by Lloyd Jones
is like
our beech
or that woman’s eye
caught between secrecy
and full disclosure
is sloped
like
a fig
Or we could say ‘like’
when we needed time to think
what it was exactly
that needed explanation
‘Like’ was the hinge
on which unknowingness swung into light
we could say ‘like’
when we meant ‘imagine this’
For example, Billy Stead describing our ‘pleasure principle’ to a newspaperman—
to glide outside a man is
like
pushing on a door
and coming through
to a larger world
a glorious feeling
like
science
sweet
immaculate
truth
Space was our medium
our play stuff
we championed the long view
the vista
the English settled for the courtyard
The English saw a thing
we saw the space inbetween
The English saw a tackler
we saw space either side
The English saw an obstacle
we saw an opportunity
The English saw a needle
we saw its mean eye
The English saw a tunnel
we saw a circular understanding
The formality of doorways caused the English to stumble into one another and compare ties
while we sailed through like the proud figureheads we were
The English were preoccupied with mazes
we preferred the lofty ambition of Invercargill’s streets
Billy Stead laughed up at the ceiling. He’d been making these points to the newspaperman and had just thrown in Invercargill to see if he could get the hometown into the Cambridge newspaper. Now, at the behest of the reporter, he set about describing the various character of space—
the come-hither appeal of that space between the Plimsoll and the ever-flattering surface of the ocean
the upturned wagering ends of the turf between Billy Wallace’s sprint for the corner flag and the diagonal run of Billy’s opponent desperate to shut down the space
there was the dare of the tightroper who of necessity imagines air to be solid
there was the fox outside Cambridge which he’d seen turn and run this way and that, in and out of the hounds pursuing it—a life-saving understanding of space instantly lost to memory
there were the trails of a life spent in a valley
and the distance travelled between obscurity and fame
FIVE
There were idle moments
such as
the hour after breakfast
walking beside a slow-moving river
filled with toast and eggs
not really feeling like victors
kicking bronze-coloured leaves about.
Talk of a kind
‘How’s that knee, Jimmy mate?’
The bigger blokes like Nicholson, Seeling
walking with the detachment of giraffes.
There were the trains
the endless sitting and looking out the window
at the cows and the passing farmhouses.
On long trips, between Durham and Edinburgh, say,
we got so used to looking out at the world that we forgot our part in it.
We forgot that we were really bank clerks, foundrymen, farmers and miners.
We moved across the country and it was like it wasn’t really there, and, we weren’t quite in it.
The unquenchable nature of success sat on us lightly
but it meant routines—
Another train, another hotel, another match
Another speech—honoraries, dignitaries, your highnesses, gracious visitors, His Lord and Lady, the Mayor and Mayoress, ladies and gentlemen
Mister Dixon reaching for the same old card—‘Far be it for me to comment on the quality of the opposition we have yet to meet.’
Toasts, and more toasts
then off into the night with old injuries and new ones
black and blue bruises
the rockabye sway of the horse-drawn wagon
our tired silence
the strange voices that called to us from unseen doorways in the fog a baby’s cry sending Stead’s thoughts to Invercargill
the scrape of a shovel in the coal box fetching Corbett and Cunningham
a dog’s bark causing the ears of Deans and Hunter to twitch
and the exact hour in the hills registering in their eyes.
West Hartlepool. After a month’s absence we found ourselves at the edge of the sea. Booth announced the apple and apricot trees around Alexandra would be coming into blossom now. Dave Gallaher got out his sister’s letter and read aloud a description of her ‘first swim of the season’ and of the ‘salt drying on her arms’. Our thoughts turned homeward, to Mission Bay, fruit salad and the smell of hot sand. We remembered old sunburns, the first plunge off the end of the jetty. Our first kiss. That first parting of the flesh. We thought of these home-baked moments, noting the difference between them and this. In West Hartlepool it was cold and grey, the sea had been spread with a knife and we shivered inside our skulls. Even Mister Dixon who, at times like this looked to ward off homesickness with a clap of his hands or a song, fell quiet. Then Jimmy Hunter broke the silence. ‘How’s this,’ he said.
‘In Mangamahu, on a hot day, the gorse bushes explode.’
Mangamahu. In frigid Scotland a word didn’t come any more exotic than Jimmy Hunter’s patch.
For some of us Scotland meant going ‘home’. Billy Stead pictures himself knocking on an old wood-splintered door in Girvan. For now though he sits in the carriage practising reef knots with his boot laces, pulling one end then the other, seeing how well his Maori and Ayrshire strands knit together. Part of him is going home. Part of McDonald and Glasgow. Part of Jimmy Duncan. A lesser part of Freddy Roberts. A smidgeon of Seeling and Tyler.
At Edinburgh we stepped from the carriages to the cheers of 300 New Zealand and Australian medical students. We waved and shouted back at one another across the divide of tracks and steam. A lone brisk Scots official found Mister Dixon and pointed the way to where the transport from the station awaited us. Through the shifting vapour and steam we looked around for the dignitaries. Well, what do you know. Edinburgh was the first town where the Mayor failed to meet us.
Scotland was the only union in the United Kingdom to refuse us a guaranteed sum ahead of the match. The Scots had lost money on the Canadian tour the year before and didn’t want to invite the same again. So, at Inverleith, we would split the gate. The Scots had not foreseen the fame that rolled out ahead of us, and all week the English newspapers had poked fun at them for offering us the gate; now the Scots looked to retaliate in a variety of petty ways.
We heard that they planned to play a mystery formation against us. We heard they would not be awarding their players ‘caps’ as they did not regard the match as a ‘true international’.
Thursday night we put our boots outside our door to be cleaned and found them in the morning stuffed with crusts of stale bread. We shook our heads. It would never happen at home.
We spent the day looking over the city, visiting castles, fountains, busts, and stamping warmth into our feet.
Saturday we woke to a freeze and news that the Scots had failed to protect the ground with hay.
That would never have happened at home!
Then the Scottish captain, Bedell-Sivright, in the company of an official, turned up at the hotel to suggest we call the game off as the ground was rock hard and possibly dangerous. So Billy Stead, Mister Dixon, Jimmy Hunter and Billy Wallace went off with the Scots to see for themselves. They found the ground was already packed with cold s
pectators. The crowd seemed to sniff out thoughts of abandonment in the Scottish pair, and seeing Bedell-Sivright prod the turf they began to chant—‘Play! Play! Play!’ We had no thoughts of denying them and after we said as much, Bedell-Sivright gave a stiff nod and marched away with the official. We shook our heads and pretended to be amused.
But we knew, didn’t we, it would never happen at home.
The noise of the turnstiles clicking over did give us pleasure.
The Scots niggle hadn’t yet finished. They wanted 35-minute halves; we wanted 45-minute spells. Then the Scots insisted we provide the match ball, but of course we had not even thought to bring one to the ground. The Scots officials shrugged and sighed and looked lost. Jesus H! We shook our heads with disbelief.
It would never happen at home.
In the end, a shapeless ball was squirrelled up from a dusty corner under the stand.
The game was late starting when one of the horses bringing the Scots’ wagon to the ground skidded on ice and fell over; there was a delay until another horse arrived, and because of this, there was no time for the traditional team picture to be taken.
As the Scots were led out by a pipe band we noticed their boots had been fitted with ‘bars’ like those that ice skaters wear. We wore our customary studs—by the end of the game our feet were a mess of blood blisters.
The Scots won the toss and kicked off. For the first ten minutes we were all over them like a mad dog’s rash. Fred worked the blind and Billy Wallace dashed over in the corner—but he was called back. The referee ruled the pass was forward. Fred stuck his hands on his hips and glowered. He’d never thrown a straighter pass. Moments later George Smith was clear, the line ahead, when the whistle went for another alleged ‘forward pass’.
The referee strolled around like a farmer with his crook making his way through a herd, without hurry or urgency, and was seldom placed to appreciate the shape of our game.
The Scots made little effort to attack. They either hugged the touchline or stood in the pockets of our backs. The penalties awarded us were of no use. We couldn’t dig a hole in the ground in which to place the ball for a shot at goal. Billy Glenn, who was linesman, produced a pocket knife for Billy Wallace to dig a hole, but the Scots objected to the practice, so Dave Gallaher had to spread himself over the frozen ground to hold the ball upright for Billy to swing his boot through.
The Scots played three halfbacks against us; that was the mystery formation. The bigger surprise came when they started the scoring—Simpson potting a field goal; the unshapely ball wobbled through the air and scraped over the crossbar. The Scots were up 4–nil and for the first time in nearly three months we were behind on the scoreboard.
Minutes later, Billy Wallace lays on a lovely raking kick cross-field to find the Scots corner flag. Billy is admiring his work when he’s hit by a late charge—his legs fly up and the frozen ground receives his head. Shadows and shapes of all kinds drift in and out of Billy’s brain. As he comes to, the first words he hears are, ‘You all right, Bill?’ ‘Jesus no, I’m not,’ he says. Helped into a sitting position he rubs his eyes and sees O’Sullivan and Gallaher in a heated exchange with one of the Scottish forwards.
Our reply came with Seeling taking a long throw to the lineout and charging upfield. In the tackle he places the ball for Glasgow to kick past Scoullar, the Scottish fullback; Scoullar has to turn and run back and Frank wins the race to fall on the ball over the line.
We were keen to build on that score, but the icy ground took away our feet. We couldn’t feel the turf. We couldn’t prop without our feet sliding out from under.
Instead, we did it by numbers. From a scrum near halfway Fred threw a cut-out pass to Jimmy Hunter. Thereafter it was just a matter of procedure—drawing and passing, Jimmy to Bob Deans with Smithy’s finish in the corner.
Our 6–4 lead ended following a stupid mistake. A ball from a lineout on our line went loose. Two of our players diving for it contrived to knock each other clear and a Scottish forward fell on the ball.
The Scots went to the break up 7–6 and this was another new experience for us. Behind at half-time!
The Scots sniffed possibility. The crowd too. They forgot it was freezing. You saw them smiling past their red, dripping noses. The crowd was roped off but the Scots officials marched up and down the sideline shouting encouragement to their boys.
The loose cannon who flattened Billy banged up our forwards as they leapt for lineout ball, but if we retaliated the crowd hooted. Nothing was going our way. The Scots defence got in the way of our back play. We could hear our boys in the stand yelling out to us—‘Ten minutes! Ten minutes to go! Open it up!’
Four minutes to go we put down a scrum on halfway, fifteen in from the sideline. McDonald and Glasgow won us a clean heel. The Scottish halves, as they had done all game, rushed Fred and Billy Stead. This time Fred threw a lovely dummy and went alone. On an angling run he finds Bob Deans who draws and passes to George Smith, and with soaring hearts and grinfuls of pride we watched George cut infield and swerve out again leaving the last Scotsman on one knee, his hands spread over the cut-up turf. Downfield George carefully placed the ball between the uprights. My God! It was a beautiful sight.
In the stand the medical students were on their feet and yelling. Between the shouts we heard the creeping silence of the Scots.
We carried little George back to halfway on our shoulders.
On the stroke of full-time we picked up bonus points after Cunningham fell on a loose ball over the Scots line, and that was more or less it. Heartbreak at one end of the field. Joy at the other.
In the changing shed Frank Glasgow let the air out of the ball; he’d folded up the leather and packed it away with his kit when a Scots official arrived to demand the ball back. It was our custom for the man who last touched the ball to keep it. We explained this to the official. Gallaher waded into the debate. ‘Hold on,’ he said. ‘There seems to be some confusion here.’ To the Scots official he said, ‘We are the guests here. At least, I think I’m right in saying that.’ And he looked around for support. ‘Boys? Am I right?’ ‘We are the visitors,’ someone said. ‘But in Scotland it doesn’t necessarily mean you are also guests.’ The Scots official closed his eyes. Two heavy lines appeared where his eyes and mouth had been. In the end, Frank said, ‘To hell with it’, and threw him the piece of leather. We told him, ‘This would never happen at home. I can tell you, mate!’
We dined alone that night.
Sunday. We woke to a skin of ice on the windows and turned over in our beds and went back to sleep. Our feet were stiff and raw from the ground at Inverleith. After lunch we rode in drays out to the Forth Bridge but could not see anything for the fog. The freezing conditions sent us back to the hotel. That evening we spread ourselves before a blazing fire and rubbed away our aches and pains with a special lotion—
Eucalyptus … 60 parts
Whisky … 30 parts
Hartshorn … 10 parts
Mister Dixon’s diary
‘Glasgow. Again the Scots snubbed us. No show from their officials. People from Queen’s Park Soccer Club made up for it. Laid on professional trainers who poured hot baths and rubbed the boys down after the game. Only 10,000 in the crowd to see us beat the West of Scotland 22–nil. Heavy ground and a cold wind. Tries to Freddy Roberts, ‘Dunk’ and Smithy. That evening the Queen’s Park officials put on a musical evening, and later, escorted us down to the train station. Arrived late in the evening at Ardossan and boarded the ferry to Belfast.’
A black night crossing. We lay in our bunks smoking and talking, and drifted off to thoughts of home. Nothing specific, or sometimes specific—
The dog, for example
or a favourite chair
a bed from childhood
a favourite pipe
eyes tearing at the memory
of the world-can-wait smell of bacon fat
popping in the skillet.
High in the hills a fresh
wind
that faint smell of deer.
The walk to the window that precedes
the sharing of indelicate news—
someone’s death
a shotgun marriage—
and looking out at the back yard with its chore list:
this work-in-progress
that keeps its own time, manages its own routine
has never been to Europe or anywhere else
but the back yard
and wants to know only those stories
it has seen and heard for itself.
We woke in Belfast and in the dark boarded a train to Dublin. From the station we swung round Dublin’s streets in a dozen ‘jaunting cars’ and at the Imperial Hotel picked our way through a large crowd. The hotel manager had set aside a large room and the hundreds who’d welcomed us outside now swarmed through the doors. Cards of introduction were pressed on us. Simon Mynott took a card advertising window-cleaners from a short man with a shining earnest face. ‘Have you winders down dere in New Zealand, son?’ A poet who hired out his best lines for headstones pressed a card on Mona Thompson and said, ‘I try to get to know the individual …’
Breakfast was a long time coming.
That night we attended the Theatre Royal with the Irish team; as the teams entered the audience stood on their seats and cheered and cheered until they were hoarse.
Friday night we lay under our covers, pinching fleas and listening to the rain.
Saturday morning. We pulled back our curtains to fog in the windows. Dave Gallaher didn’t show up to breakfast. He banged up his leg in Scotland and it had got worse. Jimmy Duncan decided Dave should stay back at the hotel. It meant bringing George Gillett in from fullback to occupy Dave’s wing forward role and moving Billy Wallace to fullback. We didn’t have another fit three-quarter, and so, glancing around the breakfast room, Jimmy Duncan’s eye fell on Simon Mynott. ‘Can you spare a moment, son …?’ Simon brings his teacup down the table and Jimmy breaks the news to him. Simon says, ‘But I’ve never played wing,’ and Jimmy says, ‘Then it’ll be a whole new experience, won’t it?’ He and Billy Stead drew a pattern of wing play on a table napkin and McGregor told him to run up and down a hallway to get used to the idea of the winger’s lines of attack.