Saturday mornings are protected in our house. Sacrosanct. Nothing gets in the way of Saturday morning sport. Nothing. Not even the weather if I had it my way.
Some of my most vivid and fond memories growing up are playing rugby for Takapuna as a boy and young teenager, and then in the First XV at Westlake Boys’ High School. (Last year, Westlake won the World Schools Festival at the Pattana Sports Resort in Thailand, so you could say it’s No 1 in the world.)
One of my worst memories as a boy was hearing on the radio that the game had been cancelled because of the weather. No phones or messaging apps back then. I recall being huddled around the radio waiting for trusty old 1ZB’s ground cancellation notifications.
A cancellation was so deflating. Now what? I’d be asking myself. Our Saturdays were based around rugby. My game in the morning; off to Eden Park in the afternoons. Then driving home, dad and I would listen to Murray Deaker’s take on it on ZB then watch the replay - delayed coverage - when we got home. Okay, I’ll be honest; I did wonder if that was entirely necessary at times.
If it wasn’t Eden Park, then it was to Onewa Domain to watch club rugby because those were the days when All Blacks turned out for their clubs; when kids had autograph books and they’d let us run on to the field afterwards to get the signatures of our favourite players.
Sunday was the day people went to church, but we’d already practised our religion the day before.
It’s still that way, despite all the massive changes to our society. Some things are too ingrained and too big to lose. For me, that’s Saturday sport.
It’s been pretty obvious this week how seriously I take rugby - and truth is thousands of others are just like me, I imagine. I’ve had a pretty public dust-up with King’s College over them playing older ineligible boys against my son’s Mt Albert Grammar U14s team last week. Did I hold back in my podcast? No way. Turns out King’s was sorry in the end, calling it a “genuine mistake”. But boys have birth dates, and schools and teams know the rules. The principals of both schools agreed the King’s win would be scrubbed and Mt Albert got the points. Silly from King’s, who claim it was just one boy for one half. He scored two tries and was the difference.
Hundreds of thousands of young New Zealanders – from five to 18 - still turn up each weekend to slug it out in their chosen sport. It’s where we’re at our best but conversely – sadly – also where we can be at our worst.
Our best is when we make lifelong friends; I’ve done that through rugby. But our worst is when, often as parents, we yell abuse at referees and match officials as well as the opposing team. That’s when we need to pause, to stop taking it all so seriously and letting emotion get the better of us.
Not every young rugby player is going to make the All Blacks. Truth is more than 99% won’t and that’s just how it is. But it’s still great to hold on to a dream; I still get a buzz when I see new All Blacks named for the first time. So innocent and naïve, not yet affected by the “spin machine”.
We had an All Black in our family. My Uncle Andy (Dalton) captained the ABs. As a young rugby mad lad, having an All Blacks captain around the family events, I thought was just beyond cool.
Now, years after I played, rugby and Saturday sport is still vital. In fact, Saturday starts on Friday at our place when my 13-year-old and I start talking about and preparing for the game. What does he think he needs to improve on? What did he do well last week?
My dad always told me to think about the game, whatever that meant, and “get involved” he’d always say.
Anyway on the way home, my lad and I stop to buy tape, spare mouthguard, more tape and some extra tape in case he finds himself short of tape. There’s the cold spray, and muscle rub too, so I’m doing my bit for retail.
We get home, take it easy, clean his boots and he asks for a rub down as it’s usually tight calves, sore hamstrings and tired eyes. It’s the same old story every Friday. I remind him he should detach himself from his phone, get a good night’s sleep because when he wakes it’s Saturday and that’s game day.
We’ve waited all week for this. All those training sessions, all that prep, all that talk and now it comes down to just 60 minutes once a week.
He played league until two years ago, now he’s the captain of the Mt Albert Grammar Under 14A rugby side. Great bunch of young men, a few tight losses, lots of talent and come Saturday anything can happen and it usually does.
These times are special times. Embrace them and enjoy them. They’re finite. Don’t lose your cool, our kids hate that. Just be there for them and offer advice until there’s pushback, I suppose.
Let them enjoy it for as long as possible. The distraction - work, booze, girls, boys, cars, higher education – will come soon enough. That’s what my dad told me from when I was about 16. He said if I wasn’t careful, I’d get a girlfriend and drink booze and rugby would come second. (I always wondered if he meant rugby would be third and if so what was second? But I thought better of it.)
In hindsight, he was right. Probably.
For us parents, watching from the sidelines, Saturday morning is our step back in time. I hope my lad and his team will play well, have fun and, yes, win. If you train hard, put time and energy into something, and treat it seriously then winning it a big part of it but learn from your mistakes.
Winners are grinners - and life is better when you’re happy.
Life goes quickly. You don’t get to play it again; it’s not a dress rehearsal or curtain-raiser, so kids, go hard, for however long you’re on the field. Empty the tank, go hard, and leave it all out there on the park. You’re only young once. Trust me, it all tightens up and stops working pretty quickly afterwards.
So, hang on to Saturdays - they’re still sacrosanct in our house. And I hope they always will be.
