Book extract 2: Ex-Crows star Scott Hodges tells of his battle with booze, drugs and mental illness
SCOTT Hodges had it all — eight SANFL premierships, Magarey Medallist, star forward with the Crows. But, as the second extract of his new book reveals, behind the scenes his life was falling apart.
- Scott Hodges comes clean — my booze, drugs and depression battle
- Hodges book extract Part 1: ‘The day I decided to beat up Jars’
- Hodges tells how Buddy Franklin made him confront his demons
- David Penberthy: The simple question everyone should ask
IT should have been a joyful end to the 1997 season. My years playing with the Adelaide Crows were behind me and I had been picked as a member of Port Adelaide’s inaugural list on its entry into the AFL. It was a great moment for us Port people but, personally, it ended up being a miserable bloody year.
And it was summed up by what happened on the night of the Power’s 1997 best and fairest, a special night in the history of the club, the first club champion award Port Adelaide had held as an AFL team. Even though I had missed that entire season through injury, I was still invited along. I didn’t go.
I had been drinking heavily for much of the year. I had also started taking amphetamines. And on the night of the best and fairest, while my AFL teammates were getting dressed up for the Power’s night of nights, I was at the Findon Hotel in Adelaide’s western suburbs, getting on the drink.
There were some women hanging around at the bar. One of the blokes I was with was trying to chat them up. I was just drinking beer and ignoring the sheilas. I wasn’t interested in talking to them. I wasn’t interested in talking to anyone. I just wanted to get pissed.
Suddenly I felt this intense surge of heat rising through my chest. I thought I was going to explode. I had no idea what was happening. I hadn’t taken any drugs that night. I was getting hotter and hotter and sweating like mad.
I wasn’t sure if it was a heart attack or some kind of anxiety but it became apparent pretty quickly that someone had put something in my drink. Maybe with the women there someone wanted to take me out of circulation to eliminate any competition, not that I had any designs on those birds anyway. Whatever it was, it hit me like a shot.
My mate wanted to take me to hospital but I said, no way. Imagine that in the newspaper — “Port star Hodges ODs at pub”. I couldn’t go to hospital and I didn’t want to go home. I was scared for my wife, Julie, to see me like that. We had our young son, Billy, at home and I didn’t want him to see his dad like that. I didn’t know what to do.
I ran outside the pub and lay down on the path. I ripped my shirt open to let in some cool air. I couldn’t believe how much I was overheating. I got up off the path and staggered into the front yard of a house.
I turned their garden tap on, full bore and lay under the tap with my back on the cement. I let the cold water pour all over me to cool myself down. I was lying there for what felt like an eternity and ended up drenched.
I went back to my mate’s place to try to come down. I can’t remember if I called Julie or not. Given the way things were going with us by then, I suspect I didn’t call. I was awake for almost 48 hours — all that night, all of the next day and into Sunday morning. I have no idea what it was. I don’t think it was just speed. Coming down from it was terrible. It went on and on for so long.
I finally went home to Julie on Sunday. My shirt was ripped from where I’d torn it when I was trying to cool down. Julie thought I had been in a fight. But I had done it to myself, I was so hot.
I told her what had happened and explained that I had been too scared to come home. I told her that I didn’t want her to see me like that, I didn’t want Billy to see me like that, but I don’t think she bought it. By then it was pretty much over between us anyway.
What a way to end the year. My teammates celebrating in style at the club champion award, me flat on my back in a stranger’s front yard under their garden tap, thinking I was going to die.
My decision not to attend the best and fairest said everything about my state of mind. I had withdrawn into myself.
Things had completely fallen away at home. I was often drunk and I’d been using speed on and off since I was delisted by the Power. The drugs were helping to take my mind off things. Superficially, at least.
The drugs were an escape from reality. The end of footy, the end of my marriage. Speed made me feel invincible. It made me forget about the problems at home. It made me feel good about myself. While I was on it, that is. It was a different story coming down.
After that night I had been drugged at the Findon, when I finally came home, Julie looked at me and said, “Scott, what have you turned into?”
It was like she saw something in me. What had I turned into? Late in the footy season, Julie filed for divorce.
I went up river. It was a Tuesday. Mum was worried about me and had rung Julie looking for me. I had my phone off. I didn’t want to talk to anybody.
I was going up river to Walker Flat, a little town on the River Murray, to my brother-in-law Darren Cahill’s shack, the same shack where Julie and I had spent great times with family and friends. No-one knew I was going there. I didn’t think I would be going back home.
I wasn’t really sure what I had in mind when I left town. I just grabbed a few things and left Adelaide. I didn’t take any food, just some clothes, a whole stack of grog and a rope in the back of my ute.
Everything had fallen down around me. I didn’t even have any keys to Darren’s shack. When I got there, I paced around, trying to work out how I could force my way in. The neighbours were watching to see what I was up to.
I strolled down to the jetty and sat there for a while and started thinking up a plan for how I could end everything. Every so often I looked back to see if the neighbours were still looking and saw they were still there out the front, watching me.
There was a big tree near the pontoon. I looked at the tree and worked out which branch to wrap the rope around. I thought, “This is where I’ll do it. This is where they’ll find me.”
I had a 30-pack of Victoria Bitter cans, a big bottle of Jim Beam and three litres of Coke. As I sat back on the couch with the TV on, a lot of things rushed through my mind. Everything in my life had gone to shit.
I started drinking beer. I had a few beers and then drove to the pub at Swan Reach and drank some more. It was late in the day so I decided to go back to the shack and keep drinking there.
I turned my phone on and saw a few messages from Mum — “Ring me, Scott. Is everything OK?”
I didn’t text her or ring. I didn’t ring text or ring anyone. I just kept drinking.
I had a whole stack of painkillers and anti-inflammatories in my bag and started swallowing them with my beer. I took about a dozen and kept drinking. I can’t remember what happened after that because I passed out.
When I woke up the next day, I felt like death warmed up. I have always been able to back up and never get hangovers, but I felt really, really sick. I could barely get off the bed. I lay there for hours.
I can’t remember what I was thinking when I took the tablets or how many I took. Maybe I was hoping that I would get so pissed that the drugs would mix with the alcohol and I wouldn’t wake up. I had drunk about 15 cans of beer and half the bottle of bourbon.
I spent most of the morning lying around. All I was thinking about was whether anyone back in Adelaide — Julie, or anyone — even knew or cared where I was. I kept thinking, F — k it, why would anyone even care what happens to me? Mum would, obviously, but no-one else could have cared less.
I got a pen and paper and started writing some kind of letter to Julie although I don’t think I ever sent it to her or showed it to her. It was just pages of black thoughts.
In hindsight, I was lucky that the neighbours had been hanging around that previous day. Maybe they saved my life. I knew what I wanted to do but I couldn’t get down to that pontoon and to the tree with the rope without them seeing what I was up to.
Whenever I popped back out to see where they were, my thoughts about what I was going to do would change. It was a fortunate distraction.
That next day I drank late into the night and finished the rest of the 30 beers, the rest of the bourbon and passed out again.
When I woke up the next morning, I rang Mum.
“Come home, Scott,” she said. “Come home.”
I got in the car and drove back to Adelaide. Clearly there was something wrong with me. I didn’t know what it was or why I was feeling and acting this way. I wasn’t sure where to start but I knew I had to sort myself out.
Elizabeth Clisby was one of the club doctors at Port Adelaide. She was a lovely woman and really good at her job and would go on to become very senior in sports medicine. After working with Port, she became the team doctor for the national women’s basketball team, the Opals, and the Adelaide Thunderbirds netball team.
I got in touch with Dr Clisby and told her that I really needed to speak to her about some things. I started by telling her that I had been taking speed on and off for almost a year, that I wrote myself off every weekend with booze and amphetamines. I didn’t feel like I was on top of things and I really didn’t know how to go about dealing with it.
I’m not sure what she thought of our conversation. Normally blokes go to see her about a dicky shoulder or a bung knee and here I was spilling my guts about taking drugs while I was spiralling out of control with suicidal thoughts going through my mind.
I didn’t tell her the full extent of the dark thoughts that I had been having. I didn’t know how to address that and I didn’t tell her about those days at the shack, that I had a rope in my truck, and that I was still having thoughts about how I could end it all.
I tiptoed around all that and, when I saw her, I sort of presented it to her like I had a drug and alcohol problem that had been made worse by all the personal dramas I had been going through.
Dr Clisby was a smart lady and she clearly twigged that there was more to it all than this. I knew that I had a problem but I still wasn’t admitting to it. Seeing Dr Clisby was a start. It was a pretty modest sort of a start, though. I wasn’t in the clear yet. Not even close.
Edited extract from Not All Black and White, Scott Hodges’ Life in Football And How It Almost Ended, by David Penberthy. Published by Ebury Press, RRP $34.99
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Anyone experiencing a personal crisis or thinking about suicide can contact Lifeline on 131 114. Support for anyone living with depression and anxiety can be found at Beyond Blue on 1300 224 636.