A NEW DAY
The war was over. Hitler had been defeated and slowly and surely the country was returning to normal. Most of the troops had returned though some had sustained physical and mental injuries that would last a lifetime. Victory had been hard won and now it was time to return to the task of building this still relatively young country.
Frank Pearson had done his job well. The local football club was still intact and now it was time for him to step aside for others to take up the cause and help the club to advance.
The town and the club were approaching a new decade with renewed enthusiasm and a strong sense of mateship that had been re-enforced during the war years.
Pat Phillips was appointed Captain/Coach in preparation for the coming season. With several quality players in their ranks, the Seagulls were also hopeful of several more returning from active service. It was a time for celebration.


Chelsea had always been a suburb of working men and never was it more evident than during the fifties. With the war over and an expanding population in Melbourne there was a rapid growth in small towns such as Chelsea.
Building was booming as the land was made more habitable  with the draining of the wetlands. And, of course, with the decentralisation came an abundance of work in construction and service—the blue colour trades.
These men took great pride in working and playing hard. Their lives were physically demanding but fulfilling. Starting in the early hours of the morning, they would finish their labours at about 4.30pm and head for the pub to replenish their fluid levels with that well known thirst quencher Carlton and United.
Chelsea Hotel, with its six o’clock closing was the scene of some high speed drinking in those days. Men often got to the point of drunkenness very quickly, and in that state fights became frequent. These were strong men who worked hard physically and earned respect through demonstrations of courage and strength. It was a brutal environment where men got hurt but there was a code of ethics that underpinned any violence. Kicking for instance was regarded as cowardly and god help any man who resorted to the use of a knife or weapon, as the entire crowd would turn on him. Such behaviour was simply not tolerated. Reputations were gained and in a matter of minutes during these times.

SUNDAY MORNIN’ RECOVERY SESSION

In the 1950’s Chelsea was one of the ribbon of suburbs which skirted the eastern shores of Port Phillip Bay. Narrow gutted, bisected by the rail line, beach on one side and dairy farms on the other, it was ordinary with little to distinguish it from its neighbours save its football team, which had always performed well in the Federal League, a top rated competition in suburban Melbourne.

One factor that enhanced the importance of the football club to the community, was that the footy ground was the only place in the town that a bloke could get a drink on a Sunday (the alternative was to drive 25 miles to some bush pub) so it was always a lively place on a Sunday morning. A fella could get away from mowing the lawn, analyse yesterday’s game with the experts and get a decent glass of Vic straight from the keg - heaven.
Turn right through the gates and you couldn’t miss the clubhouse. Well, it hardly warranted the term ‘clubhouse’; just a two room weatherboard, wooden floor, wooden benches, a couple of rubbing down tables and some showers (hot if you were first in and bloody freezing if you were the unlucky last). Basic, but homely, where you could drink, swear and hear the latest dirty jokes and not a sheila in sight!
The first thing to hit you on entry was the smell. A potent mixture of liniment, booze and tobacco, the latter also producing a blue haze backdrop. To complete the assault on the senses was the noise, which grew in direct proportion to the amount of grog being drunk. After all a fella had to raise his voice if he was to get his point across - which players bludged on their mates, the shear artistry of Terry Gorringe’s dropkick which sailed through the posts to win the game despite the best efforts of that mongrel goal umpire who we all know used to play for Mordialloc and still got free beers at the Mordialloc pub! 
Through the noise you could hear the club strapper at work, slapping at the naked bodies on the tables, bare arses quivering under a relentless assault as they tried to repair the ravages of yesterday’s game. Their ministrations were interrupted by the Club Secretary, Claude, who pushed a naked body aside and climbed onto the table. Claude was 6’4”, mean and as ugly as sin. A builder by trade, he’d shake his fist in your face and proclaim, “this is the only way you get respect from the bastards” (meaning players stepping out of line). It was a simple philosophy but it obviously worked because Claude got a lot of respect.
He glared at the mob. “Now listen up. If it’s good enough for these bastards to do a turn...” And the mob joined in. 
“It’s good enough for you bastards to listen too.”So began the Sunday morning ritual at the Chelsea Footy Club.

Part Extract from The Book "Chelsea Grit"