Witi Ihimaera - Bulibasha

Scott came in with a roll and unfurled it over the measuring table. Aunt Sarah pursed her lips. ‘I’ll take it.’

‘The whole roll?’

‘Why, yes.’

‘Cash or charge, Sarah?’

‘Cash. Your interest rate is too high for me, Zelda.’ Aunt Sarah turned to Mum. ‘Always pay in cash if you can,’ she offered.

It was a careless, innocent enough remark, but it made Mum blush with embarrassment. As my mother started the car, she saw Miss Zelda and Miss Daisy at the window. They were like eternal watchers, watching and smiling and waiting. Winter had only just begun to bite, but they knew there would come a time, soon enough, when my mother would need to go in and get herself on the tick.

As if the cultural competition wasn’t enough, the Mahana women’s hockey team found itself scheduled to play Hukareka women in the Gisborne women’s senior grade section the following Saturday afternoon. Hukareka had won the last game and both teams were neck and neck in the competition.

Aunt Ruth was the Mahana women’s coach and Aunt Sarah was team chaperone. Both were veterans of the field. However, as soon as Aunt Sarah found out who our opponents were the challenge of playing Hukareka was irresistible, varicose veins notwithstanding. At the very least she wanted to go in as goalie.

‘You can’t,’ Aunt Ruth said. ‘We already have a goalie. Auntie Molly’s our goalie.’

‘I’ll be one of the fullbacks then,’ Aunt Sarah said. ‘You need me, sister, after that hiding you fellas got from Hukareka last time. Put me in as left fullback.’

Aunt Ruth bristled. ‘A draw is not a hiding, and Sephora’s already left fullback.’

‘Move her to halfback.’ When Aunt Sarah made up her mind, she could never be budged.

‘What happens if somebody takes a crack at you?’ Aunt Ruth asked. ‘Who’ll look after our haka team?’

‘Nobody’s going to take a crack at me!’ Aunt Sarah scoffed. ‘If anybody is taking a crack it will be me, and Poppaea, The Brute, will be on the receiving end. Boy, do I owe her one.’

‘Sister, dear,’ Aunt Ruth said, ‘if you go on, who’s going to be on the sideline directing the play?’

‘You are,’ Aunt Sarah answered. ‘You’re the coach.’

‘Not for this game I’m not. I’m playing right fullback.’

The two sisters paused, made up their minds and shook hands. In unison they said, ‘Let’s both play.’

Hukareka, watch out .

The day of the match was cold and wet, and the rain had made the ground mucky underneath. Four other games were on at the same time, but word soon got around: ‘Hey! Mahana women are playing Hukareka!’ Naturally, Nani Mini Tupara, who loved hockey, was there to barrack for Mahana, even if we were Mormons.

As Andrew and I made a beeline for the pavilion I saw Mohi parking the De Soto and heard Grandfather calling to me: ‘Himiona!’

I hurried Andrew on. ‘Pretend we haven’t heard,’ I said.

Aunt Ruth was huddled with the team. She had just finished karakia, calling on God’s aid in this fight against the Infidel. Aunt Miriam was centre forward. Aunt Esther and Aunt Kate — Uncle Hone’s wife — were inner right and inner left, and the wings were the youngest — Haromi on the left and Frances on the right. Playing at halfback positions were Aunt Sephora, Aunt Dottie — Uncle Ruka’s wife — and my mother Huria, who seemed to be a different person all togged up in her hockey outfit. The backs were the heavyweights, Aunt Ruth and Aunt Sarah, an impenetrable wall of solid flesh, with Aunt Molly as goalie. There she was, looking for all the world as if she was sitting on an upsidedown basin outside her cookhouse, splaying herself from one side of the goal to the other.

‘Okay, girls?’ Aunt Ruth asked. ‘Are you all ready? Just keep to your positions.’

‘Hit the ball,’ Aunt Sarah interjected.

‘And if you can’t hit the ball —’

‘Hit the player,’ Aunt Sarah said.

Then Aunt Ruth and Aunt Sarah said in unison, ‘The Brute is ours !’

The referee called the teams on to the field. The linesmen took their places. Grandfather Tamihana came sauntering from one entrance of the field and Rupeni Poata from the other. Rupeni Poata raised his hat to Grandmother. Grandfather Tamihana flared.

Then, ‘Didn’t you hear me yelling out to you, Himiona?’

‘No.’

He wasn’t convinced. ‘I wanted you to hold the game until I got here.’

I shrugged my shoulders.

He made a motion as if to hit me. ‘You’re sailing close to the wind, boy.’

As if I cared.

The referee pushed his glasses on to the bridge of his nose. ‘Let’s have a nice clean game, ladies,’ he asked, then blew his whistle.

‘Come on the maroon,’ came the chant from the left sideline. Maroon was the colour for Mahana.

‘Come on the black,’ came the chant from the right sideline. Black was Hukareka’s colour. And boy, was their team formidable. Poppy was at centre forward until her mother, The Brute, saw she was up against the heavier Aunt Miriam.

‘Poppy!’ The Brute called. ‘Change with Auntie Anna on the right wing.’

‘No!’ Poppy answered. ‘I can beat the old bag.’

A deep rumble came from the Mahana sideline. Fighting talk and the game hadn’t even started.

‘Do as I say!’ The Brute yelled.

It was wonderful to see Poppy’s flaring temper. She stalked over to the right where, ah Heaven, Andrew and I were standing. Her opposite number was Haromi, who accidentally pushed Poppy on purpose.

‘So my auntie’s an old bag, is she?’ Haromi smiled sweetly.

Murder was in the air.

Weight for weight, the teams were evenly balanced. The Poata women were all on deck — Julia, Agnes and Helen at the back positions; Virginia, Gloria and Carla in the positions at middle field, and Poppy, Ottavia, The Brute and two other cousins of Poppy’s in the forwards. The Hukareka women were leaner and fitter. But either they had forgotten about the ruthlessness of Mahana women or else they hadn’t played sport with their brothers and men for quite a while.

‘Hockey one, hockey two, hockey three —’

The sticks blurred and Aunt Miriam, finessing Anna by not quite touching on the third click, scooped the ball past her to where Mum was waiting to push the ball past Gloria, chasing it into the clear.

‘Ref! Where’s your eyes!’ The Brute roared.

My mother took a look to see where Frances was. No, Haromi was better placed. Whang , and she hit the ball towards the right corner of the Hukareka half.

The Mahana team strategy had always been that once anybody got the ball they hit it out to the wing. The older women knew the younger girls didn’t want bruises on their beautiful legs and would therefore fly down the line, keep out of trouble and then whack the ball into the circle of the opposing team. The theory was, of course, that the older women would be there to receive the ball. Good theory.

Haromi positively streaked along the line after the ball. The Hukareka halfbacks chased after her, but not for nothing was she the last baton runner of our school track and field team.

‘ Offside , ref!’ The Brute cried.

If the ref was blind, that wasn’t our fault.

Haromi picked up the ball, tapped it nicely, past the Hukareka backs. Only the goalie ahead. Now hit it into the centre where the aunties were — huh? Where were the aunties? Never mind. Haromi dashed into the circle. She pretended to hit the ball to Frances, and the Hukareka goalie turned to the left.

Gotcha!

Did I forget to tell you that Haromi had a wicked eye? Whether playing basketball, billiards — even though she wasn’t supposed to — or kicking a goal, Haromi had an inbuilt direction finder. She needed no computer to calculate the distance divided by the width of the goal minus the mass of the goalie multiplied by the probability factor to –