Whenever I conjure up memories of my brother David, my thoughts first turn to that hot summer Tuesday, February 16, 1993. I see my oldest brother, Andrew, 16 at the time, walking out from the front door of our house to meet me with his hand clapped to his forehead, his eyes down at the ground. I see my dad crying helplessly, a man completely weakened, telling me — blubbering to me — “He’s dead”. I remember disappearing into my mother’s arms.
I had been playing softball. I was 11 years old and at The Terrace primary school. Our team was the best because a new kid had just arrived and he could pitch a softball faster than anyone. We beat the Cromwell College team at the field behind the school that day, and after shaking hands with the boys one of them hit a ball along the ground at us. It struck our coach’s foot and popped up and knocked the clipboard she was holding. We scowled, they laughed. But we were soon distracted by a commotion in the field next to ours — the one beside Dunstan High School.
There was an ambulance, a group of people. Something had happened and rumours started to fly. Someone said something about a kid getting hurt while trying to drink from the large irrigator that would sweep the length of the field to keep the grass green in Alexandra’s hot, dry summers. Thinking little of it, I picked up my BMX and got ready to bike home. Andrew got to me first.
“It’s David,” he said. He didn’t know the details, but the way he was rushing scared me. He had parked the car at the primary school. “What about my bike?” I asked as we ran towards the car. I dropped it at the school fence. David must be alive, Andrew reasoned, because the ambulance had driven away with him inside. They don’t take dead people away in ambulances, Andrew thought.
We were driving to our family friends’ house. The mother, Sue, was a doctor. She was at the scene. Her husband, Malcolm, was home. Andrew left me with him and returned to Mum and Dad. I guess I was being protected.
A phone call. I wanted to know. Malcolm said he didn’t know. We got in the car to drive to my place. On the way, I asked which one was the house of Alexandra’s only millionaire. We had already passed it, but Malcolm turned back to show me exactly where it was. I regretted asking and all of a sudden felt an urgent need to be with my family. When we arrived at 14 Blackmore Crescent, our house, I sprung from the car to arms that were open for the wrong reasons.
Once that memory is dealt with, I can think of the part of David I love: the alive part. It’s the part that took me out to the park next door to our house every day of summer for cricket games that would last until the light finally drained from the sky, often close to 10pm.
We would play on a short pitch mown onto the flattest piece of ground in a bumpy field speckled with small clumps of drying dog shit. To even things up, I was allowed to bowl as fast as I could to David, who was three years older than me. When I was batting, he was only allowed to bowl slow and I would get five lives, sometimes more. We played with a hard ball. I loved wearing pads. Often, our friend Brendan Scott would join in the games. The two of them would play against me, but for these times I would get 10 lives. Their favourite thing was to get me caught behind — the most prized way to dismiss a batsman. Once, David was bowling and he got me out twice in two balls, the second time caught behind, which triggered a terrific celebration. David was on a hat-trick. The next ball, I let myself get bowled, just so I could share in the delight.
Many of my memories of David involve sport. Catching practice with Dad in the park: Dad holding the bat cross-wise, us chucking the ball, the leather thwacking on cracked willow, us attempting the most spectacular possible diving catches. Me trying to be like David. Basketball on the driveway: one-on-one contests, having to dribble the ball back past the fence before shooting, David all the while performing a mock commentary as if we were stars in the NBA. Rugby, soccer, golf. Sport was what you did in Alexandra to pass the time, and David was good at it. I was lucky I got to share it with him.
It has been 15 years since David was killed in that freak accident. Electrocuted after cricket practice while trying to cool off with his teammates under a sprinkler. The sprinkler’s anchor stake had been driven through the grass, through the soil, and, instead of sinking into a soft resting place, it struck long-forgotten live cables, buried too shallow, that once powered a PA system for the adjacent sports ground. The thin wire along which the sprinkler would move was completely electrified. The groundsman who set up the sprinkler had been spared death because he was wearing rubber boots. David was less fortunate. To think of what that moment of shock must have been like for him — well.
He’s been dead for longer than he was alive. This is the first time since his funeral that I’ve actually written properly about him. It has been something I have preferred to deal with privately, not wanting to impose my grief on others. But I want him to be remembered. I don’t want him to be just an engraving on a plaque on a stone in a memorial garden at the high school. And I want to give him back some of his life, if only in these few paragraphs. At the very least, from now on, when someone Googles “David McKenzie” this story has a chance of showing up.
While talking on Skype a few days ago, Dad asked me what I was going to do to mark this anniversary. I had no answer, but now I can say I’ve spent some time with David again. After this, I’m going to see a film and then a gig. I’m going to have fun. At David’s funeral, I read a speech in which I promised him I would pick up where he left off. Two months short of his 15th birthday, David had missed out on so much in life. I’m going to make sure I make good use of mine.
