Witi Ihimaera - Bulibasha

Up came her stick. Wham . I swear that ball caught fire, it was travelling so fast. It sizzled into the net before the goalie even knew it was there.

The Mahana side of the field roared with acclamation. The Hukareka side screamed and squabbled with the ref. ‘I told you girls,’ The Brute screamed, ‘to watch these Mahana women.’

Haromi trotted back to the centre of the field, looking at her fingernails as if she’d broken one.

‘Try that again,’ Poppy hissed.

Oh, they were magnificent, those Mahana women. They had skill, strategy and, if not speed, the experience of modern-day Amazons. They were like the army led by man-hating Amanda Blake in The Loves of Hajji Baba who rode standing up on their horses and lassooed the evil Caliph’s men. Directed from the back by Aunt Ruth and Aunt Sarah, they pulled every trick in the book to keep ahead.

Both aunties liked directing the referee too. Aunt Ruth, for instance, liked to have one fullback way up to the half-way mark when the play was in Hukareka’s half. That way she could often catch a Hukareka forward offside.

‘Offside, ref. Offside,’ she’d yell.

‘Yes, I know, Mrs Whatu.’

And if a Hukareka player was in the circle and about to aim at the goal, her favourite trick was to yell, ‘Sticks!’

You never knew your luck. The ref might agree with you.

The half-time whistle blew. Poppy was looking dazed, the realisation dawning that her mother was right about Mahana women. Mahana were ahead four goals to Hukareka’s (very lucky) one. Mahana’s tactic of hitting fast and regularly from the very start, getting as many goals as possible, had paid off.

However, the game was only just beginning. The real problem was that in the second half all the aunties got slower and slower. Having too many babies and standing so long at the shearing sheds had given all of them, not only Aunt Sarah, varicose veins. The Brute knew it.

Immediately after play resumed, Hukareka broke through the Mahana lines. Despite a valiant stopping attempt by Auntie Molly, Virginia managed to get a lucky hit.

‘Take that , you big black bitch,’ Virginia snarled. She started to trot back to her side.

Aunt Sarah accidentally put her hockey stick out. ‘Oh sorry, darling,’ she said as Virginia tripped over and ended up with a face full of mud. Aunt Sarah went to pull Virginia up. By the hair. Virginia screamed. ‘Only trying to help,’ Aunt Sarah said.

To make matters worse, it began to rain. The ref looked doubtful about continuing the game. He consulted the two captains. Call the game off? You’ve got to be kidding !

As the aunties began to run out of steam, the play moved relentlessly into Mahana’s half. The greater fitness of Hukareka began to show as the women made lightning strikes into Mahana territory.

The delectable Poppy scored a goal. ‘Take that !’ she screamed.

‘Lucky shot,’ Haromi yawned.

Mahana 4, Hukareka 3.

None of this fazed the Mahana team, for defensive play in the second half had always been part of the strategy. Although one by one my aunties were coming to a standstill, their hitting power was as damaging and as accurate as ever. The objective became to stop the ball or get it off Hukareka and keep hitting it to the younger and fitter wingers who could take the ball back up the field into the Hukareka half. It didn’t matter what Haromi or Frances did with the damn ball once they were up there, so long as they kept Hukareka busy while the aunties had a bit of a breather. The primary task was to guard the circle at all costs.

However, the rain made the field muddy and the ball wasn’t running as far as it would on a flat surface. To get the ball travelling, Mahana had to resort to greater strength –

‘Sticks!’ The Brute cried. Or ‘Raised ball!’

Each penalty against Mahana meant that Hukareka could begin the game closer and closer into the Mahana half. As Hukareka penetrated and pushed the Mahana defence further back, slowly but surely the aunties began a strategic retreat to guard the circle.

A cornered animal is always dangerous, and there was nothing more glorious to watch in hockey than Mahana women on the defensive. They were like tigers, roaring, screaming and yelling orders to each other. ‘Watch the left! Watch the right! Watch the centre! Protect the flank! Keep an eye on that young winger! Cover that gap! Keep together, girls! Only another quarter of an hour to go! Kia kaha!’ Mahana were wonderful, shifting and dissolving fluidly from one defensive pattern into another. The defenders stopped the ball and hit it out to the wingers. But Hukareka had them marked. Never mind. Defend again and hit beyond the wingers to the far corner. Defend again and hit .

Then Hukareka managed to get through the Waituhi defences and slam another goal home. The score drew at Mahana 4, Hukareka 4.

That did it. Defensive strategy descended into the arena of dubious play as the Mahana women began pulling every trick in the book — and some that weren’t in the book. If the ref didn’t see what you were doing, that was his problem. If he did, never mind.

If a Hukareka player is dribbling the ball and gets past you, don’t worry. Stop the player, either by tripping her up with your stick, tangling your stick with hers or, if necessary, pushing her off balance as she passes. The referee might blow his whistle — ‘Obstruction!’ — but at least that will stop play for a while and allow the aunties to regroup. If you are standing in the clear with the ball, don’t hit it straight away. Why waste a good shot? Wait until one or two Hukareka players are coming to attack you, then hit it. If there are two attacking players, you can get them both. Easy! You pretend to miss the ball on your first stroke, because that way you can whack the first player, Oops sorry. On your second stroke, that’s when you hit the ball at the second player. She shouldn’t have been in the road anyway.

Oh yes, sticks is okay if there’s a Hukareka player behind you who might cop your stick on your backswing. That way she might get carted off the field and, who knows, by the time you finish Hukareka might not have any reserves left. And if all else fails and you need to protect the ball, pretend to slip and sit on it. Nobody’s going to hit a poor defenceless old lady when she’s down.

You never do any of the above in the circle, though, or the referee will call — ‘Penalty!’ But if it’s really necessary, a penalty is better than Hukareka getting a goal.

The Mahana women trotted leisurely to their backline to prepare for a penalty goal attempt by Hukareka. Only four minutes to final whistle.

‘Hey, ref!’ The Brute yelled, ‘Tell Mahana to move their big bums. They’re wasting time.’

‘Wait your hurry,’ Auntie Molly responded.

‘Better a big bum than a black one,’ Haromi called.

‘Keep it clean,’ Aunt Ruth said.

My aunts lined up to protect the goal. Julia Poata was Hukareka’s hitter. The ball would be stopped by Agnes, and The Brute would take the attempt at the goal. Aunts Sarah and Ruth joined Auntie Molly in the goal. No way could a hockey ball get past them. The rest waited, taking deep breaths ready to –

The ball cracked out from the corner and across the circle. Agnes stopped it. The Brute steadied. Mahana women were charging out of the goal.

The Brute aimed at Aunt Esther and swung . The ball rose — and slammed Aunt Esther in the stomach. Aunt Esther collapsed.

There was shocked silence. Mahana could do that to the opposition, but they weren’t allowed to do it to Mahana — especially to the baby sister who had never hurt a fly.