Craig Rice and the Art of Living

Reader, the most nihilistic words ever penned belong to Shakespeare: The Tempest (Act 4, scene 1, 148–158). They’re soul-destroyers in every sense.

“Our revels now are ended. These our actors,

As I foretold you, were all spirits, and

Are melted into air, into thin air:

And like the baseless fabric of this vision,

The cloud-capp'd tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces,

The solemn temples, the great globe itself,

Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,

And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,

Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff

As dreams are made on; and our little life

Is rounded with a sleep.”

Even for those with a metaphysical affiliation, this nihilism has all the ferocity of the KT Extinction Event (which killed off the dinosaurs). As principle, these words are caustic enough; when they engulf a loved one, bitterness, despondency and despair ensue. Was it all for nothing? Is there nothing residual but a handful of dust?

In late November of 2019, I was notified that my friend, Craig Peter Rice was dead. Not sick. Not unwell. Not saving an insolvent bank in Scotland but dead - dead at the age of fifty-one. It was the tersest of summons from the Underworld. Death came for him in Babylon-on-Sydney Cove. Back in our hometown of Melbourne, I was sitting in the kitchen at the time. I watched the split-second of impact – the crossing of the River Styx – recede into the past and irretrievably so. It did not have to be and yet it was. Like a Dresden firestorm, it sucked oxygen from my lungs. I read the SMS a second time, hoping that my eyes were deceitful. Alas, they were not. He was dead. Henceforth everything would be different. I loved him. So did countless others.

Craig’s demise had a ripple effect; in its resonance and anguish, it engulfed corporate bankers and Maccas employees alike. Whatever their standing in life, this was a bereavement beyond measurement or redemption. It nested in one’s marrow too; the funeral was a sombre tentative affair, as if the magnitude of the loss had yet to be fathomed by family or friend alike.

Reader, I pen this memoir to perpetuate his memory and goodness. Other perspectives are possible. Who can encompass such a person? As Pascal says: “A man does not show his greatness by being at one extremity, but rather, by touching both at once.” This is so true of Ricey: the one equation encompassed the corporate gladiator and devoted family-man with horrendous dance-moves. In either domain, Ricey was true to himself. He was exothermic, not endothermic, to a stupendous degree. How he let his light shine forth! That being said, no consolation is on offer here, be it faux or otherwise. To those who loved Craig, his death is a latter-day Cannae: a double encirclement on the flanks followed by annihilation. Even if we were birds, we could not hope to escape.

We begin – and beginnings are such delicate matters.

I first met Craig at Doncaster McDonalds. It no longer exists – except in memory - even if its shell houses the current BMW dealership. Its most notable feature was that a W-class tram had been cut in half and deposited in the dining-room as landscape. The year was 1986. Fergie and Prince Andrew exchanged vows. Ronnie Reagan snoozed away in the White House. I was a failed medical-student and seminarian at the time, with a year to kill before I returned to the University of Melbourne to undertake Arts. To that end, I flipped burgers full-time. Craig joined me out the back. We met next to the grill in those dreadful nylon uniforms of blue with mesh-hats. That grin of his, which readily turned into a gloat upon receipt of news from the MCG, was apparent at genesis. So our friendship began. Even though he was studying Law and Commerce at Melbourne University, Ricey spent long hours at Maccas to augment his coffers. I marveled at his dexterity, self-confidence and time-management. Ricey was playfully contemptuous of my decision to undertake a Bachelor of Arts which he could not equate with cash-flow. On my part, I had no interest in Commerce which to my mind, entailed enlistment in Pharaoh’s Army as a charioteer. We had wider differences; I am a Catholic whereas Ricey was as metaphysical as a fence-post. Indeed, Ricey was irreligious and innately so. He was kin to Richard Strauss – the great German composer - who once said as he sat down to breakfast: “Now tell me, what am I meant to be saved from?” It mattered not. Anchored by our love of football, we got on famously with one another. The Maccas at that time was managed by Fred Steinkellner whose gruff Teutonic visage housed a good man. He was holding the fort in wait for the owner’s son, Mike Rowe, to earn his stripes on the floor. There was tension between these protagonists, comparable to an old bull and an up-and-comer new to the paddock. I liked – and like – Mike Rowe even if there were days when he was more volatile than napalm and his displeasure at events resulted in objects being immolated or propelled skywards. Anyway, there were two other guys working full-time out the back with us: Joseph XXX (who was desperate to become a funeral director [of all things]), and the famous Morrie Knackerwitz whose visage offered a contrast to the tall, blonde-headed, blue-eyed Ricey. All four of us were determined to leave grill and be promoted to register which was a softer job (evidently). When Morrie made such a hyper-jump, he promptly became a mini-Hitler to us galley-slaves out the back: this is not something that Ricey or I foresaw. Two cleaners kept us company: Tony and Lewy. Both of them were Dutch. They had migrated from Holland at the end of the World War Two in less than ideal circumstances . . . . . . They frequently ate their lunch (or had a smoko) on the roof of the building to avoid being bugged by Fred or Mike. Boyana Boast, a lady who subscribed to the Mormon faith, worked during the week on register; she was a woman of grace. Chrissy Dearden – an English pocket-rocket – was our daytime manager. There was no drive-thru in those days; it was all foot-traffic and voluminous at that. A glamorous manager, Sue Whittaker by name, often appeared at the back-end of the day-shift to prepare for the night ahead. Another manager, Peter Keily soon appeared our radar-screens. He had a mojo to rival that of Craig. Both of them had an interest in Black Jack . . . . . .

This was what I learnt of Ricey from the inception of our friendship:

Ø The greatest gift one can have is a happy childhood. It was clear that Craig had pocketed this. To his mind, the world was a good place, ready for conquest and ravishment. There were no neuroses to be raked over, no expulsions from Eden to re-live. Blessed with talent, he would subjugate and partition the world to his betterment. “And Alexander was sad for there were no more worlds left for him to conquer.”

Ø That being said, Craig was more Roman than Greek, antiquity-wise. His intelligence was calibrated to solve practical problems in all their complexity – the latter-day equivalent of bridges, barbarian invasions, aqueducts and amphitheaters - rather than muse on intangibles such as ontology and teleology. That’s one of the reasons why his career was so meteoric and self-sustaining at the big end of town.

Ø Ricey was a mad Hawthorn supporter. There was a wall at home that was covered with WEG posters. It promulgated triumphs endless and nauseatingly so. Whenever I saw it - given the bloodbath of 1988 - I regarded it as a Wailing Wall. What becomes of the broken-hearted? Answer: endure they must the gloat of Craig P. Rice!

Ø To that end, his most sacred possession was his Hawthorn scarf – it was the only thing that survived the fire which razed the family home to the ground (blame it on a dishwasher – and thankfully the incident occurred during the day).

Ø Because his photos and keepsakes had been immolated, Craig was overwhelmingly positive and focused on futures. He exemplified Henry Ford’s saying: “History is bunk!” What do I do now? What will I do in the future? What is the catenation between these determinants? Unlike Lot’s Wife, he never looked back – not for a second.

Ø He had a sister, Edwina, who joined us at Doncaster Maccas. Talent-wise, she was cut from the same cloth. She shared his intelligence and goodness. They were more like twins than mere siblings, with their own sign-language.

Ø Craig and Edwina had an intense relationship with their paternal grandfather Charlie who had fought with distinction in WW2. I met Charlie. He was a man who was determined to be the best grandpa in the world and rightly so – the aim being to shoot two arrows deep into the future.  

Ø In time I met their parents, Wayne and Diane Rice. They were people of civility and decency. It was not hard to trace Craig’s lineage in such matters.

Ø Whereas I was fresh from the seminary, Craig had already hit “Omaha Beach” with the girls. How envious I was! While I could relay some of his conquests, it’s best that they pass into oblivion. In truth, he was a good-looking rooster who loved to strut around the barnyard, plumage and all!

Ø Our tastes in music differed significantly. Whereas I was a classical music fanatic, Craig reveled in the other end of the spectrum and gleefully so. I dare not recall his exuberant playlist . . . . . . .

Ø Craig was never a big drinker. He preferred to keep his wits about him, particularly in Black Jack when he was besieged by any number of adversaries. Famously, he never finished a can of beer. Nor was he dumb enough to smoke – bravo Ricey!

Ø Craig was never big on exercise. In his youth, he played hockey and that was about it. Anyone who saw Ricey in a kick-to-kick would endorse . . . . . his sedentary office-career! His lack of focus on his physical well-being was tributary to the cataclysm of November 2019.

Ø Ricey knew how to laugh at himself – a key attribute in life. When teased, he accepted it in good faith. Indeed he reveled in his status as a dag. For a lark in the late Eighties, we published a Doncaster McDonald’s monthly publication called the X. It was a shambles. Three-quarters of its content was devoted to Craig: “Ricey’s Tips on how to Impress the Birds”; “Grooming Lessons with Ricey”; “Bimbos Ahoy - Raunchy Holidays with Ricey”; “Craig Rice - the Best a Man can Get.” Upon receipt every month, Craig read it end-to-end religiously. Much like Oscar Wilde, he preferred to be spoken about than not at all.

Ø He was immensely competitive in every domain. To know and love Ricey meant that one wanted to GET HIM, be it in a card-game, Trivial Pursuit or Monopoly. He staked out the higher ground and invited attacks from lesser mortals. It was possible to beat him in chess (well, I fought him to an epic draw at his parents’ place) or Trivial Pursuit (by focusing on History and Literature). Even so, he was a formidable, relentless opponent. In Monopoly he sought out the Oranges and then gleefully throttled his opponents. Here, he vanquished me on the field of battle. And he knew that the Greens were a dud investment. Nor did he ascribe to the Cult of Old Kent Road and Whitechapel Road – the cheapy Death-Stars! They had no appeal to the merchant-banker within.

Ø It was evident from day one that Craig would not die in a state of penury – and so it turned out to be. Even so, he was not materialistic. Over time, Ricey was generous towards any number of people. In the Game of Thrones at the Big Banks, he always ensured that he had a less impressive car than his superiors. It meant nothing to him; why not fold on an inconsequential point? Ricey controlled money – money did not control him.

Ø Craig always worked his guts out. He never tolerated laziness in himself. Each day was subject to the wider plan of advancement and conquest. The hard-drive light was always flickering.

Ø There was a core goodness to Craig. He didn’t have a malicious bone in his body. I cannot remember him saying anything bad about anyone – not even Mike Rowe when tension was rife between them. Mike was no fool – far from it. He readily acknowledged Ricey’s abilities, but perhaps piqued by Craig’s trajectory, resolved never to make him a manager at Maccas. This rankled my friend. It was one of the few Never-Lands in his life – not that it mattered long-term.

Ø Craig monetized most of his activities, not least, Black Jack with the McDonald’s crew. Ricey counted cards with more infallibility than the Pope which is no mean feat. He knew that the House suffers carnage on occasions but overall it prevails against rank-and-file combatants. To that end he willingly served as dealer against his fellow employees. I won’t mention their names – they know who they are. I never had the balls to take him on; others did. Over time, these participants bled to death on the field of battle and profusely so. True, on occasions word filtered back that Ricey had copped a beating on the previous night and there was rejoicing in the land; more often than not, Liberace-like, Craig laughed all the way to the bank. The funds so accrued paid for his famous Red Astra. It was more than a car; it broadcast the folly of gambling, not least in a dynamic where Ricey knew how many aces were still in circulation. Whatever happened to that vehicle, it’s remembered yet and loathed by the alumni of Doncaster McDonalds. May it rust in peace!

Ø I’m hard-pressed to nominate a failing on his part. Perhaps Ricey was somewhat gauche and boastful on occasions – but these were tempered by his innate  sunniness and good-nature. As I said above, he knew how to laugh at himself: this was redemptive. Higher culture did nothing for him and he was being genuine in his lack of interest therein. To quote Tolstoy, there are as many hearts as there are loves.

Come the start of 1987, Ricey and I were promoted to Crew-Chief at Doncaster McDonalds. Essentially this meant that we were platoon-leaders. With immense relief, both of us ditched those horrendous uniforms for a blue shirt and tie (white shirts were reserved for managers). With the commencement of University in 1987, I worked weeknights and weekends, sometimes with Ricey, sometimes not. Craig was in his element. It was a hoot being a crew-chief: one projected demand, galvanized the troops and placated management. Cook too much and the burgers would be turfed (their lifespan was ten minutes), whereas cook too little and chaos would erupt. My approach – as Edwina might remember – was to go pedal-to-the-metal at rush-hour. Ricey had a more calibrated approach of supply-and-demand. On many occasions we erred in our projections. That being said, an expediency was at hand: update the metal timers surreptitiously. Quarter Pounders that should’ve been binned at 1.05pm were still plying their wares one hour later . . . . . . And if a Quarter Pounder was required and there were none on the grill, it was not unknown to undertake a sex-change on a McFeast to keep the customer happy! Craig was no stranger to these nefarious practices. How we laughed at the inanity of it all. On innumerable occasions, we stood next to each other at production as the crowds surged forward at the breakwater of the registers. One could liken it to Khe Sanh where we were the besieged marines up against the VC and NVA on the wire.

Here are some names from those famous days in no particular order: Janet Rutherford (register and drive-thru); Kathryn Rutherford (register and drive-thru); Edwina Rice (register and drive through); Sue Whittaker (manager); Colin Budge (grill); Fitzy (grill & fries); Mark Sweeting (grill); Craig Sedgman (grill); Steve and Anne Wynd (manager / register and drive-through); Jimmy Dunn (register, drive-thru and grill); Richard Skewes (grill); Andre Sammut (grill); Peter Keily (manager and legend); Maree Dineen (register). Dom Gregory (manager); Jenni Baxter (register and drive through); Sue Baxter (register); Amanda Barnett (manager); Peta Hilton (register and drive-through); Janelle Moss (register and drive-through); Megan and Kylie Douglas (register - and their Old Man who hung around them with a pick-handle to deter suitors); Megan Bates (register); Trent Ayres (grill); Kelly and Melinda Tempany (register and drive-through); Steve Mirams (the famous crew-chief); Tash Biltoft; (Parties) Wayne Yates (grill); Rohan Armstrong (grill); Karl Leitner (grill and register); Anthony, Nick and Chris Ficinus (all grill); Steve “Warm Fingers” Tibaldi (Crew Chief); Sue Cocker (register); Steve and Dean Crocket (grill); Rob and Andy Spurr (Manager and grill); David Elsum (crew-chief); Carolyn Young (register); Jason Hugo (grill); Steve Creasy (grill); Steve Trapman (grill); David, Peter, Chris and Russell Mernagh (Dave as Crew Chief, rest as grill); Sandy Coglan (register); Clare and Mary O’Hanlon (register and drive-through); Linda Fox (register).

This was a golden time for us all. Young and free we were. We lived hard and played similarly. Indeed, on many occasions after close of shift, contingents of Maccas employees ventured to High Society, the disco nightclub at the top of Shopping Town. I attended this cesspool of iniquity but rarely. It wasn’t exactly Studio 54 in its sophistication or the calibre of celebrities at hand. If the mood was upon him, Ricey shamelessly unleashed his dance-moves for all to see. And to think that at the time, we regarded the Over-28 scene as being a parade of fossils: Oh, to be that young now in our decrepitude! I also accompanied Ricey to the Metro (then at the height of its fame) and Inflation in Chapel Street. No good came of such nights.

At the end of 1987, Mike summoned the crew-chiefs to a BBQ at his penthouse in South Yarra, the aim being to celebrate the year past and annunciate a promotion to come. What a pad it was! Its balcony overlooked the CBD from the south-east. With his eyes fixed on me, Mike declared that one of us would be a manager in the year ahead. It was me. I knew it in my bones. I kept my conviction to myself. On the way out, Ricey assured me that he was the anointed one. I smiled. When my promotion came through, Craig graciously congratulated me, even if a glint in his eyes was apparent. Upon our return to work, a new terror was evident in the new year: Hot Trax!

Yes, one of the joys of working at Doncaster McDonalds in the late Eighties was Hot Trax Nights: Craig would attest to this. It was the equivalent of a Blue Light Disco for the youth of Doncaster – many of whom were bogans of the purest strain. It was held at the Athaneum Hall (which is no longer extant) near the corner of Doncaster and Church roads. It generated huge amounts of foot-traffic into the store – together with any number of uber-bogans who were looking for a root or a fight in equal measure. For whatever reason, I was the manager on these nights where Ricey or Stevie Mirams served as Crew-Chiefs. Security was at hand, sometimes armed with dogs. While we were supposed to close at 12.00am, many a time we were still slugging it out thirty minutes later as we sought to avert new bogans from entering the store whilst evicting those who were shagging or boozing in the dunnies. Anyone at the Doncaster Maccas who worked on a Hot Trax night has it seared onto their souls. Akin to the barbarian tribes pouring into the Roman Empire, it was onslaught without end. Vigilance, for instance, was required in the sweep of the car-park (whoever was assigned this duty was accompanied by a security-guard). The King of the Hot Trax Bogans was a wormy guy called Justin. Heaven knows how he attained this regnal status but his sovereignty was undeniable. Indeed, one day we pre-planned our approach to the next Hot Trax with this luminary where he was paid off with a few burgers and a shake. Once the last of the bogans and wannabe bogans (those buggers who lacked the talent to be full-bogans) had been shown to the door, it was Close Time – time to clean the store end to end which was no mean task. One guy would be assigned to the hose-gun out the back – it was one tough mother-fornicator of a job that left one soaked and sweaty in equal measure. The grill was cleaned of scorch marks and then, oiled down in pickle juice in preparation for the day ahead: these were no easy tasks. Elsewhere, the shake-machines was meticulously stripped down, cleaned and then reassembled: this took time and expertise. Newbies were assigned to the dining-room with its mountains of rubbish, vomit and other excretions. Fun this was not. More often than not, Ricey and I returned home close to two in the morning. In our youthfulness, it mattered not. My sister Mary reminded me of the following near-miss:

"I remember the night we almost didn’t make it home after Close in heavy fog with you driving the mighty Stanza and me in the front passenger seat about to plough into a car parked in the left lane. Think it was Ricey who saw what was about to unfold and honked his horn loudly to alert you, saving us both. It was one of the best jobs I ever had. I loved drivethru!"

Here’s another tale. As per usual, I was manager on a certain Friday Night in 1989. Craig was Crew-Chief. It was a Hot Trax Night. We were being overrun like the Diggers at Long Tan. There were parties in the trams too which were devouring output in stupendous volumes. In the kitchen, our loyal and tough troops could not keep up with demand. Each of the registers had customers lined up to the back-wall whereas Drive-Thru was clogged. It was bedlam. I looked at Ricey. He looked at me. A “Led Zeppelin” (3 Macs and 6 Regs [for cheeseburgers and junior burgers]) on the grill was useless under the circumstances: Drive-Thru alone was waiting on that and more. What of a Black Sabbath (6 Macs and 12 Regs)? Nope no good. It wouldn’t shift the dial. We nodded at each other. Desperate times call for desperate measures – and that could only mean the legendary Double Black Sabbath (12 Macs and 24 regs on the grill). Thinking as one, we made it happen. Ricey grabbed a slab of meat and worked with the troops to lay it on the grill. I pulled a guy off chicken and ordered him to help with the dressing. Everyone knew the stakes. Could we avert a riot? Reader, this was the only time I saw a Double Black Sabbath in practice: it was ugly. Yep, forty-eight patties of meat spread across the grill like red spots on the undercarriage. Given the time it took to place this array, there was a differential cook-rate between the first and last patty - no wonder the Double Black Sabbath contravened guidelines. Moreover, the toaster could only pump out so many buns. Nor was there room on the work-bench to dress such a monster easily. I cannot remember who was on the grill that night – Craig and I usually worked with Sedgie, Sweeting, Budgey and Steve Crockett or Steve Creasy on buns; whoever they were, they were herculean in their efforts. Just as we were about to flip this mountain of meat at the halfway point, the Devil himself – it was surely no other – induced Mike Rowe to stride in through the front-door at the worst possible moment. With hindsight, his timing echoed Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro in its perfection. Mike was stupefied by the queues – even so, if he had seen the Double Black Sabbath, Ricey and I would’ve been cashiered at the end of the shift. In a rare moment of inspiration, I ran over to Mike (and in doing so, blocked his view of the grill). I shrieked “Mate, get down to Drive-Thru! They’re being overrun!” Enough said. Drive-Thru (with its famous conveyor belt) was Mike’s baby; aghast, he galloped down the corridor to the second window. By the time of his return – some thirty minutes later - the tempest had passed. Ricey and I looked at each other wearily; it was the closest of calls as Mike was a martinet in such matters. JC fed the 5000 with fish and bread. Our feat that night was likewise miraculous!

One memory lingers and glowingly at that. In the summer of 88/89 or  the year after, we staged an all-day-long-into-the-night pool party at the O'Hanlon ranch in Donvale where our parents were away for the weekend. It was a hoot. It started at midday and finished after midnight. It was an open invitation to all the employees of Doncaster Maccas - so as people finished their shifts, they hammered over to 77 McGowans Road. Caesar, our factory-fitted male labrador - loved water. He spent all day  in the pool  - and went down the slide as well. Much of the time was spent playing pool-brandy where Ricey was targeted by any number of protagonists. Thankfully Ricey wore broadshorts and not bog-catchers on that blessed occasion: that much I remember. All in all, it was an event that could occur but once, where youthfulness, fun and a blazing Australian sun converged into the one immutable memory to keep one aglow in old age and despair.

Craig and I interacted too when in civvies. Here’s a tale. I cannot pretend that I bettered Ricey in many things but there was one exception: the infamous 1989 Alexander Parade Grand Prix. In penning this narrative, I hope that my kids never read this. Both of us were on the Eastern Freeway in our respective vehicles: the famous red Astra up against the blue Datsun Stanza with four-on-the-floor. Wordlessly, the race commenced. The Freeway came to an end (all too abruptly) and soon we were weaving through the traffic – at breakneck speeds – along Alexander Parade. I shudder to think what I did that on that occasion to keep Ricey at bay; both of us nearly came to grief under any number of trucks and cement-mixers. I saw the narrowest of openings in the left-hand lane near Lygon Street; that was enough to seal victory. Being a stranger to defeats, Ricey snarled back at me. In hoc signo! By this sign you shall conquer!

A loss on my part comes to mind. The Dees had been traumatised by the Hawks in the famous 1987 Preliminary Final – a game that we should’ve won. Three easy shots on goal eventuated towards the close of the game, any one of which would have sealed victory: the trinity was squandered. Defeat ensued. Post-game, my anguish was exacerbated by Ricey whose economy of gestures was more resonant for being subtle. Come the following season, the Dees defeated the Hawks at the MCG in the first of the home-and-away encounters. Ricey and I attended that fixture. Satisfying though it was, it did not redeem the trauma of the Prelim nor guarantee silverware in the September-to-come. As per usual, Northey’s Dees scraped into the finals and much to my surprise, progressively defeated West Coast, Collingwood and Carlton. That meant a match-up with the ‘Awks in the Granny. Grounded on the precedents of 1980 and 1983, Elimination Final-itis loomed large. Craig and I both worked on Grand Final eve. There was a plaster beam above production, facing the grill, above where the crew-chief stood. It could not be seen by customers. Over the night, any number of Ricey’s adversaries stuck insulting banners or print outs on this space. I remember one of them: “Craig Rice, 5:30pm on Grand Final Day: ‘Rather than wasting my time seeing the Dees pump the Hawks, I should’ve stayed in bed with XXXXX.’” Ricey smiled. Colonel Custer had an easier day at the office than the Dees in the ’88 GF. I attended the match with Ricey, Pete Keily and may be Budgey. It was a day of degradation, dismemberment and dissolution. Ricey was in clover. Soon enough, another Weg poster was added to his hateful collection! Darkness was mine.

I had known Craig’s wife-to-be – Janet Rutherford – since the early Eighties when we both belonged to the same youth-group at Sacre Coeur. She was a feisty and good-looking woman of intelligence, character and faith. Like her older sister Kathryn, she too worked at the Doncaster Maccas where she caught Craig’s eye in '87. It was not hard to see why Craig fell in love with her. The pair became inseparable. They were married in 1993 – which was probably the only time in his life that Craig ventured willingly into a church. Since then, Janet has fought and won wars of annihilation of her own. With any number of suits being in proximity, she spoke so authoritatively at Craig’s funeral. It testified not only to the strength of the celestial union but also to the magnitude of her growth over the years. This was a Janet that I could not have foreseen in 1981; I was mightily impressed. To have come so far. Craig could not have married a more suitable woman to share the journey in its laughter and tears.

Craig’s career took him overseas with the Boston Consulting Group where an MBA was accrued in time. At that point, our interactions contracted but we kept the pilot-light on. Much like Senate in Rome receiving reports from Caesar in Gaul, his triumphs afield filtered back to Melbourne where I marvelled at his trajectory. Not least among his accomplishments was his career at NAB which he joined in 2009. In an age of digital transformation he was appointed its Executive General Manager of Strategy where his team of 70 staff (no less) delivered change at a critical time to the bank. Upon his departure from NAB (he did not send a Christmas card that year to Andrew Thorndick or whatever his name is), he was appointed to a similar position at Westpac. These are stupendous feats-of-arms by any measure. They also enabled him to see the world. I recall a photograph of him at Ephesus, standing in the shadow of the Library of Celsus. Measured not just in mileage, that’s a long way from production at Doncaster McDonalds.

In due time, three children came their way: Jade, Daniel and Nathan. Never one to be half-hearted, Craig devoted himself to parenthood with his customary intensity. Here, I’m sure that Charlie Rice served as a template. Where possible, we met at the MCG whenever the Dees played the Hawks. Such a fixture occurred in the 2018 where the Redlegs had a rare triumph over Hawthorn in the Semi-Final; given the weight of history, I did not rub it in. I let the victory speak for itself. It was only a minor final too which ultimately led to nothing. Even so, I hoped Ricey stayed for the song. When I last lunched with Ricey at the Docklands, I was concerned to see that he was over-weight - which was perhaps unavoidable given the nature of his job. More to the point, he looked unhealthy. He vaporized the mountain of food in front of him. I thought at the time “Mate, that’s not good at all!” Even so, to hell with being the raven; it was great to see my old brother-in-arms. About this time, he told me that he could retire if need be, then and there, with minimal impact to his family’s lifestyle. I was envious to hear this. Now as I recall that conversation, I wish that Craig had “beaten his swords into ploughshares” if it meant that he focused more on his own physical welfare. Alas it was not to be. As Westpac’s latest folly became evident, Craig was summoned to Sydney to cauterize the breach. He never left that hotel-room. May it be accursed henceforth!

All things come to an end. Craig’s death is too raw for any of us to utter a final word on his fiery existence. Maybe that’ll never happen. Ricey never saw his life through the prism of a belief-system; that was his call: his decision should be respected in death. Earlier on, I suggested that Craig was more Roman than Greek in mettle. Perhaps he was more Etruscan than either.

D.H. Lawrence observed that “To the Etruscan, all was alive, the whole universe lived, and the business of man was to live amid it all.  He had to draw life into himself, out of the wandering, huge vitalities of the world . . . . . you cannot think of (their) art, but only of life itself, as if this were the very life of the Etruscans, dancing in their coloured wraps with massive yet exuberant naked limbs, ruddy from the air and the sea-light, dancing and fluting along through the little olive trees, out in the fresh day.”

In such an Etruria, there’s nothing maudlin about life or death. What of the Fall? What of Original Sin? To the Etruscan, the afterlife itself – and considerations thereof - can wait; the obligation to live, love and dance on this blue planet of ours cannot. Ricey understood this. That was his Credo. Let’s close elegiacally with Catullus (Poem 101):

“Over the mighty world’s highways,

City by City, Sea by Sea

Brother, thy brother comes to pay

Pitiful offerings unto Thee.

I only ask to grace thy bier

With gifts that only give farewell,

To tell to ears that cannot hear,

The Things that it is vain to tell.

And, idly communing with the dust,

To know thy presence still denied.

And ever mourn forever lost,

A Soul that never should have died.

Yet think not wholly vain today

This fashion that our fathers gave.

That hither brings me, here to lay

Some gift of sorrow on thy grave.

Take, Brother, a brother’s tears,

 Bedewed with sorrow as they fell,

And ‘Greetings’ to end of years,

And to the end of years, ‘Farewell!’”

Ave atque vale Craig Peter Rice - husband, son, brother, father and friend tremendous! Great is thy praise. Much is our sorrow and loss.

Your old friend B.