Of course, I soon realised what the real problem was. The stadium possessed showers, but the girls found these primitive facilities distasteful—no girl could hope to be restored to her best after a hot sweaty game in such circumstances. And no way was any one of them about to be seen on the public transport looking anything less than her best. A ride in a private vehicle meant they could forgo their self-restoration until they got home. It was just simply practical.
    And so it happened that after the next game, seven skimpily clad, hot, sweaty, excited girls squeezed themselves into my FJ Holden and we set forth on what would become a weekly grand tour of the outer suburbs.

Danny drew himself up. It is said that his head just missed touching the ceiling. “Then I will go out to The One who can fight. I will find The Enemy who is worthy of Danny!” He stalked to the door, staggered a little as he went. The terrified people made a broad path for him. He bent to get out the door. The people stood still and listened.
Outside the house they heard his roaring challenge. They heard the table leg whistle like a meteor through the air. They heard his footsteps charging down the yard. And then, behind the house, in the gulch, they heard an answering challenge so fearful and so chill that their spines wilted like a nasturtium stems under the frost. Even now, when people speak of Danny’s Opponent, they lower their voices and look furtively about. They heard Danny charge into the fray. They heard his last shrill cry of defiance, and then thump. And then silence.
    John Steinbeck wrote a number of books that were considered of little interest before he came to Tortilla Flat, which dealt with the poor Spanish folk of Monterey. It is hard to see how the book enhanced his popularity. It is a sparse yarn about three young hoods and their deeds, they steal the odd pig and burn down the occasional house. I found it hard to get into of because it is told in mock heroic saga form and keeps you at a long distance from the characters. You have to be told Danny has good intentions—nothing he does or says indicates it.
    The passage above demonstrates what I mean. It is the climax of the action—though not the story which seemed to be redemption-style claptrap—where the hero, Danny, who only wanted to be good but ended up bad, goes to his noble death and gives birth to his own legend—but it is all so remote and lofty in its expression that you really don’t care. To me this was a simple extension of that same mythologising that had created the western—indeed it was a western without guns and horses. I’m afraid the value of it passed by without touching me.