“The first time I can recall meeting Steve Kerr (and Andy) was on a wet, grey day at Hanging Rock racecourse in early 1993. There were no races there that day, and any chance of a picnic of the sandwiches and bullants variety was 1000-1 and drifting. We were there to see John Prine sing on a makeshift stage, which made it worthwhile, rain and all.
For Steve, the weather was nothing that another drink and a laugh couldn’t fix. After that, we met regularly at the Standard and became friendly, maybe close to friends. He was sparky and funny, possibly brave, certainly mischievous but never mean. His interests were improbably broad, ranging from social justice (especially for indigenous people, many of whom were mates of his) to politics, racing and sport.
He was a country boy transplanted to Fitzroy and Clifton Hill, a transition that works much more easily than the other way around. The result was someone who could milk a cow or a Government grant, rub shoulders with politicians and academics and bureaucrats and journos and musos and battlers and pests and broken-down footballers and farmers, desperate punters and cynical bookies, and get along a treat with them all. He could and would throw down a beer or four in the front bar and then step outside to roll up something his dear old ma wouldn’t have approved of. He could have stepped into, or out of, the Murray Whelan novels that Shane Maloney wrote that decade. If Maloney were bribed even a little bit, he’d probably agree that Steve was a role model.
The last time I saw Steve, I reckon, was when we drove to Benalla during his illness to see a young racehorse trial. On the way up we stopped off to have a cuppa with Paddy McCarthy, the Standard’s acknowledged expert on merino wool and many related matters. Steve and I had bred the horse with other hopefuls but that didn’t seem to encourage it. It pulled up making excuses, even bunging on a limp, but we could see right through that. We had a laugh and probably a counter lunch and drove back to the big smoke while the horse prepared for a nice, quiet life as a pony club hack. The best thing about the nag was his name, which was Mr Sin.
Such is life.
I wish we’d got to meet John Prine that wet day. I reckon he would have liked Steve. Everyone else did. Which is as good a reason as any to throw a few dollars towards beating the disease that beat him."
- Andrew Rule