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But then we changed our mind, and asked his wife Linda Burgess to write whatever she wanted about rugby. A rugby game lasts a whole day. Your father wears a gaberdine raincoat and takes the family to the rugby grounds in New Plymouth. Rugby Park. You have to get there early to get a good spot on the terraces. Dad is on his feet. Tackle him low! Bacon and egg pie?
There were probably Minties. There is a mass of other rugby orphans. Towards the end of Robin Hood a vast printed page briefly overtakes the screen. The feet of those among us who can read drum excitedly. We have won. We have kept The Shield. But We is a shallow word now. In Taranaki We work on the local farms, in the freezing works, teach in the local schools.
We have surnames that I recognise. Our friends have a car radio. I go down to Wellington to watch a test match and my friend Sue and I call in on Robert at his hotel.
Partway through the game someone is knocked out and lies on the ground, so flat he can hardly be seen. They put him on a stretcher and cover him with a blanket. I scream. It sounds odd even to me, that scream. Make way for Mrs Burgess. The next day at the hospital his bed is surrounded by men in white coats with stethoscopes around their necks. We have our photo in the paper; me at his bedside. The papers make quite a thing of the fact that several of the Lions have visited him in hospital.