We all want to be heroes.
In sport, in business, in life. We idolise the ones who show courage we’re sure we don’t have.
But the truth is, we’re all one bad moment away from finding out.
I found out on a bus at 2 AM in the outer suburbs of Sydney, fifteen years ago. Terrified, twenty years old and about to lose my job.
I’ve tried not to forget it since.
When I was in my very early twenties, I got a job at Star Casino in Sydney.
It was a dream come true. Living in the big city, going through training with my best mate, dealing poker and making pretty good money for a twenty-year-old with no qualifications or higher education.
The first three months were brutal—I was stuck on the graveyard shift.
Starting at 4 AM and working through to midday every day was taking a devastating toll on my body. To make the change more tolerable, I was staying with my buddy in an outer suburb in Sydney’s North called Thornleigh.
Thornleigh was closer than my hometown of Woy Woy, but still far enough away to make life difficult.
I had to be up at 1:30 AM in the morning to catch a 2 AM nightrider bus into the city.
That bus trip was a solid 60-75 minutes depending on stops.
From there, I would get the tram to the Casino from Central Station and arrive at around 3:30 AM. Enough time to have some food and get changed for my 4 AM start. I was late to work a couple of times during my probation and had been warned that my employment could be at risk if it continued.
My stop was one of the first, and Central Station was the last stop, so I could usually afford to sleep on the back seat throughout the journey.
One morning, I was woken by a commotion.
As I sat up, I could hear the bus driver shouting for help. Two eshays (lads/hoodlums), donned in the finest streetwear and sporting luscious rat tails and shiny new Nike TNs, were assaulting the bus driver.
Punching him, provoking him and attempting to take whatever cash was on hand.
I gently appealed from the back of the bus, “Guys, please stop.”
They replied, “Shut the fuck up, or we’ll come down there next!”
I put my head down and recoiled into my shell and the safety of the backseat. My attempt did nothing to slow the assault, as the bus driver’s pleas grew louder.
I surveyed the landscape—from the back of the bus I could see everything.
“Who’s going to stand up and do something about this?” I pondered to myself as a barrage of punches and insults rained down on the helpless bus driver.
I looked around.
Four people, all my age or younger: one small Asian man, three small women (big student population in Sydney’s Northern suburbs). None of them had shown any sign of acting, and I didn’t blame them.
I desperately wanted someone else to take ownership.
Up until this point in my life, I had never had any sort of physical altercation. I didn’t know how to take a punch or hurt another human being.
I was a terrified little boy, but I was the only one capable of making this stop.
There was no hero to be seen.
“Fuck it. I’ll have to be him.”
Knowing that my employment was on the line if I was late again, and with the awareness that no one else was coming to the rescue, I stood up and slowly made my way to the front of the bus.
I sheepishly approached the two assailants.
My plan was simple: gently approach the savages and calmly beg them to leave the bus whilst pleading the seriousness of my employment situation.
Assailant one (Dumb) was busy punching the bus driver, whilst assailant two (Dumber) was attempting to grab the cash. I moved within their line of sight and began to beg for mercy.
“Guys, please stop. I am going to be late for…”
Before I could finish the sentence, I was hurled backward by a blow to the face—sucker punch! Completely stunned and disoriented, I looked up to see that Dumber had turned his attention to me.
In a totally surreal moment that genuinely felt like I had embodied Sherlock Holmes, I gathered myself and began plotting my response.
You see, even though I lacked fight experience, I had done a bit of training (like a very tiny amount).
My Uncle Tommy had lived with us on and off throughout my mid-teens, as he had spent the majority of his life in and out of prison. In his youth, Uncle Tom was a champion boxer who transferred his physical stature and boxing credentials to a life of crime. He loved getting my brother and me together to go through boxing fundamentals whenever he was in town.
Uncle Tom only taught us the basics, but those basics were all I needed.
Boxing stance, high guard, the jab, the cross. We would drill the one-two regularly.
I was stunned, but the training subconsciously kicked in…
I shaped up.
Locking my gaze on my attacker, I lunged forward and stuck the jab—popping his head back and buying myself a moment of reprieve.
While discombobulated, I took my opportunity to tackle Dumb through the open bus door and onto the sidewalk. Sprawling out onto the pavement, I rolled to a stop and found myself face down with my oversized hoodie obscuring my vision.
I knew I couldn’t stay here long.
These guys were dogs, and I was only moments away from having my head stomped into the concrete.
Forcing myself to get up, I stumbled for a few metres as I frantically tried to regain my balance and clear the hoodie from my face. I finally found my feet, then turned to see Dumb & Dumber waiting for me.
So here we are…
Me, two wannabe thugs, an empty Sydney bus stop at 2 AM on a weekday morning.
They wanted more, and I was chosen by the Gods to give it to them.
I assumed my stance, distributed my weight, raised my high guard and began marching forward.
They ran at me, one after another, throwing wild haymakers like any typical brawler.
Dumber threw a wild overhand right.
I kept my cool, raised my guard and absorbed the blow, immediately returning with a stiff jab on the same side.
Time stood still.
Confidence surged inside of me as I realised that not only could I handle myself in this situation, but that I could beat these guys, dominate and win.
I turned to Dumb, who now attempted an overhand of his own.
Same result.
They tried again, and once more I repelled the attack. It felt like an eternity out in the night cold, and my thoughts started turning to the shift that I was running late for, but the job was not done.
Once more, I shaped up against my opponents, but something had changed.
They were hesitant.
Outside of one unsuspecting sucker punch, they hadn’t landed any clean blows, and they were now considering their decision to engage me.
In the midst of their hesitation, I turned back to see the bus had now cleared.
All five people from the bus were now standing behind me.
Like a scene from Temu Avengers, we stood united and began marching toward them—individually scared for our lives, together we were strong and presented the harsh reality that this night was not going to end well for these two troublemakers.
They looked at each other, considered a retreat and then turned to cower into the darkness that they had emerged from only moments earlier.
We taunted them as they made their escape.
Relieved, but still beaming from adrenaline, I then turned to head toward the bus and was surrounded by the driver and other passengers who showered me with praise and pats on the back.
I briefly soaked in the moment before urging everyone to return to the bus.
With a busted lip and a blood-stained (brand new) hoodie, I returned to the back of the bus and assumed my sleeping position once again.
The rest of the trip went as planned. I arrived at work with seconds to spare. Got changed and was ready to start my shift right on the 4 AM handover.
It was hard to hide the reality of what had just happened.
Working in a customer-facing role as a croupier for eight hours with a scuffed face and split lip made the story hard to avoid.
So I told it… probably fifteen times throughout the day.
I returned to regular programming and kept my job for a few more months before I finally gave in to the extreme hours.
A few months later, I was living at home when I received an unexpected phone call.
It was the owner of the bus company.
He said that he had seen the footage, heard the reports and wanted to call and thank me for my bravery. He was eternally grateful for my actions and asked if I required anything as compensation for my effort. I quickly said no; I was just happy that it was over and that nothing really bad had happened to anyone.
It was nice to get that call and be reminded of the courage I displayed—knowing that I had done the right thing was enough of a reward.
In the years since, I have tried to remain that person.
Choosing as often as possible to run toward the fire, instead of away from it. In every difficult situation, we have a choice: courage or cowardice.
To be clear, I do not consider any of the passengers on that bus cowards. They were too small and powerless to do anything. The only person who was big enough or capable enough to do anything was me; the responsibility fell to me, and I chose to own that responsibility.
In reality, it felt like I had no choice. But I did. We always do.
I had no idea that I was capable of courage.
Until that morning, it wasn’t something I’d ever shown or even knew I had. I was a scared kid trying to survive my own demons.
But when the moment came, I stood up. Not because I was brave. Because no one else could.
They say not all heroes wear capes.
And some don’t even know they’re heroes until the moment arrives.
That was me. Unsuspecting, unwilling, but ultimately unfazed when the rubber met the road.
Didn’t know I was a hero til I had to play the part.
With gratitude,
SAV
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