Second Time Around: I Could Have Been an All Black
By: Bruce Lightfoot
“Only two things kept me out of the All Black Squad. Lack of talent, and training.”
We all had our chance at rugby fame and fortune. Some peaked in high school, scoring tries in big games, between one rival high school or another.
I peaked much earlier.
In primary school to be exact. Well, I was in primary school, and played for a local club, as all boys did in the 1960’s in the Waikato. There were only two sports to play, rugby for the boys and netball for the girls. Still, we got our exercise. I was a stocky lad, so was put in the forwards, prop or lock. I preferred prop, since your ears didn’t get rubbed off as they did as a lock. And I wasn’t particularly fast off the side of the scrum, so they boys ruled me out of loose forward. Anyway, bare feet, frosty grounds, every Saturday, we all played footy.
My claim to fame came one weekend when I went to stay at a mate’s place for the weekend, and they were off to a scout jamboree. So I was chucked in the back of the car with the rest of the kids and off we went. I watched all the goings on, as they tied knots and climbed ropes and generally hung out having fun. Then one of the fathers ran up and said,
“Can you play rugby? We have a game about to start and we are one short.”
I never gave up a chance to play footy, or bull rush for that matter.
“Sure, I can play. I play prop.” (I didn’t want to get stuck at lock again.)
“We got plenty of forwards; we will put you on the wing. Come on.”
Well, I had never played on the wing, but I knew the position well enough. Regardless, I was nervous. Still, I wasn’t about to miss a chance to play, so off we went.
I spent nearly the whole game out on that cold lonely wing, as the forwards rumbled around the park fighting for the ball. It came out a couple of times, but I was crunched pretty quickly, and had to endure two sets of forward packs kicking their way overtop my body looking for the ball.
Anyway, fast forward to the near end of the game, and we were on attack, near their goal line. The ball came out, passed between the backs, and finally…to me. For some reason, there was no one marking me so I started running as fast as I could to the try line, holding the ball under my arm tightly. It was probably luck, but the cover defence didn’t get to me until I hit the line. About three of them, plus the rest of the forwards came late thinking it would be a ruck. No Jeff Wilson mistake for me, I held on tightly to the ball until the referee started pulling bodies off me to see who was at the bottom of the pile. He saw me, saw the ball, and blew his whistle. I had scored. Next thing I knew, people were patting me on the back, and then lifting me up. The game was over, we won. I had scored the winning try. I was the hero.
I couldn’t wait to tell my club mates the following weekend and put in my case to be our normal winger. But they didn’t believe me, and put me back on the forwards. My glory days were over, I was only about ten years old, but I have never forgotten them.