Witi Ihimaera - Bulibasha

The battle began in the dressing room under the stand. Nobody knows who started it, but somebody on one side said, ‘Hey, I didn’t know their cocks were so small.’ His friend only made it worse by saying, ‘Yeah, but their arseholes are huge, man.’

The inference to homosexuality was anathema to Maori men: the first punch-up of the day erupted. The fisticuffs were short, sharp and vicious, and Mohi ended up minus a tooth.

‘Oh shit shit shit ,’ he cursed, spitting blood. He had a date that night and would have to keep his mouth closed whenever he smiled.

That was not the end of it. Everything quietened down for a second, then someone on the other side said, ‘I went out with one of their women once.’

‘Oh yeah?’ his mate said.

‘What a dog she was, man, even with a pillow over her head.’

This time, when the fists flew, it was a Hukareka man who was downed by rabbit punches to his kidneys.

‘Cut it out,’ the ref yelled, ‘or the game is off before we even start.’

The ruckus was heard in the stand above the dressing rooms. Grandfather and Rupeni Poata looked at each other, and came down to see what the problem was.

‘Tell your boys to back off each other,’ the ref said.

Rupeni Poata bowed in assent. ‘A truce for the day?’ he asked Grandfather.

‘Yes,’ Grandfather answered.

‘I want a clean game out there,’ Rupeni Poata told his team.

Clean game, ha. He was such a double-faced bastard — just like Scarpia in Tosca , who tells his lieutenant to use blanks rather than real bullets in the mock execution of the hero Cavaradossi. When the squad fires, Cavaradossi falls down dead.

When the teams came out of the dressing room, World War Three was only narrowly averted.

‘Come on the maroon!’ the Mahana oldies yelled.

‘Come on the black!’ the Hukareka oldies responded.

‘Maroon!’

‘Black!’

‘ Maroon !’

‘ Black !’

The ref threw a coin in the air.

‘Heads,’ Caesar Poata called. Heads it was.

The Hukareka team took the advantage by electing to play with their backs to the sun.

‘You’ll need more than the sun to help you,’ Uncle Pera yelled. He was a cocky little terrier lifting his hind leg against a fence post.

The strong, fierce Hukareka forwards were like racehorses champing at the bit. They grouped around Augie, Tight Arse Senior and Alexander Poata. Caesar Poata took the kick-off. The Hukareka supporters roared their approval.

The game began.

From the very beginning there was no doubt that Mahana was the heavier side. When the ball was kicked off, a solid wall of Mahana men was waiting underneath. The Hukareka forwards, expecting to dent that wall, bounced off like rubber balls.

‘E koe! E koe !’ the Mahana supporters yelled. They loved nothing better than a show of strength.

The ref ordered a scrum-down. Mahana to put in the ball. Mohi, at halfback, zapped the ball in quickly. The Mahana forwards gouged the ground like bulls, goring the ball back through the scrum to where Mohi was waiting. He was downed by his opposite half.

‘Offside, ref!’ the Mahana supporters screamed.

The ref agreed. Mahana got to kick the ball. My father Joshua took the kick. He found touch deep in the heart of Hukareka territory.

Good old Josh, the oldtimers nodded — almost as good as his father at kicking the ball.

Now a lineout. The throw-in was crooked. Another lineout was ordered. The whistle. Another scrum. The suspense was killing as each side tested the other, trying to probe for weaknesses.

Rupeni Poata went down to the sideline. Seeing this, Grandfather followed him down.

‘Wait for the break, boys,’ Rupeni said.

‘Settle down, boys,’ Grandfather said. ‘Settle down. There’s plenty of time. Plenty of time.’

And wasn’t that just the best advice, the Waituhi oldtimers agreed. Bulibasha was the King of Rugby all right.

Out of nowhere Hukareka made the break. A lucky possession at the lineout. Quick spinning of the ball along from first five-eighth to second five-eighth –

Look! Titus Poata at halfback had slashed around as an extra man in the backline, drawing the Mahana opposite number to him before passing the ball out to Alexander Poata at centre –

Alexander kicked ahead and over the Mahana backs and was chasing after the ball. Whu, he was fast.

But there was good old Josh streaking over to get the ball on the bounce and –

Good boy , Josh! Takes after his father all right. Kicking for touch again, way down the side and back into Hukareka territory.

Great rugby, man. Not as good as the old days, but good to see the ball moving around. Somebody better keep an eye on Alexander Poata, though. Man, he was dangerous.

The whistle blew for halftime. The score was nil-all. The frustration on the field and off was reaching fever pitch. The atmosphere was heavy, like a front before the weather changes. Grandfather kept an unperturbed exterior, but I knew he was worried. He had expected Mahana to be up by at least ten points.

‘You’re doing good,’ Grandfather said during his pep talk, ‘but not good enough. I want to see more possession. I want to see more penetration by the forwards and better handling among the backs. Watch those Hukareka backs. They’re opportunistic. They will take advantage of any breaks they can get. Ka tika?’

‘Ka tika,’ the Mahana men nodded.

Two minutes into the second half, the Hukareka backs made another break and executed a scissors movement similar to their entrance on haka night. Titus Poata made a dummy pass and suddenly changed the direction of play by running into the gap between his position and second five-eighths. He cut through the lumbering Mahana defence players as if they were a piece of cloth. Before Mahana knew it, Alexander Poata had the ball and the Hukareka players were through and streaking for a try.

‘Anei! Anei!’ the Hukareka supporters yelled. Some of the women began a hula of delight, their ample bums wobbling like jelly. The stand started to sway with them. There were a lot of heavyweights among Hukareka women.

Caesar Poata took the kick at goal. Hukareka was ahead by 5 to nil.

Clouds began to gather above the space where Grandfather Tamihana was standing. I thought of the scene in The Ten Commandments where Charlton Heston looks up into the sky and calls, ‘My God, my God, why hast Thou forsaken me?’ God must have been listening, because four minutes later the Mahana forwards, led by Uncle Matiu, charged down the field with the ball. They pushed through the Hukareka men, knocking them aside like skittles. The try wasn’t the most elegant in the history of rugby, but when Uncle Ruka put his hand over the Hukareka line and touched the pigskin down, bedlam erupted in the grandstand. There were our women doing the hula.

Dad converted the try. Five-all.

That was when the game took off.

Grandfather Tamihana gave a sudden cry. His bad leg buckled under him and he collapsed. The ref blew his whistle for the St John’s men to assist. Rupeni Poata too went to Grandfather’s aid. The whole of the Waituhi part of the grandstand were on their feet in alarm. Bulibasha was more important than the game.

Grandfather waved the helpers away and bravely he stood up. He indicated that he should like to be assisted up into the grandstand. A wave of applause greeted him. Tears sprang to Uncle Matiu’s eyes.

‘Our father’s knee,’ he gulped.

It was like the Mahana version of the rallying cry at the Alamo. As soon as the scrum went down it was obvious to the Hukareka players that Mahana had gone into top gear.

‘Neke neke!’ the scrum roared. ‘Neke neke!’