Dominic George: Lessons learned from schoolboy rugby

New Zealand’s Jerome Kaino, left, consoles South Africa’s Tendai Mtawarira after the All Blacks’ 20-18 Rugby World Cup semifinal win at Twickenham Stadium on Sunday. Such acts of good sportsmanship go a long way. Photo / File

I remember Andrew Hore bringing the trophy over for me to have a look at; that was as close to the thing as I'd get. We were both about 18 and had just captained our respective schools in the final of the local first XV competition.

It was a great game, preceded by all the pomp and ceremony that befits an occasion like this as thousands (truly) crowded along the touchlines and behind the in-goals to watch the game. There's feeling in schoolboy rugby - it's palpable.

There were bagpipes and haka, as southern New Zealand's cultural dichotomy took centre-stage and all I wanted to do was play the game. But we need these things. We need a sense of occasion.

We got off to a great start and I even managed to flop over the try-line to get us off to a healthy lead, but the opposition kept in touch with a few penalties.

I remember it being an enjoyable game to play in, full of running and big hits, the reason you play the game in the first place. The lead changed a few times but, when we scored another try in the second half, we felt we had it under control. Then the peculiar and sadistic nature of rugby reared its head in the form of officialdom.

Yes, typically the referee and his touch judges, as they were called back then, felt compelled to stamp their mark lest the players take care of it themselves - perish the thought.

Remember, this was back in the days when rucking was still very much a part of the game. There was nothing more manly and gratifying than comparing battle scars after a hard-fought contest.

One of my University captains was fond of reminding us to get our 'rotary hoes' going if an opponent had the audacity to lie on our side of the ruck. I recall once being pulled through a mass of bodies by nothing other than legs and sprigs, like a tree being pulled through a wood chipper, and spat out the other side sporting scars that wouldn't fade for two years. God I miss rugby.

Anyway, some flag-wielding halfwit got it into his skull that I kicked someone in the head and alerted the referee to this heinous act of violence at the next stoppage in play. I can tell you right now I never kicked anyone in the head; as far as we were concerned, the unwritten rule was the head was a no-go area. That's not to say there wasn't a bit of slipper in there, but it certainly wasn't to the head.

As usual, though, these imbeciles invented something to make themselves feel like they weren't wasting their time standing on a sideline watching someone else's children for the love of it. A bit harsh? Okay ... hey - look at that; I'm over it! So, the referee had no choice but to take the word of his subordinate and send me to the bin. I watched on helplessly as the opposition kicker landed another miracle penalty to send the game into extra time.

We scored our third try in the first period of extra time and I thought, as we all did, the game was in the bag. But, as can happen in rugby, keeping the scoreboard ticking over in multiples of three counts just as much as scoring tries. Some argue it shouldn't - what sort of justice would it have been had the Springboks kicked a late penalty in the weekend for a one-point win, despite the All Blacks scoring the only two tries of the game? Harsh, but ultimately fair. And that's what unfolded - we had the lead for most of the game, but they kept in touch on the scoreboard and waited for us to make a mistake before pouncing; we duly obliged. A cock-up from a kick-off presented an opponent with one of the easiest tries he was ever likely to score - under the posts as well, just for a little salt in the wound, and they ended up winning by two points.

To lose like that was gut-wrenching but I only have two abiding memories after the final whistle was blown: one was Hore bringing the trophy over in the tunnel afterwards, the other was looking over to our crowd of stunned supporters and seeing one solitary person clapping away heartily and sporting a grin that lit up half the ground - our principal.

I learned a few lessons that day: one, the better team doesn't always win: two, referees are generally despicable creatures; and three, when it's all said and done there's no substitute for good sportsmanship. I wonder how many we'll see on display this weekend?