Jamie Mackay's Sports Thoughts
02/05/2008
Ode to Jock and Steve
This is an ode to Hobbs and Tew
Who gave themselves a 52
The Rugby Union calls it a pass
But let's be honest, it's a total farce
The World Cup was lost without a fight
And the Super 14 was absolute shite
The TV ratings have fallen from the SKY
And a simple drop kick could tell you why
I blame the lefties and liberal schools
Who've taught our kids to be total fools
No longer is there fail or pass
Now it's merit or achieve - what an ass!
As a nation we've forgotten how to win
And when we lose, it’s the same PC spin
The likes of Pinetree, never stood for second
More hard-buggers like him, are needed I reckon
Reconditioned and rotated – the players got lazy
Some of the boys even looked stir-crazy
Trained but not house-trained, they’ve peed in bars
And Dougie went one better, upon some cars
So when it came time, to front in the quarter
To a bunch of Frogs, we were lambs to the slaughter
And when we should have taken three points
We lost it completely - were we smoking joints?
We blamed the ref, Wayne what's-his-name?
We blamed the lack of a good hard game
We blamed poor Richie and gave him stick
When it was really the fault of several drop kicks
When it comes to blame, it’s right to point
To the blokes Jock and Steve chose to anoint
Ted Henry, Shag Hanson and woeful Wayne
Have totally shagged our national game!
However all is not lost, there’s 2011
Salvation awaits us at Eden Park heaven
Since 1987, I know it’s been foreign
But we could win the Cup … with Robbie and Warren.
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25/04/2008
When we were kids growing up in Riversdale, my younger brother Don and I spent an unhealthy amount of time sitting in a Landrover between my father and the bloke who used to work on our farm, Fred Cavanagh.
Unhealthy because of the passive cigarette smoke we ingested, but healthy in that we also ingested a great deal about life. As inquisitive kids we had differing interests as we badgered the grown-ups for life’s pearls.
In my case it was always asking Dad about the All Blacks. Was Earle Kirton the best player in the team? Was Tony Steel the fastest? Was Colin Meads the toughest? Those early forays into asking questions about rugby have stood me in good stead as I now make a living from, amongst other things, interviewing people and writing about sport.
Don always aimed his questions at Fred as they’d formed a great bond. His interest, amongst other things, was war and he constantly harassed Fred about his time spent serving his country in the Second World War. His line of questioning would, today, be deemed totally politically incorrect and Fred, like many returned servicemen, would never speak of the atrocities of war.
So it was very much to Fred’s credit that he never took offence or umbrage when asked for the umpteenth time, how many Germans he’d killed!
Don’s early forays into asking questions about war have also stood him in good stead. He recently completed a doctorate where his PhD examined the political aftermath of the Gallipoli campaign.
We’ve both gone on to become writers of sorts, although my effort in writing one chapter for the Riversdale Rugby Club’s centenary publication pales by comparison to his effort in writing an entire book, The Fallen, which honours the men from our district who lost their lives during the wars of the 20th Century.
It was upon reading a chapter in the book that I twigged to the tenuous link we have to life. Our grandfather Hugh served at Gallipoli. On August 7, 1915, alongside his first cousin and childhood friend, Peter Mackay, the pair came under fire while trying to clear the foothills in advance of the attack at Chunuk Bair.
Peter was killed and Hughie, right by his side, was wounded. His cousin and mate literally died in his arms. It could have so easily been the other way round.
Lest we forget.
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Jamie Mackay's Sports Thoughts
18/04/2008
Definitive proof that the NZRU has its head firmly embedded in its own backside was delivered yesterday in the form of a 47-page review of the failed World Cup campaign that could have been written in 47 words within 47 minutes of the fateful final whistle at Cardiff.
The timing of the report is bizarre, nah incredibly stupid. Just when you thought it was safe to get back into the water, the NZRU, showing all the timing of Luke McAllister drop goal, reopens the festering six month-old sore just as we were beginning to forget it.
At a time when many heartland provinces are struggling to balance the books, I would love to know the cost of a review that was more than four months in the making and five months overdue in delivery.
Why commission a report when you’ve already decided to maintain the status quo, effectively giving the incumbent regime the big tick? The review came up with nothing your average punter leaning on the local bar couldn’t have deduced over a couple of cold ones.
You don’t need to be a highly-paid consultant to figure out reconditioning, rotation, lack of battle-hardness, lack of leadership on the field, poor team selection for the quarter-final, too many hangers-on in the support staff and plain old-fashioned arrogance were to the forefront of the failure.
And what if the review’s findings suggested Graham Henry had to go? Surely the sensible play would have been to fast-track the review and appoint the All Blacks coach as a result.
What peeves me most of all though is Henry’s almost-complete lack of contrition. It smacks of his smirking I-know-best-schoolteacher-addressing-errant-schoolboys demeanour. His insistence of defending the indefensible is inexcusable and he would gain much more respect from the great unwashed if he just admitted culpability and took it on the chin.
No one would deny Henry has been a great coach in the past. But he had his chance and he blew it.
Rugby is at a crossroads in a rugby-mad country that is hopping-mad about the state of the game. A lot of the current angst could have been avoided if the NZRU had avoided the meaningless charade of a toothless, long-winded review and anointed the people’s choice, Robbie Deans, with Warren Gatland as his assistant.
The whole sorry saga reeks of stable doors and bolting horses.
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11/04/2008
I write this column from 20,000 feet on a beautiful Thursday morning flight from Palmerston North to Christchurch.
In the land of the long white cloud it’s not often you enjoy a cloudless sky but that’s what I’m gazing down upon as we pass directly overhead Wellington. I have a magnificent view of the Harbour and, more poignantly, Barrett Reef where 40 years ago, almost to the hour, the Wahine struck disaster.
I’ve long held a fascination with the Wahine tragedy and I guess that is partly because my great aunt and uncle, Nell and Mart, were booked on the voyage but missed the Lyttleton connection due to Mart’s appallingly slow driving (incidentally they were also supposed to be on the train that came to grief at Tangiwai on Christmas Eve 1953 but missed that one as well).
I think the other reason the Wahine occupies such a big space in my memory bank is because it came to pass when I was eight years old and just becoming aware that life existed outside my home town of Riversdale.
My first real awakening to life on the other side of the world actually took place six months earlier in late 1967 when the All Blacks toured Britain and France. They took pride of place on my bedroom wall and to this day I can still name all thirty members of the touring squad and recite, chapter and verse, their occupations, a pretty simple task really considering most of the forwards were farmers.
I cannot think of any present-day All Blacks I admire, save for maybe Richie McCaw, but there’s plenty of the 1967 side who have my unadulterated admiration. Top of the pile are my three favourite All Blacks - Colin Meads, Brian Lochore and Ian Kirkpatrick.
I’ve also been lucky enough to either meet or interview Chris Laidlaw, Earle Kirton, Sid Going, Ian MacRae, Fergie McCormick, Graham Williams, the late Kel Tremain and Southland’s own Jack Hazlett.
And after Wednesday’s big Drought Shout at the Mangatainoka Tui Brewery, I can add one more to the list, after a tall and humble Manawatu farmer introduced himself.
He said he likes listening to the Farming Show. I said it’s an honour having Sam Strahan tuning in. He doesn’t realize it yet, but he’s just been added to the 1967 All Blacks personal-friend-list alongside Pinetree, BJ and Kirky!
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04/04/2008
If you’re looking for a good read can I thoroughly recommend Kerre Woodham’s Short fat chick to marathon runner. It tells the tale, in a humorous self-deprecating style, of Woodham’s efforts to get to, and get through, the 2007 New York Marathon.
Having been through the same ordeal in the very same race I’m now tempted to replicate her literary efforts with my book which I could title Taller bloke (with developing beer gut and man boobs) to marathon runner.
The first chapter of her book is entitled The midlife crisis and the marathon and reads thus:
“With the benefit of hindsight it was inevitable that I’d run a marathon in my forties. It’s a total cliché – middle-aged woman, midlife crisis, run a marathon – and my life has been a series of clichés. From good Catholic girl, to very bad Catholic girl, to hard-drinking journo, to suburban wife and mother, to teetotalling dairy-free couscous muffin-maker par excellence. Why wouldn’t I run a marathon?”
There are lots of parallels with my own story, except I haven’t gone teetotal and can’t remember baking any muffins! But there’s an element of midlife crisis for anyone who decides to run 42.2 kilometres in their forties.
Her book is a warts-and-all, must-read for anyone contemplating a marathon. It’s co-written by her personal trainer Gareth Brown and includes the very achievable training schedule she used for her first marathon - Auckland in 2006.
I hope it inspires you to do something truly inspirational. It’s certainly inspired me to make a six month-overdue apology to one my running mates from New York, Western Southland farmer and builder Dick Hishon.
When we gathered for a post-race, well-earned beer to swap yarns about our day running through the five boroughs of the Big Apple, I must confess to not believing Hishon when he claimed Sean Fitzpatrick called out to him in personal support. But lo and behold, there on page 142 of Woodham’s book, is a similar claim.
So Richard, I now concede part of your story is true but there’s still a bit that mystifies me. I know that Fitzpatrick and Woodham have long been members of the Auckland celebrity public-speaking circuit and would be well known to one another.
Here’s the bit I don’t get. Why would Fitzy yell out to a Dick from Otautau?
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28/03/2008
Dear Jock and Steve,
I note with interest the NZRU’s emergency think-tank on the state of our national game and how to prevent its perilous slide as a spectacle for the fans. While my invitation was lost in the mail, I hope the following observations won’t be lost on you.
# Bring back rucking. Let’s be honest here, the only reason it was banned was in case some toffee-nosed, public-schoolboy twat in England got hurt and sued the pants off the Home Unions. It’s a physical, gladiatorial game and a few rake marks on the back never killed anyone. To the contrary, it was once a badge of honour in the showers afterwards.
# Unless we can get back to committing six or seven forwards to contesting the breakdown, we will continue to be blighted by the sight of 13 players spread-eagled across the paddock, snuffing out attacking back play, while only two are committed to the tackle area. This, more than anything else, is stuffing rugby. In the good old days, quick ruck ball was the best attacking platform available in the game. Bring it back.
# There’s an old adage which says if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. As a spectacle rugby was at its open best in the decade from 1987 to 1997. Look at the brand of rugby the All Blacks played at the 1987 and 1995 World Cups and compare it to the dross dished-up in today’s bastardized version of rugby league. The only ones who look more bored than the fans these days are the players themselves. Retro is cool. Go retro with the rules.
# We need less rugby not more! Don’t extend the Super 14, condense it. One round of Super 14 is dull enough, two would be interminably terminal. Ditto for the Tri-Nations. Variety is the spice of life. Please deliver us a varied menu.
# Bring back the extended tours. To your credit you’ve recognized this by introducing mid-week games to the All Blacks end-of-season tour to the UK and Ireland. We need to reciprocate by bringing the likes of Wales over here more often, playing the Southlands, the Northlands and the Hawkes Bays – the heartland provinces. The Lions tour of 2005 was a case in point. Bring them back every four years, in between World Cups. Crowds will turn up to see something a bit novel.
# While you’re at it, bring back the 30-man touring squad. To take 45 players on the end-of-season tour cheapens the jersey and the tradition. Forget the corporate bullshi# about the brand and think about us, the fans. We’re an endangered and dying species!
Yours in sincere concern, Jamie Mackay.
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14/03/2008
If the average life expectancy of a Kiwi male of my vintage is 72, then my 48 years on this mortal coil means my biological clock has just hit 8 o’clock.
In television terms that’s prime time but in real life you could justly argue that you’re past your prime, if not your use-by date. Do the math and in my case it’s a simple equation. I’ve only a third of my life left to tick all the unticked boxes.
So much to do. So little time. So many places to see. The clock is counting down and the last third of your life should ideally be spent spending some of the money you’ve worked so hard to accumulate in the middle third of your life. Besides if you don’t blow it, your kids certainly will and where’s the joy in that?
With, relatively, so little time left I reckon you need to eliminate the unnecessary so you can enjoy the autumn of your life.
All of which is a long-winded way of explaining why I’ve watched only 10 minutes of Super 14 rugby this year.
You see, if I put my life under the chronological microscope, I’ve spent a disproportionate amount of the my first 48 years playing, watching, reading, writing and talking about rugby.
Maybe the great timekeeper upstairs has deemed I’ve crammed a lifetime of rugby into my two-thirds of a lifetime?
Maybe it’s man thing? Like when we get home from a hard day at the office and your loving spouse enquires about your day, only to be greeted by an incommunicative grunt. We blokes only have so many words at our disposal in a day. I work in radio so mine are well and truly spoken for by 6pm and definitely history by 8.
And 8 o’clock is definitely where I’m at with rugby at the moment and I feel as guilty as hell about it.
I loved the game, but like a relationship that’s run it’s course, there’s no spark there anymore.
I still love sport though. I’m loving the cricket. Bring on the Masters golf. I’m counting the sleeps until the Olympics. God damn it, I still love Colin Meads.
But you know you’re in trouble when you’re not overly bothered by the prospect of the love of your sporting life losing to an Australia team coached by an All Black.
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07/03/2008
It was the best of towns. It was the worst of towns. Without wanting to completely butcher the works of Charles Dickens, it is how I feel about the tiny Central Southland hamlet of Drummond.
You see, tomorrow Drummond was going to be the venue of one of my finest sporting hours, 38 years after the same town dealt me one of my cruelest blows.
But first he must get past Paul Avery, John Kirkpartick, Dion King, Dean Ball and hopefully Southland’s dynamic duo of Darin Forde and Nathan Stratford.
Let me explain. Today I’m heading to Tuatapere to be a guest for the Western Southland Supreme Cut lamb competition. It’s a fundraiser for the Hauroko Valley primary school and it basically involves a game of golf and a beer afterwards. How could a bloke refuse?
Tomorrow I’d planned to break the trip home by stopping off for a game of golf at the majestic Drummond golf club on my newly acquired golf handicap of 9.6 and in the process play for the first, and perhaps only, time in my lack-lustrous career as a single-figure golfer.
I have the ability of an 18 handicapper and the temperament of a 36 handicapper, so for the golfing Gods and planets to align and conspire to place me on a 9 is astrologically akin to seeing Haley’s Comet – a once in a lifetime opportunity. Imagine my disappointment when I discovered an index of 9.6 at Drummond equates to only a 10 handicap.
Now I know what Gene Pitney meant when he sang about a town without pity.
As a tubby 10 year old in 1970 I journeyed to Drummond as a member of the Northern Southland under six stone, seven pounds (42kg) rugby team to trial for the Southland Primary schools side. The only problem was I weighed six stone and ten pounds.
Alongside failing the Dollar Scholar exam (twice) when we changed to decimal currency in 1967 and my driver’s license as an over-cocky 15 year old, tipping the bathroom scales past the point of no-return at Drummond, rates as my most cataclysmic failure.
I wasn’t helped by the man on the scales saying I was “too fat” rather than a conciliatory “bad luck son, you’re just over”.y.
Perhaps it’s just as well I’m not playing golf at Drummond tomorrow. Who knows I could’ve been inadvertently paired with that well-meaning rugby administrator whose comment has unwittingly scarred me for 38 years.
Catch you next week. Come rain, hail or the Drought Shout running out of Tui!
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29/2/2008
Gidday from Wellington, where I’m en route to Masterton for the Golden Shears.
I love fairytale endings in sport and if 46 year old David Fagan can win his 16th Open title he will become the oldest man to do so after the legendary Ivan Bowen won the first Golden Shears in 1961 at the ripe old age of 45.
But first he must get past Paul Avery, John Kirkpartick, Dion King, Dean Ball and hopefully Southland’s dynamic duo of Darin Forde and Nathan Stratford.
# Have we ever witnessed a sportsman go from hero to zero at a greater rate of knots than Jesse Ryder?
Six days ago he had the sporting public eating from his hand. Now that hand is torn to shreds and so is his reputation.
I think most of us could have forgiven him for having a few too many in celebration after the series win against Poms. But he over-stepped the mark and no-balled himself when he abused hospital staff and added salt to his gaping wounds by drinking in a bar until 1-30am on the night before the series decider.
For those of us who aspired to sporting greatness, but we’re at the back of the queue when the Almighty was handing out talent, it is the ultimate betrayal. Oh to be given the opportunity.
What a chump! Maybe Adam Parore was right after all.
# Has rowing ever enjoyed a higher profile in this country? I still regard our win in the eights at the 1972 Munich Olympics as a our ultimate moment but, gee, the Rob Waddell vs Mahe Drysdale battle for the single sculls berth at Beijing has lifted interest to a new level.
It’ll be standing room only on the shores of Lake Karapiro on Sunday.
# By night he’s the Southland Stags coach. By day he’s the local manager of DB and David Henderson could certainly be described as a good sport.
To that end he’s done his best to ease the pain for drought-ravaged farmers by instigating the March 12 Drought Shout at the Croydon Lodge Hotel and he’s put his money where his mouth is by throwing a considerable volume of his fine Tui product at the bone-dry farmers.
Funny how twin brothers can be so different eh? David’s shouting for thousands while Ginge is yet to bother the scorers.
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Jamie Mackay's Sports Thoughts
22/2/2008
It should have been the perfect end to a day of slaving over a hot microphone.
Twilight golf with the boys, a couple of beers, then home in time for the Halberg Awards and the prospect of another scintillating taped episode of Coronation Street to complete the evening.
As is often the case when you’re really looking forward to something, the end result disappoints. An ugly three-putt saw me fronting with the first round at the bar and Ken Barlow’s acting plumbed new depths.
Perhaps, though, the biggest disappointment was the Halbergs.
I’ve got to be careful having a crack at the MCs because I’m in the business and have failed miserably before myself, but I question the selection of Simon Dallow and Pippa Wetzell to front sport’s most prestigious evening.
Both, as they were at pains to point out, have a background in sport, albeit in the dark distant past, Dallow in track and field and Wetzell in rowing.
It would be churlish of me to describe Wetzell as anything other than attractive but the longer I watched her the more I got annoyed by her penchant for glancing sideways at her co-host like a startled rabbit. And is it asking too much for an MC to ad-lib rather than read ad nauseam from written notes? Even the dreaded autocue would have been more palatable.
I’m sorry TVNZ, but why not go for one of your stable of sports presenters or better still take a punt on someone like Taylor, an accomplished MC, to front proceedings? I realize you don’t have access to Sky’s Ian Smith or Grant Nisbett but what’s wrong with Peter Williams, Keith Quinn or even someone with a true sporting pedigree such as new Southern Steel signing Jenny May Coffin? Why the obsession with your so-called celebrities? In reality they are little more than well-paid autocue readers!
And did we really need Kiwi band Opshop jammed in the middle? I liked the musical intro from Geoff Sewell singing the Liverpool sporting anthem “You’ll Never Walk Alone”. Likewise with Will Martin’s “I am my Country” to wrap proceedings but the bits in the middle should’ve been strictly sport. One final gripe. Why was Brad Butterworth nominated? The man cost us the America’s Cup. Why salute the enemy?
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Jamie Mackay's Sports Thoughts
15/2/2008
If, like me, you were a bit slack in paying your dues on Valentine’s Day, it’s not too late to give the love of your life something they will treasure.
Forget the flowers and the chocolates as they are so yesterday. For an enduring gift I suggest Our Olympic Century by Joesph Romanos. Here are some excerpts celebrating the romance of 100 years of New Zealand participation at the Olympic Games:
# There has never been an All Black Olympian, but there have been some near misses. Probably the closest was Mark Irwin, who played eighteen games, including seven tests, for the All Blacks from 1955-60. Irwin was a fine oarsman and in 1956 was a member of the eight that was nominated for the Melbourne Olympic Games. However the selectors decided not to send an eight, instead sending a single sculler, a pair and a coxed four, so Irwin missed out.
# Bruce Hunter, an All Black winger in the early 1970s and 800m specialist, went within a whisker of making the team for the 1972 Munich Olympics. One All Black winger who was certainly good enough to compete at the Olympics was George Smith, who dominated New Zealand hurdling in the late 1890s and early 1900s, and won 14 national titles at hurdles and sprints. He even set an unofficial world record for the 440 yards hurdles in Melbourne in 1904. No New Zealander competed at the Olympics until 1908, by which time Smith had turned his back on rugby and was playing rugby league professionally in England.
# There was an intriguing curiosity to Peter Snell’s 1500m gold medal effort in Tokyo in 1964. Though he was the world record-holder over the mile, he had never run a 1500m race before his first heat at the Olympics. So he was a 1500m novice, even if a fairly useful one.
# John Walker’s 1500m final at the 1976 Montreal Olympics began at 9-50 on Sunday morning (NZ time) and the starts of several church services were delayed to allow patrons to follow the race. Ivo Van Damme, who won silver, was killed in a car crash less than five months later
# Four New Zealand Olympians died in service during the two world wars. The most famous was tennis star Anthony Wilding who won the bronze medal at the 1912 Stockholm Olympics. Wilding died heroically in the second battle of Ypres on May 9, 1915.
# In a sport in which most of the competitors are young and spirited, Mark Weldon, serious-minded and mature, stood out when he represented New Zealand in the 50m freestyle and 4 x 100m freestyle relay at the 1992 Barcelona Olympics. After that little was heard of Weldon for a decade as he immersed himself in study and then the world of American business. In 2002 he returned to New Zealand as the innovative and media-savvy chief executive of the New Zealand Stock Exchange.
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8/2/2008
This might look like a shameless plug for the Farming Show (which incidentally airs on Hokonui Gold and Radio Sport weekdays from 12:15pm) but yesterday’s show did have a very interesting sporting guest.
We went back 25 years to February 7, 1983, when a former All Black shocked the nation by appearing on our television screens with a perm. Those with long memories will recall the unheralded fashion crime prompted much mirth and merriment from viewers with over 500 calls to Television New Zealand as a result of Thorney’s coiffure.
Thorne was one of the great characters of New Zealand sport. He boldly went where few before him dared to go, brashly declaring himself an excellent chance of becoming a double All Black (cricket) after his stunning selection, without a provincial cap, for the 1967 All Blacks.
His cockiness initially saw senior All Blacks regard him dourly but the irrepressible Thorne eventually won them over when he scored a stunning 70 yard individual try against West Wales.
He quit the All Blacks at the peak of his powers following the 1970 South African tour, unceremoniously dumping his Auckland fiancée for a South African beauty. He should have been selected for the Springboks in 1972, only politics keeping him out.
Upon his return from the republic he became a regular face on the small screen and, by his own admission, was the clown prince of sports broadcasting, a spot now monopolized by Murray Mexted.
To cap a comprehensive curriculum vitae he was elected to parliament for one term in 1990, as the National member for Onehunga.
These days he’s domiciled in Christchurch, looking after his son David, who suffered a debilitating stroke following a rugby accident.
# Another interesting sports person I’m looking forward to interviewing next week is Kathrine Switzer, author of the excellent Marathon Woman.
To the uninitiated she was the first woman to officially register (using the gender-neutral K. Switzer for her entry) and complete the famous Boston Marathon back in 1967, in an era when women were considered incapable of running 42.2 kilometres.
Switzer was attacked mid-race by the enraged race director simply because she was a female running in what was then considered an all-male event, in an all-male domain. The photos of the incident have become one of Time-Life’s 100 Photos that Changed the World.
Over a million people will run a marathon in 2008 and, as an interesting aside, almost half of them will be women. Not bad considering the fairer sex was not allowed to run an Olympic marathon until 1984. Up till then anything longer than 1500 metres was considered too dangerous and it was deemed socially unacceptable for women to display the effort it took to run long events.
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1/2/2008
I love beer, golf and name-dropping. Not necessarily, by the way, in that order.
This weekend promises plenty of all-of-the-above as I’m off to the Wairarapa for the Masterton / Eketahuna Pro-Am to rub shoulders with the likes of Sir Bob Charles, Mark Brown, Gareth Paddison, Josh Geary, Doug Holloway and Richard Best.
The event is now run annually as a fixture on the PGA calendar of events and qualifies for the PGA Order of Merit – making it a veritable who’s who of New Zealand golf (the winner for the past two years has been none other than Tim Wilkinson, these days making a name on the US tour).
When a knight asks you to play golf for two days, one’s natural inclination is to drop tools and serve. And that’s what I did when Sir Brian Lochore asked me to follow in the footsteps of last year’s guest, his former fellow selector Steve Hansen, and make a brief after-dinner speech to a field of mainly farmers in exchange for entry to the tournament.
My acceptance was not without some trepidation, however. It’s a long way to travel and I was worried, with Sir Brian’s recent track record, he might revert to type and decide to rotate and recondition me upon witnessing my swing!
On the subject of golf, it was with much pleasure I got the opportunity to sign my name to a new cord at Gore on Sunday.
Unfortunately it was as the marker rather than the player, but nonetheless it was great to play a small part in former Southland No.1 Peter Brinsdon’s superb 63.
With the club’s major tournament, the Festival Classic, scheduled for next weekend the course is in superb condition. The fairways are quick but not burnt off and copious watering sees the greens holding well, all of which is a recipe for low scores. Even hackers are finding shooting sub-80 not too onerous a task.
A course record of 66, first set by Jeff Kerr and subsequently equaled by such luminaries as Geoff Clark and Bruce Soulsby, stood unchallenged for a number of years. When the course was opened up slightly Brinsdon lowered it to 65. Then recently Wayne Ruru set the standard at 64, which was equaled on Saturday (for a day!) by Craig Bradbury.
As we set about seriously celebrating the new record in the clubhouse afterwards Brinsdon, though delighted, said he couldn’t help wondering what might have been if he hadn’t bogeyed his 14th and 15th holes. Fortunately he came home in eagle-par-birdie but watching him dismantle the course, got me thinking a score of 60, or heaven forbid 59, is not out of the realms of realism.
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24/1/2008
If I was a die-hard fan I’d be in Invercargill tomorrow. Instead I’m going to be a try-hard man at Edendale.
I’m forsaking the Highlanders for a handpiece. I’m no Jimmy Clark, who dished out 560 haircuts in the space of eight hours on Wednesday, but I’ll be doing my darndest to avoid abject embarrassment with one sheep in the vintage shearing at the Crank Up Day in the land of the long white factory.
Forgive me for being disloyal but I just can’t get excited about rugby, especially Super 14. It’s January for God’s sake! This is the tennis and cricket season and haven’t we been treated to some glorious displays across the ditch in both codes.
The Henin-Sharapova and Federer-Blake games this week have been superb viewing, while the Federer-Djokovic semi-final promises to be the match of the tournament. And for a gentleman’s game you will not see better gladiatorial theatre than the fourth Australian-Indian cricket test at Adelaide.
The problem rugby faces is, by comparison, it’s just plain boring.
Where do I start? The season starts too early, finishes too late with too many games against the same old teams. The players often look tired, at best, and bored, at worst. It’s now a defense-orientated game and there is no longer a place for men of all shapes and sizes as the Almighty divined when he first suggested we play with an odd-shaped ball.
Hopefully the trialing of new rules will alleviate some of the boredom. For its part the long-suffering NZRU is to be commended for making an effort to spice up the All Blacks end-of-year tour with midweek games against the likes of Munster. Now if we just threw in Llanelli and Newport, wow we would have three midweek games of real historic significance!
So I’m afraid folks the lure of Edendale, shearing aside, and a few beers with two of my favourite New Zealanders, the Mad Butcher and Dick Tayler, is more fanciful than the footy.
Incidentally, today marks the 34th anniversary of Tayler’s iconic 10,000 metres triumph at the 1974 Christchurch Commonwealth Games.
Along with the Butcher (who’s the smartest madman I know) Tayler will be holding court at the Pioneer Tavern in Edendale tonight. A bloke could do worse than wet his whistle and reminisce with Dick about a bloke who famously wet his whistle the day before he discovered gold!
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17/1/2008
I miss the late Jim Valli. His column was always crammed with historic reminisces.
As the oldest Southland Times local sports columnist, I have taken it upon myself to continue the crusade for Jim on behalf of all us nostalgia nuts out there.
A question I perpetually ponder is the following. If I could choose one year to be born, in the past one hundred, which would it be?
After much deliberation I’ve decided that year would be 1950. Why, you ask, would I prefer to be 58 rather than 48 in this youth-obsessed society of ours? Simply because I might have been lucky enough to:
# Remember the 1956 Springbok series.
# Get to the first 1959 Lions test at Carisbrook to see Don Clarke kick six penalty goals and listen to Southland lift the Log of Wood from Taranaki on the wireless.
# Fondly recall the Peter Snell - Murray Halberg double at Rome in 1960.
# Read all about John F Kennedy’s 1960 election victory, the Cuban missile crisis and his assassination.
# Spend my entire primary school years being the beneficiary of milk in schools, rather than just catching the tail end of this wonderful curdled tradition. Ditto for the slide rule.
# Bask in Snell’s glorious 800 and 1500m double at Tokyo in 1964.
# Remember life in a quarter-acre pavlova paradise under a Prime Minister with a plum in his mouth.
# Follow the All Blacks through, arguably, their greatest era, 1965-69.
# Watch Southland beat the 1966 Lions and sneak an under-age beer on the terrace.
# Own a portable battery-operated 45 rpm record player with a speaker lid and listen, first hand, to the British pop invasion on vinyl.
# Hang out in Milk Bars attempting, no doubt in vain, to cash in on the sexual revolution that coincided with the advent of the pill and the mini-skirt.
# Be old enough to be genuinely be amazed by new technology such as television, direct-dial phones, calculators, power-steering, air-conditioning, videos, microwaves, computers, compact discs and the internet, yet be young enough to not be totally frightened by it all.
# Be just old enough to remember an age when our sporting heroes, the likes of Ed Hillary, Yvette Williams, Kevin Skinner, Bert Sutcliffe, Clarke, Snell, Halberg, Bob Charles and Colin Meads, really were heroes.
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