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I have never been one for Rugby. In fact, I was dreading the Rugby World Cup, but like all good Kiwis I had a couple of flags flying from the car, depending whether or not the Pumas were playing, or the All Blacks. It was difficult at Artworks Theatre, where I would go to watch it all on the gigantic screen, when the ABs were playing the Pumas - a different flag in each hand, cheering on the Pumas with all the Latinos in the audience, and then the ABs in our next collective exhale of breath.
It went like this: out of the corner of my eye, when my son was watching one of the earlier matches, I saw this behemoth in black lunge down the field, a rugby ball clasped effortlessly in the hugest cartoon hands and then crouch and offload the ball to someone behind him, someone you had barely noticed, and with such a move pave the way to victory.
Who is that? I said to my son, taking note for the first time, that this in fact was a game of skill. Why, that’s SBW and he’s famous for that, he said.
I even talked about it with rugby affecionados in the market the next day. Everyone nodded knowingly and I felt for the first time part of the nation’s collective footy tribe.
I was paying attention, when I watched the next game. The cinema screen made everything larger than life. On Waiheke, everyone knows each other and I could hear a German friend behind me saying this was her first game. I turned round and told her to pay attention to the monster with the big hands.
Oh look, his sleeve is torn, the German woman exhorted, exhaling from her nose and snorting like a horse. Fair enough, I thought, they go for each like feral animals, so that makes sense. Oh look, he’s ripping off his sleeve she continued - my god, he is taking off his jersey. Oh wow, oh wow Susi! Just look at his tatoo!
I would have been paying even more attention, had I know he was Rose’s cousin, but I didn’t really need to with the non-stop running commentary of German female appreciation behind me in the theatre.
I’m coming back next week, she said, I want to see some more!
I was now one of the boys, and could discuss footy with the best of them, and it was during one such animated debate on the ferry with Mua that I learned that there is a grandmother somewhere down the line, living in your average small New Zealand town, who went in and bought all the No.12 All Black jerseys in stock (and at $130+ a pop, that’s not cheap) from the local sports’ shop, and cut off all the right sleeves.
Legend!
That image of the jerseyless, ripped, tatooed Hemi Dean aka SBW, is probably keeping alive all the women senior citizen in the country, though they might not like to admit it. Hehehehe!
Imagine then to discover the Waiheke connection. My sister’s stepsister’s best friend and the tragedy in the house at Erua St. And who was that on the beach the other day, calling out Neville! Neville! as a tiny ball of fluff , half the size of those cartoon hands, outran the those infamous thighs?
Rose’s aunty has been mending my clothes for a decade now. I should have been paying more attention when she told me her nephew would be home when I went there to pick up Woody’s pants. I did wonder why a curly blonde woman had a Polynesian nephew the size of an elephant with intricate tatoos. His girlfriend was sitting on his lap and I remember thinking she was pretty.
I can’t help wondering what that grandmother is going to do with all those sleeveless No. 12 jerseys, and with all those right sleeves. Maybe she could turn them into jerseys for dogs like Neville, and earn back the Pension money she spent giving into fantasy.
Go the mighty All Blacks!!
