Witi Ihimaera - Bulibasha

My God they were thrilling — like an ancient warrior war party. They pushed the Hukareka players before them, dribbling the ball as they went.

‘Neke neke! Neke neke!’

Hukareka players came charging from all sides. No way could they get into that solid force and extricate the ball. On and on they went, until –

‘Anei!’ old Pera cried.

The scrum had pushed over Hukareka’s goal line. Another try.

With a cry, Uncle Matiu held the football aloft — ‘This one’s for you, Bulibasha!’ And slammed it into touch.

When Dad kicked that ball at the goal to convert the try there was no way he would miss. In one minute flat, Mahana had gone ahead 10 to 5.

At that point the focus on the part of Mahana for vengeance and attempts at resistance by Hukareka unleashed the old blood lust. When play resumed and the scrum went down, the curses and accusations from both sides about women, sisters and mothers could be heard in the grandstand. When the ball came flying out and the backs had already taken play halfway down the field –

Huh? Fists were flying back at the scrum.

‘Break it up!’ the ref yelled. ‘Break it up!’

Tempers flared all over the field. Uncle Ruka and Titus Poata had their own private battle going — they butted and punched each other at every opportunity as if, by some process of attrition, one would knock the stuffing out of the other. Caesar Poata tackled Uncle Matiu. While Uncle was still on the ground, Caesar grabbed his balls and gave a strong twist . A few minutes later Caesar happened to be lying on the ground and Uncle Matiu happened to be trotting back onside. Oh dear, Uncle couldn’t have seen Caesar because he ran over his thighs, stomach and chest in his sprigged boots –

‘Oops, sorry chief, I didn’t see you down there.’

Players were eyeing their assailants and taking every opportunity to pay back. They gave the bugger a shove as they went past. They brought their elbow up into his face. They chopped accidentally on purpose at his windpipe when the ref wasn’t looking. Then my father Joshua scored a brilliant try. He ran from way back, joined the back line as extra man as it surged forward and dived over for our third try of the game. When he converted it, Mahana was 15–5 in the lead.

Then Mahana suffered its first casualty. At the next scrum, when the play moved on, Uncle Ruka remained on the ground, clutching his stomach in agony. The Mahana men went after Titus Poata, the bastard who had done it, and next minute three players had fists up and were brawling. Another two men hit the dust.

‘That’s enough!’ the ref yelled, blowing his whistle. ‘Quit it or I’m stopping the game.’ Didn’t anybody tell him that blowing his whistle wasn’t going to stop a massacre? By the end of that little sortie, four players were being carted off the field and two reserves from each side were being called on.

Only one reserve trotted on for Waituhi. Where was Charlie Whatu? The ref wasn’t waiting around. He blew the whistle to resume play. We were one man down. Hukareka scored and converted. Now Hukareka were only five points behind.

Uncle Matiu roared at me, ‘Tell that fucking Charlie Whatu to get his arse out here!’

Andrew and I ran into the dressing room. St John’s Ambulance men were treating the wounded. We found Charlie Whatu vomiting his guts out in the toilets.

‘I’ve eaten some bad fish, boys. Real bad.’

Just then we heard a volley of booing from the Waituhi side of the stand. There was a drumming of outraged feet, and dust started to fall through the ceiling.

‘What the hell’s happening!’ an ambulance man asked. ‘Is that an earthquake?’

The door opened and Uncle Maaka appeared, swearing and cursing. He had been ordered off for a flying tackle. Our team was down to thirteen men. Oh shit.

Glory would have said, Do something.

Outside, I heard the Hukareka supporters screaming again as Alexander Poata, taking advantage of our misfortune, went over. 15-all.

I looked at Andrew. ‘Be my guest,’ he said.

I nodded. ‘Take off your jersey,’ I told Charlie.

Adults sometimes make the mistake of thinking that a fifteen-year-old boy is just a kid. If you’re the fifteen-year-old in question, you know that you are a man — and most often you look like a man.

The ref saw me coming out of the dressing room wearing the Mahana jersey. He nodded, waited for play to go into touch and then waved me on.

‘Are you crazy?’ Mohi said. ‘You’ll get trounced out here.’

My father Joshua came up and said, ‘Get off the field, son.’ Blood was pouring from a cut on his forehead.

‘I’m not your son,’ I told him. ‘I’m Charlie Whatu.’

Uncle Matiu understood. ‘Ka tika, Simeon,’ he said. ‘Well, even Goliath was felled by David, ne? You don’t happen to have a slingshot do you?’ He laughed. ‘You play at left wing. Any time you get the ball, kick . Or pass it to somebody else. Never mind about being a hero.’

I wasn’t planning to be a hero. But in my own way I thought that my being on the field and making our side up to fourteen might make a difference. Even so I prayed to God, Please Lord keep the play on the other side of the field.

Boy, did He lay His bundle on me .

All the scrums seemed to be on my side of the field. Poor Mohi didn’t know what to do. Whenever our scrum won the ball, he would pass it straight to the second five-eighths rather than me. Then, accidentally, he forgot I was there and shot the ball my way.

‘Oh no,’ he groaned, hiding his eyes.

He knew I was the worst kicker in the entire western world. What he had forgotten was that I was jack rabbit scared. No way was I going to be smashed to smithereens by those Hukareka men.

I saw a gap.

I went through with my eyes closed.

I took Hukareka by surprise and found myself in the clear.

Oh shit, what now?

Mohi was there. ‘Pass it out!’ he yelled. ‘Pass it out!’

Believe me, I would gladly have done that, except Alexander Poata was marking him.

‘Pass it out, you stupid fucker!’ Mohi yelled again.

‘Don’t call me stupid, arsehole!’

I waited. Oh no. Now another two Hukareka players were zeroing in on me.

Come on, Alexander, come to me too. Now I knew what kamikaze fighter pilots felt like. But I’d done it. Alexander Poata joined the other two Hukareka players in chasing after me. Just before they slammed into me I let the ball go –

‘All yours, Mo-’

It was no compensation to hear the roar as Mohi took the ball under his arm and, ten yards later, went over.

When the final whistle blew, Mahana had beaten Hukareka by 18 to 15. Grandfather came down to the dressing room to offer his congratulations personally. He was pretty sprightly for a man who had collapsed at the sideline. He patted Mohi’s back for his try.

Then, just as Grandfather was turning to leave, Pani called out, ‘And what do you think of our little champ here?’

Grandfather paused. He looked at me as if he was seeing me for the first time. ‘That was a stupid thing to do, boy. We could have been disqualified for the rest of the season.’

You’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t.

‘Go easy on Simeon,’ my father Joshua ventured.

‘No, it’s okay,’ I jibed. ‘I only went out there for the family. Not for anybody else. The family always comes first.’

The dressing room went quiet. I had gone too far again.

Just then, old Pera came hopping into the dressing room.

‘Kei te pai, boys,’ he wheezed. ‘Good on you! Those Hukareka people are all having a good cry out there.’ Then he saw me. ‘E Himiona! That was a nice little run you had.’