Boys always want heroes. When I entered the third form at Rongotai College, Wellington in 1971, I was no different. The sixth and seventh formers seemed to us as men. Far removed and usually commanding instant respect. We quickly identified our own heroes among them. Mine was Clive Currie. He was two years ahead of me. Clive was immediately likeable and very popular. He was multi-talented, always calm under pressure, and someone of great integrity. Clive won the award for the best all-round sixth former. A year later he was Head Prefect, captain of the First XI cricket team and of the First XV.
Cricket was already my obsession. As a gangly fourth former I struggled to flight my ungainly leg spinners into the Wellington northerly. Leg spinning, in those pre-Shane Warne days, was something of an oddity. Before my mid-teen growth spurt I could really turn the ball. I remember endless evenings at the Kilbirnie park nets, supervised by Don Neely and Trevor Rigby. Once, I bowled five of my best leg spinners in a row to Clive. A left hander, he carefully patted them onto the on-side. As he came down the wicket to hit the sixth, my embryonic “wrong-un” bit and turned the other way, leaving Clive stranded yards down the wicket. He gave the slightest nod of acknowledgement. Nobody else saw it. But I felt real pride. Mind you, I wasn’t always so lucky. Bruce Edgar, also a fellow pupil at Rongotai College and a year ahead of me, told me in a similar situation that if I continued to bowl at him on leg stump he would hit me out of the ground. To my next delivery he did exactly that. Not only did it leave the park, but it also crossed Kilbirnie Crescent and landed on the second storey verandah of an apartment block on the corner of Wellington Road. Even today, when I drive home from Wellington airport, I look at that verandah. And I remember the bemused look of the elderly woman when she opened the door of her apartment and I asked if I could retrieve my cricket ball.
On another occasion, in a First XI trial match, I dropped a straight forward “skier” at mid on. The worst fielders are hidden there – it’s a position Monty Pannesar made his own for England. Most of the team collapsed with laughter. There was nowhere to hide. Clive was bowling. He simply nodded in my direction, said it could have happened to anyone and returned to the start of his run up.
In 1973, Clive was selected for the New Zealand Secondary Schools’ cricket team. The next year, Bruce Edgar and Ian Smith (who had attended Rongotai College in his third and fourth form years) were also selected, followed by my friend Peter Rowe in 1976. The just over 1,000 Rongotai College pupils all came from fiercely working and middle class families. Parents made huge sacrifices for their sons. We were encouraged academically and in sport. I often ponder why so many nationally prominent sportsmen (including the Rufer brothers) were produced from such a small part of Wellington’s Eastern suburbs.
Clive continued to excel at cricket. We always thought he would soon become what is now called a “Black Cap”. And while he did represent Wellington at an early age (21) he only played three first class matches, all in 1977, with an inconspicuous average of 14.75. I admit it—I am a sick man: cricket statistics have always fascinated me. It is worth noting that Clive’s highest score, 36 not out, was made on debut against Canterbury in January 1977 at Lancaster Park, against an attack comprising no less than Sir Richard Hadlee (as he then wasn’t), his brother Dayle, Alan Hounsell, Stephen Boock and Bevan Congdon. Wellington won. And by that time Bruce Edgar was already playing for Wellington.
Clive made his All Black debut in October 1978 against Cardiff, aged 22. All of us who knew him were immensely proud. There was the realisation that All Black status was suddenly not that distant and unattainable. Clive played against London Counties and then made his first international appearance against Ireland.
A week later, just 21 days after his All Black debut, his rugby career ended at Cardiff Arms Park. Eight minutes into that famous Welsh test, Clive, always beautifully balanced and safe under the high ball, fielded an up-and-under in his own twenty five. As he caught the ball, the aggressive Welsh second five Steve Fenwick flew across the TV screen, viciously tackling him head-high, ball and all. It was a tackle that would have put Fenwick on report even if he had been playing Rugby League. And it certainly would not have withstood the modern day citings procedure. A concussed Clive was led shakily from the field, his jaw broken. He was invalided out of the All Black Tour. I don’t think he ever played serious rugby again. Clive was replaced by Brian McKechnie, who kicked a last minute penalty, securing a thrilling 13-12 All Black win. Had it not been for Steve Fenwick’s reckless tackle, it might have been Clive Currie who became immortalised in rugby history. Oh, the fickleness of sporting success and the randomness of career-ending injuries!
What happened to Clive Currie? I don’t know. I lost track of him. That is not the point of this story. For me, and for scores of my mates, Clive fulfilled our collective dream. He proved that it was possible for “one of us” to become representative cricketers and All Blacks.
Thirty-five years later, as I sit as the Principal Youth Court Judge, some things haven’t changed. Boys still seek out role models like heat-seeking missiles. The only issue is who will that role model be? A gang leader? A repeat burglar who heads “missions” with kids in his orbit? That role model could, on the other hand, be an older pupil at secondary school. Someone who has a sound value system which is modelled to boys who come after them. This is part of how boys become responsible adult males. Something, it seems to me, that most serious young offenders in the Youth Court have never experienced.
Equally, what stands out is the lack of “community connectedness”. There is a sign outside Blenheim airport: “A Kid in Sport Stays out of Court”. Trite? Simplistic? Not from my vantage point. Very few serious young offenders are involved in organised sport. Or indeed any form of organised community activity or club. Such involvement provides, as it did for me, much needed team discipline, the pursuit of common goals, good role models and mentors, and connectedness with the community.
For me, there have been other heroes since then of course. As a committed Christian myself, I was always hugely encouraged by the faithful Christian witness of test cricketers such as Bruce (Bags) Murray, Victor Pollard, and Brian Yule in the 1970’s. And then there was the peerless Michael Jones in the 1980s and 90s. All enjoyed significant national and international success, although they never played on a Sunday. If only the young boys I see in the Youth Court had similar heroes and opportunities for involvement in sport.
More recently, my real hero has been my younger brother David. A former captain of the New Zealand Volleyball team, he was involved in a very serious car accident in his early thirties, leaving him severely paralysed on the right side of his body – the result of a life threatening head injury. He is the most competitive and determined person I have ever known. With that same attitude he has fought over the years to cope with his disability with astonishing courage and grace. I respect him as much as any man in the world.
But it was Clive Currie who was my first sporting hero. As I put the full stop to this article, I decided to search the Web. I found that Clive Currie won the men’s doubles championship at the Ngatarangi Tennis Club, at Stanley Point in Auckland with an old South Auckland lawyer friend of mine, Ian Tucker. I suspect Clive could have excelled at many sports. I also noted a recent media release from Westpac Bank, announcing the bank’s partnership with All Black captain Richie McCaw. Towards the end of the release, almost as an after thought, a former- All Black now Westpac private banker, one Clive Currie, is quoted as explaining that amongst other things “...we all know that rugby can be tough on the body...” I suppose few All Blacks would know that better than Clive.