posted by Tim Turner - 04/04/2008
Taneatua’s not what you would describe as Tourist Town, Aotearoa. In fact, its very presence in the Eastern Bay of Plenty isn’t even acknowledged by Transit New Zealand’s signage division until the town itself has come into view across a scruffy flannel of farmland that even the local sheep seem to have turned their daggy backsides on.
Taneatua, 1km, the sign proclaims. It’s a genuine afterthought. Long gone, it would seem, are the days of the Taneatua Express (twice a week from Auckland). Roger Douglas put paid to that when he blindsided his own Labour Government and cajoled them into selling off the railways. Until then Taneatua at least had the distinction of being the end of the line. Now, unfortunately, that phrase is employed purely as metaphor.
The locals though - those raised here on the edge of Tuhoe country, in the gateway to the Ureweras - like to recall a time when Taneatua thrived. It may be an optimistic description applicable only through the lens of time and decline, but nevertheless, they’re proud of their town in Taneatua, and they’re just as proud of their rugby club.
And so they should be.
On Easter Weekend the Taneatua Rugby Club celebrated 100 years, and I was privileged to be there to enjoy a day of festivities, fables and folklore in this wonderful, if a tad forgotten, little town.On Good Friday, I had been in Christchurch for the Super 14 clash between the Crusaders and the Waratahs, standing on the sideline watching names like Carter, McCaw, Waugh, and Tuqiri. On Saturday I stood on the sideline at Taneatua Domain watching the local seniors take on Ruatoki. Both experiences proved equally as enjoyable.
In Christchurch, some of the most recognisable players in the world were on display. In Taneatua, you’d be lucky to find a player recognised outside his home valley. However, it certainly didn’t matter to the fans sitting on bonnets, under sun umbrellas, or on couches brought to the ground from the farm shed. These were their boys, and they loved watching them play.
A few weeks ago I received a copy of the NZRU’s three-year Community Rugby Plan. Club development is priority 3, and this is the introduction:“Club Rugby is part of the fabric of New Zealand society. Every Saturday, family members and loyal supporters gather on the sidelines to cheer players of all levels. After the final whistle, players and supporters crowd into clubrooms to socialise and swap stories of the battles just fought or witnessed. These activities and rituals are a vital part of our communities.”
A hot and dusty Saturday in Taneatua brought those words to life.
Parking was no problem – you just found a spot on the sideline and drove on up; there were no hot dog vendors and beer tents – you grabbed a big bot of Waikato Draught from the clubroom bar and a feed of corn beef, ham and mutton with buttered bread, salad and peas from the ladies in the kitchen; there was no pre-match entertainment, or other such distraction (unless you count conversation and a laugh with your mates as build-up).
The players arrived in their friends’ cars, finished their durries, threw on their club guernsey and ran onto the paddock.
On the field the referee laughed with the players, and let the game flow. Every single tackle resonated around the domain and every hard landing was accompanied by a rising cloud of dust from the rock hard turf. The sun was unrelenting, as was the physicality of the match. There were great hits and lots of huffing and puffing. A guy drove his bus over the dead ball line and pulled out a deck chair. He obviously was rather keen to get in on the action.
You could smell manuka oil and late summer pollen, and a waft of cheap liniment. Picnic blankets adorned the domain, and kids ran around the number two field with a ball and beat each other up. Young mums pushed younger kids around in hand-me-down prams. Old diggers huddled about in groups commenting on the current crop of seniors and the fact the club once again boasted an under-19 team. The ladies kept on cooking in the kitchen.
After the match the boys hit the showers (the ablutions used to consist of a trough, I was reliably informed by Brother Symans) and made their way into the club house. The backs were kicked out of the corner of the bar – only the tight five get to stand there. Other players sat down together and had a beer with their friends and family, and even the referee made a speech.
That night 320 former players and club members were attending a gala dinner in a massive marquee set up outside the club. They had come back to this little corner of the Bay from as far away as the UK and the USA. They had come back because each and every one of them had fond memories of being involved with a little country club that provides a jaded town with its heart and soul.
There are plenty of people out there who are convinced rugby’s going to hell in a handcart at the moment and there’s no shortage of constructive advice for the NZRU.
Tony Veitch even suggested today on his breakfast radio show that we get rid of the Highlanders, which just shows the standard of debate.
But the great thing is this: when you tire of the marketing, the promotion, the bright lights, big city footy, the stadium food, the security, the pre-match entertainment, the new rules, the end of cover defence, the player exodus, the scrum resets, the early start to the Rebel Sport Super 14, the lack of covered seats in the middle of winter, the atrocious price of a pie, the atrocious price of a ticket, the fact we can’t keep 20 professional rugby teams afloat, the blah blah blah blah blah blah blah, ad infinitum, ad nauseam, when you get tired of all that, put down your newspaper, turn off your talkback, pack up the kids and the thermos and a picnic lunch, and go back to your rugby club for an afternoon. You might just remember – like I did on Saturday - why you fell in love with this game in the first place. So here’s to the town of Taneatua.
The train may have stopped coming, but the rugby never died.
Story courtesy of www.skysport.co.nz
