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The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 12, Issue 5 (August 2, 1937)

Football Facts And Fancies

page 52

Football Facts And Fancies

A Springbokian Spruik.

It is safe to say that New Zealand has donned psychological shorts and a spiritual football jersey. Its heart is a palpitating leather oval and its metaphysical feet are stowed in the studded boots of the modern Mercury whose motto is “a kick in time saves nine.” The thunder of the gods in acrimonious altercation on Olympus is as the growling of baby bears when compared with the exhortatory emotiveness of the champions of our leather-lambasters.

For national honour has been challenged by the sons of the sprightly Springbok. The shade of the mighty moa has risen from osseous extinction to crow a clarion cry of defiance over the field of football. Estimating one moa to equal three Springbok forwards, this ought to mollify our morale and take some of the spring out of the Springbok.

Patriotic Patter.

National pride, tradition, patriotism, demand that New Zealand uphold, with foot and mouth, the pride and prowess of all All-Blacks, past, present and yet on the bottle.

Patriotism! There are more brands of this superlative sentiment than there are of breakfast foods, psychology, floor-cleaners, peace-panaceas and ladies' head-gear. The chief patriotisms are national, territorial, parochial, local and personal. Their expression may be through shirts or shorts, jamborees or jerseys, killings or kilts, cheers or cheese, batter or butter. The Eskimo's emblem may be a frozen fish, the Hottentot's the tom-tom's tintinnabulation, the American's the Statue of Liberty or the statistics of lubra-cancy, the English, Commerce recumbent on a field of soccer; the French a franc frisky on the Bourse; the German and Italian, shirts and shouts— and so on ad noiseous.

Parochial patriotism may centre round the village petrol pump, personal patriotism may fructify in pumpkins or progeny, piano-playing or pigs.

Pig-skin Patriotism.

For patriotism is pride and pride, like ivy and adenoids, cannot prosper without something upon which to fasten. Thus it is that, within the mild oleaginous skin of Farmer Filigree's superlative porker, there reposes the fierce patriotism of a sturdy son of the soil. Unwitting of the torch of one man's faith and pride she bears this unconscious porkine patriot exhibiting her unblemished bodywork at agricultural shows—a champion and—yea!—the champion of one man's personal patriotism.

Pride of Progeny.

And thus, also, doth little Sebastian—all unsuspecting—keep alight within the tempestuous temple of his torso, the torch of parental patriotism. Neighbours may avidly favour the application of torches (or even blowlamps) to little Sebastian's exterior, but there are two beings who see within him the unflickering flame of their joint faith and pride—patriotism!

Pumpkins and Passion.

There are lesser men who give expression to the pride of place and possession in gargantuan growths above and below the soil. A colossal carrot or a preternatural pumpkin may mean to them what the “fleur de lys” means to Joan of Arc or a well-aimed lump of English soil meant to Queen Boa-dicea—patriotism! Just Patriotism! Something upon which to fasten the pangs of faith, something to exemplify personal pride, something of which to say, “Alone I grew it,” or “My child,” “My country,” “My pumpkin”!

“Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton.”

“Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton.”

A husky, healthy human sentiment—unless it grows aggressive and seeks to manifest itself in feats of arms. To cultivate a pumpkin that is kin to a pump in size and aquosity is a harmless development of ego, but to burst the said pumpkin over your neighbour's dome because he can't see in it the white flame of a splendid ideal is tantamount to an attack of the woofits.

page 53

Football for Peace.

But, as a vehicle for transporting passionate patriotism hither and whence, as a valve for blowing off the surplus steam of pride, football is supreme. By the time a game is ended in friendly mud, blood and bruises, the only sentient sentiment left is the desire to park the personal pronoun on something deep and downy.

If football were more plentiful than diplomacy there would be less war. It has been asserted that Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton. It's a great pity it wasn't. Had it been decided by football instead of cannon ball, by warm leather instead of cold steel, by booting instead of shooting, the face of History might have grown less grim. A report of the game might have read like this:

History at Eton.

“A hard, but clean and friendly game was played on the Playing Fields of Eton between The Iron Duke's Own and Bonaparte's Battlers. The Iron Duke's men looked fit and determined, but Bonaparte's battlers appeared slightly stale after a long campaign on the football fields of Europe. Bonaparte kicked off with the wind behind him and the Battlers opened with a smart attack by the front rankers. But the Duke's team remained steady and defended with deadly tackling and kicking. After fifteen minutes of stubborn attack Bonaparte snapped up the ball at half way and made a smart dash for the Iron Duke's line but was smartly grounded by Blucher. At half time there was no score. In the second half the Iron Duke's red jerseys attacked with spirit and ‘the thin red line’ proved irresistible. Bonaparte's Battlers played determinedly but were out-manoeuvred by the Duke's men. Two minutes before the final whistle the Iron Duke received the ball out of the ruck and dived over the line. The try was converted by the redoubtable Blucher and a spectacular game ended in a win for the home team by five points. The crowd surged onto the ground and, amidst the wildest enthusiasm carried both the Iron Duke and Bonaparte shoulder-high off the field. At a convivial gathering in the evening the Duke toasted the Battlers and complimented them on a splendidly sporting exhibition. Bonaparte, replying, said that the better team had won but he hoped that next year his Battlers would be able to reverse the decision. A happy evening terminated with a chorus of ‘ On the ball,’ sung to the combined tunes of ‘Rule Britannia’ and ‘The Marseillaise.’”

“The League of Nations would be a referee's retreat, and Geneva a place where nations could kick as much as they liked, and no harm done.”

“The League of Nations would be a referee's retreat, and Geneva a place where nations could kick as much as they liked, and no harm done.”

There you are! If this had been thus, Bonaparte, instead of dying on St. Helena, might have lived to play at Olympia.

Geneva Without Bitters.

If the only battle-fields were football fields, Nationalism, Patriotism and all the other “isms” that simmer in the souls of nations, would be dissipated in the inspiration and perspiration of the football field. The League of Nations would be a referee's retreat, Geneva would be a place where nations could kick as much as they liked and no harm done. Stalin's Ogpushers and the Hitler-Mussolini fifteen would decide their differences and achieve their goals with boot and ball instead of blood and broil. All would be well with the world, and there would be no bitters in Geneva.

Africa Calling.

This is the spirit in which we gird up our slacks, tighten our kicking-straps and prepare to defend our patriotism against the friendly invasion of the Springbokian sprinters and seventeen-stoners. In our secret places, where the religion of Rugby is practised as a holy rite, the flawless flower of our football fields are pushing down brick walls, tackling charging steam-rollers, practising the cult of celerity in all its branches and generally preparing to defend our honour and glory with the oragious oval of bull's skin. There will be no moaning at the bar if we go down to Davy Jones. But there will be much “shouting” and tossing of the tocsin should we prove that we are even better than we suspected. “Up boys and at 'em!”

The Play's The Thing!”

The Play's The Thing!”