A RUGBY DREAM

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 35, 4 May 1927, Page 7

A RUGBY DREAM

MATCH THAT WASN’T HE ASKED WHO WON? A GENTLEMAN IN BLACK Just as the average New Zealander becomes hopelessly fogged when endeavouring to follow a game of American baseball—and insults the American by calling it “rounders”—so does the Rugby game have an effect, distorted and a little startling, upon Lennox Robinson, the Irish playwright, who pens the following article in “The Irish Statesman.” “My friends,” he says, “had assured me for years that I must see one. I pleaded that I had never played football in my life, that I did not know which side of the ball you kicked, that the difference between Soccer and Rugger was as obscure to me as Sanscrit —it made no difference, they told me I should go because it was more exciting than the best detective story, more emotional than Tristan and Isolde. So I went, in faith and ignorance, and —from the moment I became one of the crowd that pressed through the gates—in apprehensive excitement. It was exactly like that afternoon long ago, when I had visited, alone, a theatre for the first time. The play was a musical comedy, and I had been tortured by the thought that in my ignorance I would fail to understand what it was about. Of course, the musical comedy ironed itself out quite clearly but it is the business of the stage to make itself understood by the audience, I couldn’t believe that it was the business of the football match. But I hoped for the best, I hoped that someone very understanding and communicative would sit beside me. He did. A large black elderly man. I could afford to lose no time, I at once attempted to establish relations. At first he was a little restive, he warmed as soon as I let him know that my feelings were bitterly anti-Scotch, but as he began to talk I realised to my dismay that he was an expert, a fanatical expert, and that if he discovered my abysmal ignorance he would sink in silent contempt. At all costs I must hide it, so I talked brightly about the rain and the condition of the ground. A SUPER-ENTHUSIAST Even the subject of mud held technicalities beyond my ken. It seemed there were players who did better in mud and players who did worse. There were subtleties of muddiness that were beyond me. Travelling in the train to the match I had almost succeeded in learning by heart the names of the teams. The black man discussed each member in turn, lovingly yet dispassionately, he said over their names like a rosary. I had once met one of the Irish team for a moment and I shamelessly claimed him as an old and intimate friend. It was the only picture-card in my hand and I played it for all it was worth.] I was looked at with a deeper respect, but the black man was very pessimistic. We hadn’t a chance, I gathered. Not one chance in a hundred. On the other side of me sat a little mousey woman. She seemed to be alone. She looked unutterably bored. . People were foolishly singing somewhere. Whatever number of thousand of people the newspapers reported next day were in front of us and around us, but my impression was that we three were extraordinarily alone, and that the crowd was not real, that nothing was quite real except ourselves and that we were hovering on the edge of something tremendous, something as terrific as a De Quincy nightmare. And endlessly the man talked of the players; they grew gigantic as he talked, they had an epic quality, they were heroes, gods, they seemed to have stepped out of ancient Greece or ancient. Ireland. When they really appeared they seemed at first disappointingly small and distant, and I was again m that high theatre gallery looking down at my first play and feeling puzzled and apprehensive. The first thing to do was to establish clearly in my mind which team was Scotland’s and which Ireland’s. I did this with comparatively little difficulty. And after five minutes' play I felt that I understood Rugby football to its ultimate technicality. It was clear to me that both teams were playing with extraordinary stupidity. They were brave, they were dashing, but they were incredibly stupid. After each futile rush I was prepared to go down to the field and demonstrate to each player just where his fault lay, just what he should hdve done. The Scottish team might be left to wallow in its ignorance, but give me ten minutes —live minutes —alone with the Irish team. It only wanted to be told that Scotland was a beaten pack. THE BLACK MAN SPEAKS

I became conscious that the black man was speaking. I answered him, “Yes, what?” but I discovered that he was not speaking to me. He was talking ever so softly to each player in turn, advising them, exhorting them. His face had grown very white and it looked terrible in contrast to his black beard; terrible words issued from his pale lips, unimaginable blasphemies, fantastic obscenities. I thought for an instant of the bored woman, but I had not time to trouble as to whether she heard him or not. For the players of long ago had ceased to look small. They loomed gigantic. There was nothing in the world but them. I was merged in them, ran with them, kicked with them, tasted the mud with them. And then —it was after one of Ireland’s worst stupidities, after a piece of childish fumbling that made me groan—l felt the woman’s arm steal through mine. I was furious with her. At a moment like this! When everything that mattered was at stake! 1 could have struck her. I turned on her ready to pass on some of the obscenities I had just learned, but 1 found she wasn’t looking at me. Her hat was pushed far back on her head, her face was very red and tears were running down her cheeks. Of course, I began to cry, too. At a dentist’s enough gas should be given at a time to extract all the malefactors, and at a football match there should be no half-time, the cessation of strain, the knowledge that it will begin again is too agonising. In the interval the man talked quite calmly and rationally and with a shattering display of technical knowledge, his pessimism had grown deeper. The woman had withdrawn her arm and had retired into her reserve. My feelings during the second hall were entirely different. I gave up the idea that I could teach Ireland anything. Nothing could be done. 1 felt fatalistic. The woman’s arm was through mine and I mechanically and regularly pressed it to show my sympathy. She started to utter little cries, “Oh, oh.” But I was very silent, quite hopeless and despairing, suddenly numb. Stephenson was hurt, was gone. I had expected it. Disaster was inevitable. MANY THINGS There was a sudden roar, perhaps we had scored, perhaps we had increased our lead. It didn’t matter,

the match would go on, Scotland would score. Undoubtedly we would be beaten. And then I thought of many things.. I opened my eyes. There was a tremendous and confused noise all round me. The earth seemed moving, seemed breaking up into little black pieces; every one was standing up, was shouting, pushing. I realised that the match was over. I made my only mistake of the afternoon. I asked the black man who had won. He stared at me. astonishment slowly gave way to contempt. He opened his mouth; 1 waited for the torrent of foul words, but he changed his mind, obviously I was too contemptible and he turned away without answering my question. The woman straightened her hat and disappeared. I had to buy an evening paper. P.S.—Truth compels me to add that I was unable to get a ticket for the match, that I did not see it. But if I had been there everything that I have related would have happened.