Ahead of tonight's All Blacks vs Springboks match, we reprint the greatest rugby short story of all times, from 1947 The football match at Carisbrook was over. Dusk was already falling, and during the last part of the game the flight of the ball and even the movements of the players had been hard to follow in the failing light. Now, looking across the field, I could see the crowd dimly massing around the gates. Here and there a small yellow flame flickered where a smoker was lighting up, and the whole crowd moved under a thin blue haze of tobacco-smoke. After all the cheering the place seemed very quiet, and from the street outside came the noise of cars starting up and whining off in low gear, and a tram screeching round the corner under the railway bridge. Overhead the sky was clear with a promise of frost. A few small boys ran with shrill cries under the goalposts; the rest of the field lay empty in the grey light, and the smell of mud came through the damp air. I shivered and glanced down at my steaming jersey.,
"Well you'd better go and get changed," said Betty. "I don't want you to catch cold. You'll be playing Southern next Saturday now, won't you?"
"Yes," I said. "They were bound to win today. Beating Kaikorai puts us level with them."
"Will you be too tired for the dance?"
"My old knee feels a bit sore but I'll ring you after tea. I must go and get changed now. So long."
I trotted in under the stand. The lights were on, the unshaded bulbs threw a cheap yellow glare over the walls of the dressing-rooms, and up into the girders and struts above. My football boots clumped along the boards of the passageway. I stamped to get some of the mud off and pushed open the door chalked "Varsity A".
Inside the dressing-room there was a strong human smell of sweaty togs, muddy boots and warm bodies as the men came prancing back naked from the showers and stood on the seats drying themselves. The room was crowded. Togs and boots lay over the floor, clothes hung emptily from the pegs, and men were everywhere, shoving, jostling, reaching out their arms to dry themselves or climb into a shirt and taking up more room. Everyone was happy now that the strain was over, talking, yelling, singing, intent on their warmth and comfort and the clean feel of dry clothes. It was good to relax and know that we wouldn’t have that feeling of before-the-game nervousness for another week. Next week it was going to be solid. The match against Southern was the Big Game.
"Shut that door," roared Buck as I came in. "Hello, it's Bennie. Did she think you played a nice game? Did she see my try? What did it look like from the stand?"
"They couldn’t see it from the stand," I said. "They all thought you'd torn your pants when we gathered round you. Nobody knew it was a try." I sat down and started picking at my muddy laces. My hands were too cold to grip them properly.
"Bloody liar," said Buck amiably. "It was a damn good try."
He had a very powerful voice. "Boy oh boy oh boy," he chanted, "won't I knock back those handles tonight. You wait till I tell old Harry about my try. He’ll shout after every round."
"What try?" said Mac, our captain. "Hell, you aren’t going to claim anything for that bit of a scuffle? You were a mile offside." His head disappeared into his shirt and came grinning out the top. He put on his glasses and the grin seemed more complete.
"Like hell," shouted Buck, dancing about on the seat and sawing the towel across his back. "I took the ball off him and fell over. When they all got off me there I was over the line. A clear try."
"Offside a mile. Rabbiting. You handled it on the ground. I was walking back for the free-kick," said the boys. They all liked Buck.
"Free-kick be damned," he roared. "It was a good forward's try. Right out of the book. Plenty of guts and initiative."
"Yes, a typical forward's try," said Bob, our half-back. He was small and very sturdy and freckled. "Big, bullocking bastards always mauling each other about. Why can’t you do something nice and clean-cut like the backs?"
"The backs? The pansies? I sweat my guts out getting the ball for you and then you canter along very prettily about ten yards and then drop it." He struck a chesty attitude standing naked on the seat. "Do I look like a pansy?"
"Not with that thing."
Someone shied a ball at Buck and left a muddy mark on his backside. I went out to the shower. I could hear Buck's voice as I trotted along the passage. One of the Kaikorai men was still in the shower-room.
"How are you now?" he said.
"Pretty tired. It was a tough game."
"We didn't want you to have it too easy. You jokers will be playing off with Southern now."
"Yes. The big championship. Next Saturday."
"Think you'll lick them?"
"Hope so. We'll give them a good go, especially if it's a dry ground."
"Their forwards are good. Pack very low. Well, good luck."
"Thanks." I turned on the taps. There was still plenty of hot water left and it was great. Gosh I enjoyed it.
When I got back most of the boys were dressed and the coach was there talking to Mac. "Shake it along Bennie," said Bob, "or we'll miss the beer. It's well after give now."
"I'm practically there already," I said. "Don’t rush me. Give me a smoke. Hell I feel good now." I was in digs with Bob. "What did the coach think of it?"
"He said you were lousy but the rest of us went well."
I knew Bob was joking but I didn't like it much. I knew I wasn't particularly good and the coach was always on to me to put more vigour and initiative into my play. I was the heaviest man in the team and he would point out what the lighter forwards did and then what I did and make me feel ashamed. If he thought I was lousy that meant I was in for a roasting at the next team-talk.
"He says you're to mark Jackie Hore on Saturday," grinned Bob. "You've got to dominate him."
"I can easily fix Yackie," I said. "I bumped into him one game last season and he fell over. Fell right over from just a little bump. He's a softie."
"Yes? Who was it broke your nose?"
"Aw, that was just his knee. Everybody's got hard knees." I struggled into my shirt.
"Listen! Listen!" Mac was yelling above the din. After the uproar the silence sounded immense.
"Well boys," said the coach. "You know you’re for it now. It's either you or the Southern for this season's champions, and next Saturday you'll have the honour of playing off with them. It's up to every one of you to keep fit. It's going to be a long hard game and I know I can rely on you boys to go on the field fit. I know Buck will leave the beer alone tonight."
"What," roared Buck, "why do you think I go tearing round there for ninety minutes if it's not to get a thirst?"
"I knew you wouldn't mind," said the coach, "especially after they presented you with that try."
"Another one," said Buck in mock resignation. "Another one. The best forward on the ground and I get nothing but abuse. I'll chuck the game and take on ping-pong."
"Well boys, I'll see you Wednesday at practice. I want you all out early. Will they all be out, Mac?"
"Anyone who can't?" said Mac. No answer.
"OK then. Goodnight boys. Anyone coming my way?"
They all began drifting off. Mac waited on Bob and me. The Southern match was just a nice distance ahead. I could get a thrill out of thinking of it but no nervousness yet. I felt good.
"Well Mac," I said, "how does the skipper feel about our chances? Our great public would like to know. Would you care to make a statement?" We often did these cross-talk acts.
"I think I may say with all due modesty that we are quietly confident," said Mac. "Tell our public that the same spirit of healthy rivalry that has spurred on our predecessors will again be found animating the bosoms of this year's team. Tell them that the game of rugby fosters the team spirit and is the basis of our democracy. Tell them to play up and play the game. Tell them to go to hell."
"Very prettily put," I said. "And now who else can we help?"
"A message for the expectant mothers," urged Bob.
Mac was going well. "Tell them we favour the quick heel," he said. "Never leave an opening for your opponent. God save Sir Truby King. For Christ's sake hurry up, Bennie."
I was dumping my togs in the bag as the caretaker put his head round the door. "You boys ready? I'm waiting to lock up."
We went out with him. "Think you can hold the Southern?" he asked. He called them Southeren.
"We’ll give them a good go for it," said Mac. He was our spokesman on occasions like these.
"They've got a fine team. You'll need all your luck to beat those forwards of theirs – man!"
"We're going to play fifteen backs and run them off the paddock," said Bob.
"Are you now? Ay? Well I'll be watching you, but I’ll no say which side I’ll be barracking for. Good night." He locked the gate after us.
It was quite dark now and all the street-lights were on. The air was keen and frosty. We went up under the railway bridge and stood in front of the lighted shops waiting for a tram. I was beginning to feel cold and stiff and tired now that the excitement was over.
"You know," I said, "football would be a good game if we could just play it on a Saturday."
"Come up to date boy," said Bob. "This is Saturday. You remember yesterday? Well that was Friday. Today we've just beaten Kaikorai."
"I bet he carries a calendar," grinned Mac to me.
"No, fair go," said Bob seriously. "It's just general knowledge."
"I mean it," I said. "It would be good if we could just play it on a Saturday. I've just been thinking, here we are just after slogging through one hard game and before we’re off the ground even, everyone wants to play next week's game with us. Why can't they give us a spell?"
"I suppose they’re greedy," said Mac. "They just get over one sensation and they're ready for the next. They don’t like having nothing to look forward to."
"Hero worship too," said Bob. "They like to air their views in front of the well-known Varsity skipper. It makes them feel big. Perhaps they think we don't bother about much else, we just live for football."
"We will be for the next week," I said. "We'll be playing Southern all week and by the time Saturday comes we’ll be so nervous we can't eat. It's one hell of a caper in a way. I'll be glad when the season's over and I can relax."
"Did you get any knocks?"
The tram came along. It was good to sit down again. The conductor evidently recognised Mac. "They'll make you run around next week," he said. "The Southern I mean. Be a good game."
"How did they get on today?"
"Against Taieri? 46-3," he said. "How do you feel now?" He laughed and went to the back if the car. He came past us again later. "46-3," he said again and winked.
The next Saturday morning, I woke early in the digs and looked out the window. The sky was right down on the hills and there was a thick drizzle. O hell. I stretched down under the blankets again and tried to go to sleep but the thought of the match kept me awake. It had been a tough week as we were getting close to exams and I’d had a good deal of swot to do but I felt very fit. We’d been for a run every night after finishing our swot, usually about midnight, and on Wednesday there had been a really hard practice. The coach kept us packing lower and lower, scrum after scrum, and kept us down there with the strain in for so long that my muscles were all quivering and Buck who locked with me was groaning under the pressure, and when we stood up I felt dizzy and queer little lights slid down across my vision. It felt a good scrum though, very compact. The line-outs afterwards were plain hell. And then of course, the team-talk on Friday night. We used to hold it in a lecture room in the School of Mines. All around us on the wall were wooden models of pieces of machinery and charts of mines and geological strata. They made you realise the earth is very big and old, and goes down a long way. The coach would stand on the platform and start on his old game of building us up to fighting pitch. He was an artist at it, he could mould us just the way he wanted us. He spoke for a while about the traditions of the club and then about the honour of playing off for the championship. "Tomorrow," he said, "we'll start off as usual by taking them on in the forwards. Here I am in the line-out. I look at my opposite number and I think, 'You’re a good man, but by Jesus I'm better. Today you've got no show.'" His voice takes on a stirring note. He moves about on the platform suiting actions to his words. "Into them! Dominate them! And every man when he sees where that ball goes, he thinks, 'There's Buck in. I'm in too.' Into them! And every man is thinking the same and we're all animated with the same spirit, we're going in to dominate them and we pack in tight and we're giving all our weight and strength and we’re thinking together and working together and no one lets up. Dominate them." And he goes on acting the part, words pouring out of him in that stirring tone and we watch him mesmerised, so that he takes us with him and we’re there in the game, too, playing with him, working as a team. We leave the lecture room with a feeling of exaltation.
Then, on the other hand, there were the football notes in the paper. I know it was silly to take much notice of them but I always read them. Referring to the Kaikorai game, the reporter said that I "went a solid game but lacked the fire and dash that would make all the difference to his play". The best thing I’d done, the movement where, to my mind, I had shown fire and dash was credited to Buck as "one of his typical dashes". Of course we are very much alike in build, but all the same I felt disappointed. The papers make people think that we are a sort of entertainment troupe, a public possession. Actually, I suppose we’d go on playing if there were no public; we’d relax and enjoy our football much more.
It's one hell of a caper really, I thought, stretching out under the sheets. I was lucky to have a girl like Betty who was keen on football. Some of the girls used to go very snooty when the blokes couldn’t take them to the Friday night hops.
Well, this is the day. A few hours and it will be all over. This is it. It’s funny how time comes round. For ages you talk of something and think of it and prepare for it, and it's still a long way off. You keep thinking how good it will be and then suddenly, bang, it's there. You’re doing it and it’s not so enjoyable after all. I think football's like that, better before and after the game than in it.
Well, the day had come. I wasn't keen to get up and face it but anything was better than lying in bed and thinking a lot of rubbish. I put on my dressing-gown and slippers and padded round to Bob's room. He was still asleep. "You won’t look so peaceful in eight hours' time," I said. "They're queuing up at Carisbrook already."
He raised his head from the pillow with a start. "Eh?" He rubbed his eyes. "What's wrong?"
"Jackie Hore just rang up to see how you are. He said their forwards are going to break very fast today, so he probably won’t have an opportunity to ask you after the game because you'll be in hospital."
He grinned. "Then it's all bluff? I thought it was."
"What?"
"About you forwards dominating them. I didn't think you could. I've never seen you do it yet. Just a bunch of big-natured guys."
"Not us," I said. "A pack of wolves just a-howling for prey. That's how we'll be today."
Bob yawned and stretched his arms above his head. "I must watch you. It would be interesting for a change. Have you eaten yet?"
So we went down for breakfast. Afterwards I cleaned my footy boots and packed my gear, and there was nothing to do but wait. I had no lectures on Saturday morning and I couldn’t settle down to swot. The weather began to clear and a watery sun showed through the clouds so Bob and I went for a stroll. The town would be full of football talk and trams placarded, "Big Game Today, Carisbrook 3pm, Varsity A v. Southern", so to get away from it we went down to Logan Park and climbed up above the quarry. There was no-one about. We threw stones down into the quarry. It was good watching them. They dropped away from us, slowly getting smaller and smaller, then suddenly they struck the bottom and exploded shooting fragments out sideways, starlike.
At twelve we went back to the digs for an early lunch. I didn't feel very hungry, and while we were waiting for the food, Bob kept tapping his knife on the table. We caught the quarter past one tram out to the ground. It was better to watch the curtain-raiser than hang about the digs. The tram was packed and rows of cars were already making for the ground, Everybody looked very jolly and expectant. We saw Buck and Mac on the tram and that cheered us up a bit. It was good to realise that there were others who had to go through with it too. Buck didn’t care a hoot about it all.
"Think you can win?" an old man said to him.
"Win?" Buck seized the old fellow's hand. "Be the first to congratulate us on winning the championship. Get in early. Do it now. Be the very first."
The old chap pulled his hand away looking a bit silly.
At Carisbrook we joined the crowd around the gates and pushed through to the players' entrance. I could see people nudging one another and nodding towards Mac. We showed our passes and went in along behind the stand and in underneath to the dressing-rooms. Most of the boys were early, there were other bags lying on the seats.
"Shall we go up for a while?" said Mac. We went out in front of the stand to see the final of the Junior Competition. The stand was packed and the bank opposite was dark with people. We stood about watching the boys playing with a sort of detached interest and then at half-time we went underneath to change. The strain was getting to me a little – I'd take things off and then forget where I'd put them, I had to undo my pants and look to see whether I'd put on my jockstrap. Most of the chaps were pretty quiet, but Buck kept going and we were pleased we had him to listen to. Mac was roaming round in his underpants looking for his glasses.
"Like to make a statement before the match?" I asked him.
He just looked at me. "I can't find my bloody glasses. I suppose some bastard will tread on them."
"Just a picture of quiet confidence," said Bob. My face felt very tight when I tried to grin.
Soon the trainer came in and started to rub us down. The room was filled with the smell of eucalyptus and the rapid slap of his hands. It was a great feeling being done, he made us feel nice and loose and warm and free-moving. Then Jackie Hore, the Southern skipper, came in to toss and we looked at him. There he was, the man we had been talking about all week. He lost the toss and laughed. He looked a good deal smaller than I'd been imagining him. Of course we had played against him before, but the strain makes you think silly things. We felt better after he'd gone.
"He doesn't look so soft," said Bob to me.
"Poor old Yackie. I'll try and bump into him again today and you just watch."
"Never mind," he said, "unless you do it from the other side and straighten your nose up."
I strapped up my weak knee and when the Vaseline came round plastered it on my face to prevent scratches. The coach came in and we packed a scrum for him.
"That looks all right," he said. "Well now, listen boys. Remember you’re going out now as the Varsity boys have done for many years now to play off for the championship, and a lot of those old players are out there today watching to see how good you are. Don’t let them down. Remember the first ten minutes on the forwards. Hard!" He punched his open hand. "Go in there and dominate…" But the referee was in the room to inspect the boots and the coach's exhortation was lost in the movement.
"Righto boys. One minute to go," said the ref.
We took off our coats and handed round chewing gum. Buck and I put on our ear-guards. Mac found the ball and we lined up in the passage. The Southern players were there already, skipping about and rubbing their hands. They felt the cold too.
The whistle blew, there was a glare of sunlight, and we were outside going out into the field, right out into the open. A roar from the crowd rolled all around enveloping us. A cold easterly breeze blew through our jerseys as we lined up for the photographers, squinting into the low sun. The Southern players looked broad and compact in their black and white jerseys. We gave three cheers and trotted out into the middle. The turf felt fine and springy. We spaced ourselves out. I took some deep breaths to get charged up with oxygen for the first ten minutes. A Southern player dug a hole with his heel and placed the ball.
"All right Southern? All right Varsity?" called the referee.
Both captains nodded. He blew the whistle. The Southern man ran up to kick.
"Thank Christ," I thought. "The game at last."
Reproduced with the kind permission of Alec Pickard's chidren. "The Big Game" was first published in 1947 as the title story of a collection of short stories, and was later widely anthologised in books of New Zealand writing. Frank Sargeson was a friend and supporter, and wrote of his stories that he "had an admiration beyond anything [he] had felt for the work of almost any New Zealand prose writer".
