Witi Ihimaera - Bulibasha

‘We must restore our father’s mana,’ Uncle Matiu said. ‘We must retaliate. We must shame all those who were involved in making this decision. We must also stand up for our religion. This year we must win the tournament.’

‘Hukareka must be beaten.’

Mahana was putting two women’s and three men’s teams into the tournament. Neither Andrew nor I was picked for any of them, although we were school representatives. Grandfather didn’t think we were good enough.

Grandfather was still preoccupied by the news about Rupeni Poata. His eyes followed Rupeni wherever he went; he stiffened whenever his rival was congratulated for his new appointment. The thought came to me that Rupeni Poata defined Grandfather’s life. He had never dreamed that Rupeni would sidestep him by going into Maori politics — his exclusive arena — and that the other elders of Gisborne would agree to it.

‘You can do what you like,’ Grandfather said when I tackled him about Andrew’s and my omission and suggested we make up a fourth men’s team.

I saw Nani Mini Tupara from the non-Mormon part of the Waituhi Valley. She had entered two teams in the tournament.

‘Will you support me if I register a team?’ I asked.

‘Rebelling again?’ She laughed. ‘Sure I will. But if your team wins, I don’t want the trophy in a Mormon house. It comes to my house. Deal?’

‘Put it there, Auntie.’

When the tournament began next day with a parade on the main field, bystanders were left in no doubt as to Mahana’s intensity of purpose. There was something awesome about our march past the grandstand. Aunt Sarah had bullied us into wearing maroon sashes over our good clothes. She had inspected the Mahana teams and arranged them in height and order. Now, right out front, Aunt Sarah was bearing the flag which she had spent all night making — a huge golden angel glittered in the centre of a maroon satin banner. The angel was blowing a trumpet and, as the wind caught the flag, the angel appeared to be flying.

‘Whu —’ the crowd murmured.

Mahana won the march-past.

But who was making the presentation? When Grandfather went up to get the cup, Rupeni Poata shook his hand and then turned it into an Indian wrestling match. How the onlookers laughed! As for us, we should have felt triumphant that we had won the parade. Something in the mere fact that Rupeni had made the presentation made our triumph hollow.

It was all very well for Andrew and me to decide to field a team. The problem was, where would we find players at this late hour? Out of sympathy Dad and Pani said they would join us, but everyone else except Granduncle Pera, Mackie and Peewee had been taken. I was running out of time and out on the fields the games were beginning seriously.

Did I say seriously?

Two of the fields were paddocks from which you had to shoo the cows, sheep or hens before you could play. Sometimes the ball landed in the middle of a huge cowpat or down a rabbit hole. Some teams didn’t have enough hockey sticks, so either borrowed them from other teams who weren’t on their particular draw or played with battens or anything they could hold.

‘This is hockey ?’ the red-headed Pakeha from Auckland asked, stunned. He was playing against the oldest hockey players in the world and, because they couldn’t run, three of them were standing in the goal. At least they were better than the players who hopped on, never having played at all. They were dangerous , slashing at the ball as if they were playing golf.

The majority of teams had uniforms, but some didn’t. Pity the poor referee: when two teams without uniforms played each other, he never knew who was on which side. They got confused too.

‘Which is our goal?’ they asked. ‘Are you on our side?’

People expected the preliminary rounds to be a hard case. People cheerfully lost by 50 to nil to the better professional teams. I was losing my battle, too, to find three players.

Then Chantelle came up.

‘Uncle Pera says you’re looking for players,’ she said. ‘The women don’t want us in any of their teams.’

‘Well —’ I hesitated, dumbfounded.

‘Honey,’ Donna said kindly, ‘we may shave our legs but we’re your last resort. Take us or leave us.’

‘We can run faster than Uncle Pera too,’ Cindy said. ‘All that practice running away from the police, eh girls!’

‘And most of the time in high heels,’ Chantelle added. ‘Well?’

‘I’d love to have you,’ I said.

The Waituhi Rebels were born.

As expected the professional teams started to come through the ranks, and by Saturday afternoon bystanders were barracking for their favourites. In the women’s division it was clear from the beginning that the major battle would be between Mahana and Hukareka. Every time one of the Mahana women’s teams met a Hukareka team everybody in Nuhaka could hear it. At first people laughed off the intensity of the Mahana teams as excess energy. Then Aunt Miriam hit a raised ball at the goal and caught Agnes Poata in the stomach.

‘Hey! Mahana! Go easy there!’ bystanders called. People at the tournaments were quick to be put off by bad manners or lack of fair play.

However, when Aunt Sarah fell on the ball and was attacked by Poppaea, The Brute, while she was on the ground, sympathies swung our way again.

‘Hoi! Play the ball! Leave the old bag alone!’

Then Aunt Sarah made us all laugh. She jumped up from the ground and came running over to the sideline. ‘Who said that! Who called me an old bag!’ She didn’t mind being called a bag, but she hated being called old.

Mahana won the women’s division.

So far so good. But the men weren’t faring as well. All the Mahana teams got through the first round, but in the second round Mahana Three and Mahana Four were knocked out by Hauiti and Hukareka. In the third round, Mahana Two succumbed to Te Aowera. In the second round that afternoon, the frontrunners were Hukareka, with two teams still in the championship, Te Aowera and Mahana One. A ding-dong battle was fought between Mahana One and Hukareka and, to great scenes of storm and agony, Mahana lost. The finalists were Hukareka One and Two, Te Aowera and –

Did I forget to tell you that the Waituhi Rebels surprised everybody?

There were two playoffs. One between Hukareka One and Te Aowera and the other between Hukareka Two and the Waituhi Rebels. The winners from each playoff would compete against each other for the top trophy.

That’s when Grandfather Tamihana and I had a showdown.

Five minutes before Waituhi Rebels were due for the first playoff, he started to heavy the team.

‘Joshua,’ he said, ‘I want you to change the name of your team to Mahana and to sack some of your players.’

What? My father wasn’t captain of the team!

‘You haven’t a hope of winning against Hukareka. Not with those three takatapui among you.’

His voice was loud and carried to where Donna, Cindy and Chantelle were standing. Maori homophobia had always been the worst part of their lives. When they heard Grandfather’s words they changed and seemed to diminish.

‘I want them replaced,’ Grandfather said. ‘Ruka, Aperahama and Mohi will play for them.’

‘But —’ Dad began.

‘No buts,’ Grandfather continued.

My father stood his ground. ‘I’m just the halfback,’ he said. ‘My son’s captain.’

‘Then you tell him,’ Grandfather answered.

‘No.’

‘Joshua, I’m ordering you —’

‘You tell him yourself,’ Dad said.

Furious, Grandfather turned to me. ‘Did you hear me, Himiona? You change the name of your team and get rid of those three.’