In his poem “The Waste Land", T.S.EIIiot wrote “..... April is the cruelest month”. That may be so in the Northern Hemisphere, but during this April I have had my faith restored in some of the standards that I hold dear for sport.
For some time the media has reported incidents that do not reflect well on some sportsmen or administrators, who have been prepared to denigrate the spirit of their sport for publicity and headlines. I was not pleased to read a book by a player in which he made a feature of his immaturity with drink and people of the opposite sex, and at the same time was cruelly critical of his team mates and people in management who had been supportive. Some months earlier, another successful international sportsman wrote in his autobiography that h e had attempted t o injure his captain i n practice.
On Easter Saturday I wandered through the most glorious Cornwall Park, Greenlane, Auckland. Across the busy road the assorted sounds of the Royal Easter Show fought to drown out the incessant drone of traffic. After walking through an avenue of giant Pohutuhawa, my wife and I wandered up the slopes of One Tree Hill. The day was warming up even though there was a heavy dew on the long grass.
From the look-out we spied a host of ‘flannelled fools’ limbering up for the fourth round of the Sovereign 1998 New Zealand National Cricket Cup Championship. Each of the six major provinces were represented by their champion team. One of the players, Heath Davis, had played test cricket, while nine others had played first class cricket.
The Tournament was a gathering of club cricketers, playing in perhaps the most picturesque cricket ground in New Zealand. Each day three games were played against a backdrop of the impressive One Tree Hill. The obelisk pointing to the heavens, the solitary leaning pine, the Poplars, Macracapas and the gnarled Olive trees set against lush green grass.
Easter Monday morning was spent with ten other aging sports fanatics watching the gripping last round of the Masters Golf Tournament from Augusta. The drama and the skill of the participants was wondrous. The reverence that the television production accorded the Tournament, the snippets of past highlights, the appearance of old champions such as Byron Nelson – the interviews with previous winners, made for exceptional viewing.
The smile that adorned the face of the 19 year old amateur Matt Kucher said it all. He was honoured to be playing in this great Tournament. He was respectful to all the professionals playing. He was courteous, polite and he was happy, having so much fun that he couldn’t take the smile off his face.
Earlier in the month I visited The Willows Cricket Ground in Loburn, North Canterbury. In the space of five years an oval has been built that is marginally smaller than the Basin Reserve, with a block containing six pitches where almost 70 games have been played. A superb Pavilion is festooned with cricket memorabilia from all corners of the cricketing world. Even in the middle of a dull autumnal day with only two of us present, you could sense the atmosphere of a special place.
The objectives of The Willows [printed on inside cover] made me think of Matt Kucher and Augusta. I have no doubt that any pupil chosen to play at The Willows would have a smile on his face as warm as Matt Kucher’s if he found himself in a team with the likes of Sir Richard Hadlee, Rod Latham, Paul McEwan, Lee Germon or Chris Harris.
Cornwall Park, Augusta and Loburn – three different parts of the world. Three different stratas, but all three connected by one common thread – the true spirit of their sport. The surroundings, the people, the history, the respect, enjoyment and love of the game, safe guarding the future.