MKEB...Pulls Down the socks, puts new tape around the ears and heads into the affray
MKEB... For the Bluebags
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Fun Junior Beginnings
“My suggestion to you is that you hold the ball firmly in both hands and run as fast as you can to the tryline, oh, and you are allowed to get dirty”.
That was the succinct answer from my father to me, in response to a question that I posed him before my first game of Rugby League.
I was a scrawny short eight-year-old boy who could swim in the expanses of my footy kit; shorts, jumper , boots, and hell, even my socks were far too big for me.
It wasn’t lost on my dad, the fact that I was a foot shorter than the rest of the boys and the token girl in my team. Nor was it lost on him that I wore glasses and braces, or that I was the only European looking boy amongst a grade of Polynesians and Maori. These ideas were indeed not lost on him...just ignored.
I never worked out why Dad wanted me to play Rugby League. The times I saw dad watch Rugby League, all that he would do was yell, swear, curse and throw things at the cat.
Could it have been that he wanted me to use up all the excess energy that all good eight-year-old boys possess by endlessly running up and down a footy field?
Might it have been that he secretly didn’t like me all that much and that he could possibly have got wry amusement from seeing me crushed to near-death in tackles from boys whose physical dimensions were twice the size of mine, and some?
Or could it (perhaps) have been that he and mum wanted a sly couple of hours alone on a Sunday morning to have bouncy cuddles and provide me with the little brother that I always wanted? In which case I lost out there anyways - as in their wisdom they decided to give me twin sisters.
I wasn’t the most talented or the fastest in the team, but I did hold the prestigiously dubious title of most uncoordinated player (Dad can only blame himself there, as mum did offer to send me to ballet lessons).
The prospect of actually tackling somebody seemed a long way off. The closer anybody ran to me seemed to create some type of internal human repulsion system in me. I found myself running in the opposite direction.
Likewise in order to score a try one must first catch the ball. If I had seen the ball, I may have at least attempted to catch it.... The problem I discovered, was that the worms in our muddy boot torn field were far more important than the sport I was involved in.
As a child I always had my own way of reasoning things. Granted my reasons were not always the soundest in ways of logic, commonsense or probability, but in my mind they made sense.
My reasoning that because I like the colour black- then I should be permitted to wear black on a Sunday morning at the game.
I remembered numerous times, my Dad telling me that my team wears green and that I don’t want to be the odd-man out.
I also remember Dad’s argument.
“So what if the other team is wearing black - they live kilometres away”
And my reply;
“Well can’t we swap then?”
Dad’s rolling eyes told me to give up this particular conversation. Or was it more the words he was mouthing without actually saying them?
Anyway it was either one or the other.
I remember arriving at a game a couple of times and Dad asking me where I left my boots. He never really understood my reasoning, that in fact I was wearing them.
“You are not wearing your boots”.
“Yes I am.”
“Then where are they?”
“I’m wearing them now.”
“Those are your f**king gumboots............” (But of course, they were black!!)
The fact is, that when I was a young fella, on a rainy day, my mother made me wear gumboots when I went outside; gumboots and a raincoat of course. And in Taranaki, where I am from, in winter it rains most days and always on a Sunday.
Of course the raincoat issue was raised by my coach and not my old man, but hey...you know the story.
You know, looking back...I would have hated to have been my old man. And I am more than surprised that I continued (and was allowed) to play footy at all.
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749 Words between the asterisks (title inclusive)
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