M: Spectacularly bad luck for Squidgy.
G: A mountain of bad luck, right there.
M: But at least I wasn’t the one who advised him to delete everything on his phone and deny it ever happened.
G: In my defence, when he came to me on the plane, freaking out, I had just taken the sleeping pill I always take to help me get through long flights and I told him what I thought he wanted to hear so he would go away and leave me alone. You know how I hate it when people talk to me on planes, right?
M: I guess, morally, it served him right when he got off the plane at LAX and all the management cellphones started ringing at once and then they all looked at him as they took the calls ’cause it was already on the TV news back home.
G: It must be weird flying all the way to Los Angeles only to be told to get back on a plane and fly all the way back. That’s a lot of air miles in a very short time.
M: It must have really hurt when, after he denied everything like you told him to, the toilet woman sold her story to that women’s magazine, including all the texts and everything that kinda proved he was lying.
G: Rookie mistake — you have to delete both phones.
M: And then he got replaced in the ABs by Moz.
G: And then his girlfriend dumped him and took up with Moz.
M: Some women must have a thing for hookers, eh?
G: I think there’s a medical name for it.
M: I guess you really must question your life choices when your form drops away as badly as Squidgy’s did after that whole incident. I hear he’s playing for Thames Valley now, planning his comeback.
G: Go the Swamp Foxes.
M: Did you find it odd that the public outrage over this whole thing was much less about the cheating-on-your-partner side of it and a lot more about the fact he did it in the disabled toilets?
G: I think that just goes to show how considerate and thoughtful New Zealanders are when it comes to the needs of those who face different challenges in life to most of us.
M: Also, it helped downplay your role in the whole sad affair.
G: Why are they called the Swamp Foxes? I’ve never seen a fox in a swamp. Do we even have foxes in New Zealand?
Sock It To The Man
by Machete
To say that politics and sport don’t mix is like saying gin doesn’t go with tonic — it’s a blatant lie. Of course it does. Add a bit of lemon, and you’re away. But while a good gin and tonic with a slice of lemon is always welcome, some people don’t always take too kindly to politics mixing with sport. And just like some people can’t handle a gin and tonic, some people can’t handle that politics and sport mix, but they do. I guess what I’m trying to say is, politics and sport should mix.
As top-level rugby players, Ghost and I have always accepted that our prime responsibility was to do our jobs and be the best rugby players we could be, and help the national team beat other countries. But we also knew that we were role models. Yes, sometimes we did idiotic things and weren’t good role models, like the time I inadvertently tweeted a picture of my pee-pee to my 500,000 followers. But sometimes we would do good things, like all those times I appeared at low-decile schools to give out free books. Some of those book-giving-away sessions would leave me in tears and it was times like this that I knew — and I was always reminding Ghost of this — that we were looked at to lead, in more ways than just on the footie field.
Playing rugby for the national team gave us a platform that came with a lot of responsibility, and so by 2012 we had even managed to crack the team’s senior leadership group. Sure, the actual moment Bullbag gave us the good news was not ideal, in that me and Ghost were just sneaking in from a night out on the lemonades. We had decided, in our lemonade-fuelled logic, that the best way to blend in was to go straight to the pool recovery session, strip down to our undies in the toilets down the hall, then to casually slip into the waters, and to sober up by paddling around for a bit. Unfortunately, Ghost got a bit carried away with himself and announced our arrival with a huge manu that sent water all over Big Steve and the physio staff who had set up their massage tables by the hotel pool. So, naturally, I had to do my own manu — which was way bigger than Ghost’s manu. And pretty soon we had this awesome water fight going. Best recovery session ever.
Afterwards, as me and Ghost were wrapped in towels, lying that this was how we were dressed when we came down from our room where we had been sleeping all night, Bullbag, who was in his last season as vice-captain and was bitter he’d never been made captain, pulled us aside to give us the good news. Then he got Boof and his twin brother Crash to punch us each in the guts as punishment for breaking team protocols by staying out all night drinking lemonades and therefore not setting a good example as members of the leadership group. Our arguments that at the time we went on the piss we did not know we were part of the leadership group fell on deaf ears.
(FYI: Boof and Crash were the sons of a farmer from Feilding and possibly the ugliest props ever to have pulled on a black jersey. To say they were strong was an understatement. The rumour was that, as teenagers, on game days they had a raw cow each for nutrition and for their cardio they would jog around the farm passing fence posts to each other. Whether it was true or not, when they punched you in the guts it really bloody hurt. Just FYI.)
So, as me and Ghost lay there, on the hotel corridor floor, gasping for air and folded in half, Bullbag told us to sort ourselves out, because we were senior leaders now. And I want to say that, in me at least, that moment and getting that responsibility had the desired effect and I certainly improved my attitude. I believe I even began to flower, as a man, as a player and as a role model.
Then came the 2013 World Cup, and the opening game that I had been dreading, against the team that I had grown up wanting to play for, Manu Samoa; the team I had even committed to playing for during that all-nighter at Club Poly. That night I gave my word to Biggie Dave and then, later, went back on my word when I jumped out of his car and ran away to play for New Zealand instead. This had weighed heavily on my mind ever since — and not just because it meant I was banned from Club Poly.
I even half-hoped that I wouldn’t get picked for this game, thinking that since it was the opener, that perhaps team management would give Horse a run. Horse was this blockbusting Tongan midfielder from North Otago who was having the season of his life, but the backline coach, Beaker, gave me the heads-up that I would be starting the game and they’d look to bring Horse in off the bench. I was cornered by my own talent.
As the country counted down to the tournament kicking off, something magical began to unfold in Aotearoa, where everyone embraced the matches and all the teams who had come from around the world. Nobody had been expecting the world’s top tournament would ever come to New Zealand, after we had first hosted it in 1989, which as everyone from overseas kept gleefully telling us, was the last time we had won the damn thing. That first tournament in 1989 forced even the naysayers in the north into believing that rugby could be a global game, and from the moment Rick Astley sang at the opening ceremony, it was a runaway success.
With us having not won it for so long, rugby had been battling a bit to maintain its premier status as the country’s favourite game. Hence, everything was riding on the national team being successful at this tournament or rugby as a national pastime could be as good as dead.
Still, once Kanye West and the Black Eyed Peas kicked off the 2013 edition in Auckland, the same sense of excitement was returning to New Zealand. So, as we counted down to the opening game, the buzz and excitement was everywhere and Samoans were painting Auckland blue. The Pacific Island teams in particular and their fans were responsible for a lot of the buzz and for a lot of buildings with blue paint on them.
And then there was me, dreading the game.
In our public appearances in the week before, rugby fever hit fever pitch. Everywhere we wen
t, there were well-wishers and the support from the public was fantastic. Kiwis had adopted different teams to ensure that everyone was well supported. I can remember one experience when the team was at an appearance at a fan-zone in Mangere. We were signing autographs before we got back on the bus, and this little brown kid hits me up, his eyes filled with what I imagined to be wonder to see his hero standing before him.
‘Are you really Machete?’ he asked, all breathless like.
‘Yes, little kid, I am,’ I replied, all magnanimous like.
‘I’m Samoan. Are you really Samoan?’ he asked, almost trembling with excitement.
‘Ioe, yes,’ I replied.
‘Then how can you play against your own country, you traitor? Your ancestors must be ashamed.’
To say I was stunned is putting it mildly. I just stood there blathering until the little prick’s mum came and sheepishly took him away.
Still, the damage had been done, and I was mud at training that afternoon. I dropped so many balls, it’s like my hands were made of butter and the ball was margarine. I’m not sure if that makes sense but, basically, my game was just a mess. In my head, I started to wonder about what sort of Samoan I was, and how I could play against a team that even my mum and dad were supporting. Dad had made some big bets on Samoa winning and sent me photos of the betting slips, saying that if Samoa didn’t win, that I was dead to him.
The pressure was getting to me, but I couldn’t be a scone, and puff out to the perfect size and shape. Instead I was like bread with not enough baking soda, and I was not rising to the occasion. That was when I had my great idea.
Lying on my bed in the hotel room, staring at the ceiling, feeling like a prisoner in a cell of his own making, I remembered about the whole politics and sport mixing thing, and thought I’d try another way to avoid this game — I would make myself unavailable in protest at the New Zealand government’s treatment of Pasifika people during the infamous Dawn Raids of the 1970s.
It was such a simple but effective plan. Other players had taken ethical stands in the past and it only garnered them more respect. And there was that time the New Zealand Rugby Union refused to visit South Africa because they were told brown players could only tour as ‘honorary whites’. It was a genius plan that could not miss — but would mean that I would miss the game I wanted to miss (but could then play in all the other games as long as they weren’t against Samoa).
Ghost was shocked when I told him how I’d be taking a stand. He was also a bit confused as to why I needed to protest now, about something that had happened in the 1970s. I told him of the lasting scars on my people and how it is good to remind the world of injustice, even years after the event. Ghost could see it meant a lot to me, and he also knew how much playing in the black jersey meant to me, so, being my mate, he naturally said he had my back and would also make himself unavailable.
I told him he didn’t need to do that. He told me that he did. I said no, you don’t. He said yes, he did, and that he thought we should tell Urkel, as captain, first.
So we went to see Urkel and we told him. And he nodded wisely, saying he understood where I was coming from. Then he tried to reason with me, reminding me of the proud history the Niu Sila national team had with many Pasifika players, going all the way back to the legendary CeeCee Toa-Johnson.
But I had already created the lie and was committed to it. I had to embellish it further by adding other terrible things New Zealand had done to Samoa, such as letting in the ‘ship of death’ during the 1918 Spanish influenza pandemic which resulted in a fifth of the population dying.
Urkel nodded, seeing the depth of my passion. Then he said that he, too, would stand down for the Samoa game, in support of my beliefs.
I told him that he didn’t need to do that. He said that he did. I said he really didn’t need to do that. He said that at the team meeting tomorrow that it should be mooted (he actually used the word ‘mooted’) that maybe the whole team should stand down — to protest the government-sanctioned evil that was the Dawn Raids. I told him he didn’t need to do that because that would make the opening match of the World Cup literally a one-sided affair. Urkel said something about needing to shine a light on injustice because otherwise it would grow in the dark like mould, but I was too busy freaking out to listen.
That night, I could not sleep. The guilt about it all being a lie was eating me up. To be fair, I was actually pretty angry about the Dawn Raids, but more in a historical sense than a throw-my-career-under-a-bus sense. The anxiety was getting to me, and by the time Ghost woke up to find me spewing into the pot plant in the corner of our room the anxiety had consumed me. So I told Ghost the truth; that actually I did want to play but I didn’t want to betray my community. Ghost nodded wisely and then gave me the wisest piece of advice anyone has ever given me. He said that what I needed to do, to find out what I actually needed to do, was to talk to Biggie Dave, since he was the one I had broken my promise to.
And so, that night, I snuck out of the hotel and found myself at the doors of Club Poly.
The uncles who were bouncing on the door were pleased to see me, and took me straight to see Biggie Dave. I threw myself at his mercy and apologised for going back on my promise.
He just looked at me and put his finger to his lips as if to say ‘shhh’, which I duly did. Then he said, ‘Sole, what you did was cowardly and embarrassing to watch, as you ran away from my car, but you did what you did because you believed it was the right thing to do. And you do all Samoa proud, every time you pull on that black jersey. So, tomorrow, at Eden Park, just play hard and go out to smash them, ’cause you know they’ll be doing their best to smash you.’
And just like that, I’d been given his blessing. And, in return, he just wanted me to do one tiny favour for him.
‘And if you could be the last try-scorer that would be good. I have put a lot of money on you and if Mrs Biggie finds out I have lost that money . . .’
I told him I would do what I could. But I also told him I felt I needed to do something to honour The Deported Ones of the Dawn Raid time — especially now that I had brought my captain in on it.
‘Then play with your socks down,’ he said.
‘Huh?’ I replied.
‘Like how I did, back in the day,’ Biggie explained.
And I remembered that one of the characteristic things about him, back in the day, was how his socks were always down round his ankles. I told him I thought this was because his calf muscles were too big. He told me that wearing his socks down, every Saturday that he played, was his way of commemorating the Black Saturday independence demon-stration in Apia in 1929. I told him that I never knew this. Biggie said that he never told anyone, but that he knew, in his heart, and that was enough from him.
So, the next morning, before the team meeting, I told Ghost and Urkel that I would play but I would protest by playing with my socks down. Ghost immediately announced that he too would play with his socks down — and that he would do so in every test after that. I had no choice but to go along with this, even though I knew what my mum would think of the whole socks down thing. Urkel explained that, as captain and also someone who liked to look neat and proper at all times, he would play with his socks up — but in his heart they would be down. I said that was good enough for me.
And so it was that I took to the field, that night at Eden Park, with my socks at half-mast, where they remained for the whole game, as me and my Samoan brothers smashed each other gleefully. And if you look at the TV coverage you will see that when I bust through the line in the seventy-ninth minute, when I dive over under the posts, I am already smiling because I know that in the Upstart Press corporate box Biggie Dave is also smiling.
World Cup New Zealand, 2013
MACHETE: The World Cup was coming home to its rightful home. Sure, it was in the possession of a bunch of South Africans and there was the small matter of
us needing to win it on home soil, but those were minor details. We had a team of 4,000,000 behind us. Or, as our great manager Grunter so succinctly put it to the squad when we assembled in Auckland: ‘Four million roosters who will have our balls for breakfast if we don’t bloody win the thing, so let’s not f**k it up like we did last time, shall we?’ No pressure, then.
GHOST: There was so much pressure on the players. You could feel it in the air. It was pretty much the only thing anyone in the squad ever talked about. Every now and then someone would snap and throw their phone across the room — that’s the level of pressure we were under.
M: I should probably point out now that the pressure Ghost is talking about was not the pressure to win the trophy on home soil. No, we knew that if we stuck to our plans and played to our potential, we had that covered. Just as long as some idiot didn’t come along and cripple all our goal-kickers.
G: Oh, we’re going there already, are we? Low blow, uso.
M: My humblest of apologies — but I’m sure we will get to the cripplings soon enough. No, here the pressure we speak of is the unique pressure that comes with being the home nation: the pressure of getting tickets for all the family and friends who suddenly emerge from the woodwork.
G: If you accept the PR spin that New Zealand is a ‘team of 4,000,000’ then, if you do the maths, we are also a team with about 100,000,000 mates and relatives, all of whom want to go to ‘the final if you make it’ and ‘in a corporate box would be nice’.
M: After the draw came out and it was announced that we were to play Samoa in the opening match, I personally discovered I am related to many Samoans on islands I suspect are fictitious. None of my new relations, however, seemed happy to settle for tickets to the Georgia versus Russia match in Rotorua instead.
G: Such was the rugby fever that swept the nation and the demand for tickets so high that World Cup 2013 was the first time both my parents expressed an interest in actually attending a game I was playing in. Of course, this also meant that, since the divorce, I also had to get a ticket for Dad’s iridologist/massage therapist/vegan baker much younger new girlfriend — and to lie to them both that Eden Park only served vegan food. Which meant I also had to get a ticket for Mum’s new midwife/massage therapist/hockey coach girlfriend. Then, because of the acrimonious nature of the divorce, I had to make sure these tickets were in different stands.
Machete and the Ghost Page 15
