Being a Diehard Waikatoite is not a lifestyle choice, a part time occupation or simply something fun to do before you hit the suds in the Tron on a Saturday night. For a true believer it gets in your blood, into your lungs, engulfs your very soul, makes a man feel as if his only worthy purpose in life is to ring the bells while purging himself on the mighty swamp water, before recoilling violently the next day, often regurgitating several Big Bens onto the front lawn in the process. Its far too simplistic to identify a generic Waikato thug as we all come in an array of shapes, sizes, ethnicities, drive various types of V8 and of course possess a vast range of criminal convictions. There are many different models; the Punjabee dairy owner decked out in the latest version of the Waikato strip, some old biddee from Ohaupo in her home knitted Red, Yellow and Black tea cosy. Then there will be the horsey types in moleskins from Cambridge, the bros from Huntly, a rash of mothered students or a ute load of bushmen from the backblocks of Pirongia. Together We are Waikato.
Its not that glamourous being a member of the Waikato bretheren, we dont hit pay dirt as often as those Jaffas or the disciples of the Christchurch Pony Club. Maybe thats what makes the highs so intense, the fact that we are prepared to wait 14 years for each NPC win, although to be fair we do tend to pick up the Log with some form of uniformed regularity several times between each successful cup campaign. Waikato is not a flashy union, the players dont all live in Ponsnoby or Fendalton and spend their downtime sipping lattes. They hail from rural hicksville hamlets such as Morrinsville, Taupiri and Tokoroa, where men are men and beasts are scared. Men of the land, who work all day with chainsaws and cows and dig holes to bury festering bullet ridden carcasses. Waikato players are highly esteemed and accepted members of the community, who actually know what the inside of their clubrooms look like and are even prepared to chew the cud with their loyal supporters on a Saturday night over a Chateau Waikato or three.
I rememer the first time I arrived at Rugby Park, when I heard those mighty bells toll. It was a day I will never forget, September the 27th 1986. Waikato were battling Bucks Shefords uppity mob from Devonport. Twas a must win end of season encounter for both teams, the winner gaining promotion back to the NPC 1st Division. The delapidated old park was packed to the gunnels, heaving with red, yellow and black clad lunatics amidst the heavenly waft of Oxford pies blowing across the park from the from the Fraser Tech end tuck shop engulfing my nasal cavaties. Waikato won this classic encounter with a length of the field try in injury time to Darryl Halligan (sporting a full crop in those days) after the ball changed hands no less that 47 times between Mooloo players in a move that began in their in goal area. The events of this outing began my indoctrination with all things Mooloo.
Over the next twenty years I would visit the park countless times, even playing on it during the odd club semi final, until finally the curtains came down on Rugby Park as we know it for the magnificent erection we now know as Waikato Stadium. In many ways I miss the old Rugby Park, its delapidated rotten bleachers lined with raw gravel underfoot, a scoreboard that looked as if it had been assembled by a blind man in a dark room, and of course the treacherous muddy banks, perfect for pushing Auckland supporters down at opportune moments. I remember the special things about this bygone era of rugby, how there were no restrictions on alcohol consumed or in fact bought into the stadium. I can recall carrying a tray of Waikato cans into a game in the early 90s while the old goat on the gate gave me a wink and a muttered out a "Good on yer son," as I sauntered past him with my sponsored products proudly on display for all to see. I reckon everyone was half cut at the ground back in the day.
Dont get me wrong, Im not so set in my ways that I am unable to embrace or cope with change. I love the new Waikato Stadium particularly the way they the traditional elements of the ground we cherished like The Greenzone and Willies Corporate Box have been retained. The Greenzone is comparable to the iconic mecca of Carisbrook that all and sundry fondly referred to as the terraces. It is a grassy knoll awash with thick diced vomit underfoot, the all too alluring aroma of cannabis sativa littering the airspace and more black supertaper pairs of Levis and steelcap boots than you would find at an ACDC concert. And for the uncouth underclass with no taste whatsever who maybe reading this, I doubt you can comprehend the signifcance and status attached to Willies Box. Quite simply a duck shooting mai mai appeared on the bank at Rugby Park oneday in 97 and it has been a revered and rich part of the fabric of the ground to this very day. The lucky recipients who win tickets to the box are entitled to free mince pies and as a keg of draught for the duration of that weekends home game. Before I shuffle off and pop my clogs, I hope oneday to become one of the chosen few who can put up their hands upon meeting their maker and say with pride to all and sundry, "I watched a game in Willies Box!"
There have been numerous characters who emptomise what Waikato rugby is all about and Im not only talking about the players. We are a special breed. Men like Leigh Cooksley the cranky and miserable Mk II Cortina driving head groundsman who once ordered selector John Hart out of the tunnel during an All Black trial telling him he had no right to be there. Or modern day Waikato icons like Possum (on home leave from the Henry Bennett Centre), who hovers over the eastern end of the stadium during matches in a cherry picker revving up his chainsaw whenever the oppostion are taking kicks at goal. After the game Possums lollie scrambles are legendary, as he biffs sweeties down to brawling children from a height of 15 feet.
I will never tire of sitting back in my seat at the stadium and admiring the sea of different Waikato jersies in attendance at any home game. Some of the jersies are at least ten seasons old but still worn with great pride. Bus loads pour in from the backblocks of Tokoroa, Te Awamutu and Ngaruwahia, full of well lubricated diehards. Many of the cockies have welded their own Mooloo bells together in the barn, they are always more imposing than the piddly little ones on sale in town and with twice the clang.
The Waikato rugby fraternity is a diverse mix of harsh and brutal contrasts. From rural, to professional. From white collar to criminal. Dreads to Baldhead. Every second Saturday night for eighty minutes they come together under a sea of Red, Yellow and Black, they all unite and pool resources together for one common purpose. Its a beautiful thing.
Its not that glamourous being a member of the Waikato bretheren, we dont hit pay dirt as often as those Jaffas or the disciples of the Christchurch Pony Club. Maybe thats what makes the highs so intense, the fact that we are prepared to wait 14 years for each NPC win, although to be fair we do tend to pick up the Log with some form of uniformed regularity several times between each successful cup campaign. Waikato is not a flashy union, the players dont all live in Ponsnoby or Fendalton and spend their downtime sipping lattes. They hail from rural hicksville hamlets such as Morrinsville, Taupiri and Tokoroa, where men are men and beasts are scared. Men of the land, who work all day with chainsaws and cows and dig holes to bury festering bullet ridden carcasses. Waikato players are highly esteemed and accepted members of the community, who actually know what the inside of their clubrooms look like and are even prepared to chew the cud with their loyal supporters on a Saturday night over a Chateau Waikato or three.
I rememer the first time I arrived at Rugby Park, when I heard those mighty bells toll. It was a day I will never forget, September the 27th 1986. Waikato were battling Bucks Shefords uppity mob from Devonport. Twas a must win end of season encounter for both teams, the winner gaining promotion back to the NPC 1st Division. The delapidated old park was packed to the gunnels, heaving with red, yellow and black clad lunatics amidst the heavenly waft of Oxford pies blowing across the park from the from the Fraser Tech end tuck shop engulfing my nasal cavaties. Waikato won this classic encounter with a length of the field try in injury time to Darryl Halligan (sporting a full crop in those days) after the ball changed hands no less that 47 times between Mooloo players in a move that began in their in goal area. The events of this outing began my indoctrination with all things Mooloo.
Over the next twenty years I would visit the park countless times, even playing on it during the odd club semi final, until finally the curtains came down on Rugby Park as we know it for the magnificent erection we now know as Waikato Stadium. In many ways I miss the old Rugby Park, its delapidated rotten bleachers lined with raw gravel underfoot, a scoreboard that looked as if it had been assembled by a blind man in a dark room, and of course the treacherous muddy banks, perfect for pushing Auckland supporters down at opportune moments. I remember the special things about this bygone era of rugby, how there were no restrictions on alcohol consumed or in fact bought into the stadium. I can recall carrying a tray of Waikato cans into a game in the early 90s while the old goat on the gate gave me a wink and a muttered out a "Good on yer son," as I sauntered past him with my sponsored products proudly on display for all to see. I reckon everyone was half cut at the ground back in the day.
Dont get me wrong, Im not so set in my ways that I am unable to embrace or cope with change. I love the new Waikato Stadium particularly the way they the traditional elements of the ground we cherished like The Greenzone and Willies Corporate Box have been retained. The Greenzone is comparable to the iconic mecca of Carisbrook that all and sundry fondly referred to as the terraces. It is a grassy knoll awash with thick diced vomit underfoot, the all too alluring aroma of cannabis sativa littering the airspace and more black supertaper pairs of Levis and steelcap boots than you would find at an ACDC concert. And for the uncouth underclass with no taste whatsever who maybe reading this, I doubt you can comprehend the signifcance and status attached to Willies Box. Quite simply a duck shooting mai mai appeared on the bank at Rugby Park oneday in 97 and it has been a revered and rich part of the fabric of the ground to this very day. The lucky recipients who win tickets to the box are entitled to free mince pies and as a keg of draught for the duration of that weekends home game. Before I shuffle off and pop my clogs, I hope oneday to become one of the chosen few who can put up their hands upon meeting their maker and say with pride to all and sundry, "I watched a game in Willies Box!"
There have been numerous characters who emptomise what Waikato rugby is all about and Im not only talking about the players. We are a special breed. Men like Leigh Cooksley the cranky and miserable Mk II Cortina driving head groundsman who once ordered selector John Hart out of the tunnel during an All Black trial telling him he had no right to be there. Or modern day Waikato icons like Possum (on home leave from the Henry Bennett Centre), who hovers over the eastern end of the stadium during matches in a cherry picker revving up his chainsaw whenever the oppostion are taking kicks at goal. After the game Possums lollie scrambles are legendary, as he biffs sweeties down to brawling children from a height of 15 feet.
I will never tire of sitting back in my seat at the stadium and admiring the sea of different Waikato jersies in attendance at any home game. Some of the jersies are at least ten seasons old but still worn with great pride. Bus loads pour in from the backblocks of Tokoroa, Te Awamutu and Ngaruwahia, full of well lubricated diehards. Many of the cockies have welded their own Mooloo bells together in the barn, they are always more imposing than the piddly little ones on sale in town and with twice the clang.
The Waikato rugby fraternity is a diverse mix of harsh and brutal contrasts. From rural, to professional. From white collar to criminal. Dreads to Baldhead. Every second Saturday night for eighty minutes they come together under a sea of Red, Yellow and Black, they all unite and pool resources together for one common purpose. Its a beautiful thing.
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