of the last few weeks have made me consider what else ‘optimising our time’ may involve.

One of those is staying connected with my family and friends.

Last Sunday night I chatted with one of my neighbours, Pete.

I was fascinated by his story and the power of staying connected.

Pete told me he went into the army as a part of national service on February 7, 1968. He and 42 strangers from Western Australia joined the 21 Platoon and left Perth for the Puckapunyal Army base in Victoria.

After their initial three-month recruitment camp, training and a stint in Vietnam, the surviving members of 21 Platoon gathered a few years later.

He told me from that first get-together, they have met three times a year — February 7, mid-year and Christmas — ever since.

For more than 50 years these mates get together, stay in touch with new technologies, and basically keep an eye out for each other.

Seventeen of them are now gone, but the connection remains.

When I asked Pete why this was important, he simply replied: “I dunno, it’s hard to explain the bond and camaraderie formed through the army. We were proud to be there, and now they are just my mates who we lean on and keep an eye on.”

A 50-year bond that started with one initial three-month recruitment camp. Incredible.

And you can tell by the look on his face that these mates mean the world to Pete.

Earlier that day I had been to a life members’ function at the Scarborough Cricket Club.

My friend Kade Harvey was being inducted, and I loved walking back into the Peter Wearne Pavilion and seeing all the old stalwarts of the club and being amongst the next generation of the club’s devotees.

There was a point where Kade and a few of my old teammates — Daniel Ducasse, the Ramshaw brothers, Robbie Baker and Dean Robertson — were standing with a stubbie of beer in their hands, laughing until they had tears in their eyes. It was like we were all 16 again.

After 40 years of knowing each other, nothing had changed. Less hair, a few more wrinkles, and the roller coaster of life had painted the picture of our lives, but the laughter and banter reminded me of how much I cherish the different groups of friends in my life.

It would have been easy to have said no, or found an excuse not to go, but I am so glad I made the effort. It is like this every time I get the chance to be in the same room with my old mates.

Along the way we have lost a few of our friends, but through them we get the chance to toast ‘absent friends’ and nod a sign of love and respect for those who have left us.

Even if it is only once a year or two, the effort made to be in the same room with old friends is a golden opportunity to savour.

When my grandfather was alive, there was a time when I would play golf with him at the Wembley golf course.

Fifteen years ago, I wrote about these times in a book I wrote, Seeing the Sunrise.

The chapter title was Tuesdays with Poppy, used specifically as a parallel to the international best-selling book Tuesdays with Morrie.

Every Tuesday afternoon, my grandfather, Alan Townsend, would play golf with three of his mates at Wembley. Rain, hail or shine, they teed off at 2.45pm for nine holes.

When one of his partners pulled out, I would be lucky enough to get a call up.

In his eighties, Pop and his three mates — Eddie, Norm and Dennis — taught me some valuable lessons.

In the time it would take to play nine holes, I learned a heap about life during the Depression and the Second World War. These events had a direct influence on how they went about their business when they were alive.

The first few rounds I played were, I must admit, a little embarrassing, because they were in absolutely no hurry at all. At the end of each hole, they would sit down and take the mickey out of each other.

“Did anyone else have a par that hole?” one would ask, knowing full well no one else had.

With that, they would all have a laugh, hand around the lollies, and hobble slowly over to the next tee.

Sad times, like good ones, can be a reminder of what’s most important in life, and that it is worth ‘making the effort’ while you can.

While this was happening, the group behind us would have their hands on their hips, muttering at the hold-up by the old blokes in front.

Oblivious to the queue building up behind them, my partners simply, and slowly, soldiered on.

As time went on, I began to suspect that these wise old men were aware of what was happening behind them.

Perhaps it was their way of reminding people to stop rushing and to spend a bit more time enjoying their round, rather than hurrying towards the result.

When I got over my embarrassment about what the people behind us were thinking, I realised that I was enjoying my golf more than ever.

Rather than striving and pushing and rushing my way through the game, I was having fun, while having a laugh at myself, with my mates. They taught me to never take myself too seriously.

The journey around the course showed me that regardless of their old knees, hips and backs, these guys all kept moving forward.

It didn’t matter what was happening behind them or how they were struggling up the hills or through their swings, they were out there having a go and concentrating on the only thing that mattered — eventually getting to the next hole.

I found the obvious mateship between these seasoned campaigners touching.

As I did the fact that they were still having a crack, at a time in their lives when many others weren’t.

In a life dominated by hustle and bustle, we tend to forget there’s nothing wrong with slowing down and smelling the roses every now and then — and that it’s worth the effort to do so.

Today, I play golf once a week when I am in Perth with my 79-year Dad and his mates, who are now my mates.

Like Tuesdays with Poppy, I wouldn’t change these games of golf each week for anything. They are very much worth the effort. And I know they won’t last forever.

Sad times, like good ones, can be a reminder of what’s most important in life, and that it is worth ‘making the effort’ while you can.