Roger Moroney: Cheers, a tribute to one top cop

I think taking on a challenge is good for the spirit. And taking on a spirit is certainly a challenge ... as it was 30 years ago for myself and a couple of other lads who took the afternoon off work to whip over to see the Springboks play the Maori at McLean Park.
Although aware of the evil, clear-cut, black and white issue within the politics of South Africa at that time, I did like footy and wanted to see the Bok players take on the good men and true who their governmental masters would essentially not have a bar of.
And I wanted to see those good men and true in their black strip break the hearts of the greens. Prove a sort of point.
It was rugby, and I wanted to see it. So we bought tickets and went.
Blocked off streets, police absolutely everywhere and barbed wire being trucked into the ground to create a ringside fence.
Gate security, suffice to say, was at its stringent peak.
The signs said it, as did the public notices.
Any bag would be searched. You could take nothing in there ... nothing.
We also heard they'd be frisking anyone who looked like their winter jacket could be concealing anything.
"So how do we get the grog in?" one of the boys mused the day before.
We ruled out digging a tunnel - there wouldn't be time.
We discussed the "wooden horse" approach ... smuggling it in past the security and police lines under the guise of something else.
That too wasn't really a goer as they weren't letting anything in. Bottle of "soft drink"? - forget it.
Nothing would be let through.
It was a wonderful challenge and we achieved it through absolute simplicity.
It cost us about $1 to get in three of those hip-flask sized bottles - each a mixture of rum and a little cola.
To take the edge of the chill, you understand.
We got to the gate and were asked if we were carrying anything.
"No," we said.
But one of the security guys (who figured he was on to us) spotted the bulge in the coat pocket of one of my companions and demanded to see what he had. He pulled out a bottle of soft drink.
"It's only cola," he insisted.
No can take in, the man in the spectacular jacket snorted, and took it off us.
We asked if we could buy drinks in there, and were told yes.
So we acted grumpy, someone said "fair enough, I suppose" and we went in.
But tucked inside our belts, at our backs and obscured by jackets, were little flasks of jolly juice.
We had seats at ground level on temporary seating set up in front of the late McKenzie Stand.
Good spots, despite the top of the curling razor wire just entering our views of the field.
Equipped with sauce-smothered hot dogs, programmes and growing anticipation of a classic game, we settled in.
As for refreshments, we figured we'd wait until after kick-off because then the attention of those around us would be on the game.
Which proved to be correct ... although we had not anticipated the policing factor. Police officers, well-equipped and looking rather serious, were stationed right around the perimeter of wire ... at about 5m or 6m intervals.
And there was one directly in front of us.
Just 7m or 8m away, and with clear, and in the circumstances obvious, instructions to face the crowd.
This officer scanned the faces of the throng, watchful and looking for anything that might indicate trouble.
We watched the kick-off and roared when the Maori made a surging run up the middle.
The police officer did not flinch ... the gaze remained strictly ahead.
"There were yells of "you're missing a great game, mate!" and "give us a smile" but the officer stood firm and staunch.
"To hell with this," one of the lads said and he simply reached behind him, pulled the rum bottle out, unscrewed the cap and took a swig.
"What are they going to do ... throw us out?"
So I took my little bottle out and had a snort.
Soon we all were, and casually sat there, cheering and roaring for the Maori boys, with small bottles of what was clearly dark rum in our hands.
We must have been spotted, but we got through half-time unscathed and, with about seven of eight minutes to go, only a few sips remaining of our smuggled booty, one of the boys held it up. "Fancy a drink?" he asked, to general amusement around us.
And we saw the very slightest of smiles and an equally slight shake of the head. Top officer.
Roger Moroney is an award-winning journalist for Hawke's Bay Today and observer of the slightly off-centre.