THE FALLING OF A MIGHTY TOTARA

Press, 29 July 1978, Page 12

THE FALLING OF A MIGHTY TOTARA

Not all the great rugby players in New Zealand are the metropolitan gladiators performing in a vast concrete arena before huge crowds. GRAHAM HUTCHINS writes of his trilogy of rugby heroes; illustrations by PAUL CLARKSON. Ill: FRED BEAST, part one.

The third chaiacter in this trilogy of rugby greats is a player whose prospect, of making his mark in the game were about as unlikely as those of Cedric Head and Allister McAllister. While he possessed in manifold form the physical attributes the other two lacked, he suffered such a deprived childhood there seemed little likelihood of him succeeding in any field.

His mother named him Fred after his father, who apparently deserted the family during a flashflood. but young Freddie was called anything from “baby-face” to “killer” depending on the circumstances. His surname of Beast probably had a lot to do with it, but it seems safer to assume his un-

complimentary nicknames owed their origins to either his youthful mental age or somewhat violent temperament. At one stage he was labelled “babybasher” which appeared to honour both his youthful mental age and somewhat violent tendencies.

Little Freddie Beast was an early developer and at the age of eight already tipped the scales at 70kg. This unusual physical development was all the more unusual because the other 18 children in his family were decidedly scrawny, and indeed several spent periods in health camps to build them up to acceptable proportions. Rumour at that stage had it that young Freddie was the product of a fleeting union between his well-intentioned but reputedly wayward mother and a veritable slab of a man who wandered through the town during the dark days of the depression. This unconfirmed assertion of

course burnt Fred’s ears many times during his younger years and added fuel to his already short fuse.

At school Fred was a behavioural problem. His disruptive pursuits were so numerous the school councillor eventually coined the term “Beastism” when referring to misbehaviour with a violent bent. He would have been officially expelled if he had been even an average attender. However, there was no need for the school administrators to consider such action for Fred at the age of 10 was already working seven days a week on his uncle’s farm.

In fact, Fred received no secondary education at all which was probably a

blessing to the local college authorities for he now weighed 110 kg and was all but out of control. The only thing that prevented him from running totally amok was hard physical labour and luckily for everyone, solid graft appeared to agree with him. Perhaps it was the isolation on the farm where he was out of reach of the niggling swarms of tactless brats who were his school colleagues. Whatever it was, it certainly acted as a stabilising influence on his young life. It is true lie still had his bad moments and once when his uncle bawled him o’it for swimming in

the house water supply tank, he promptly put his head in his aunt’s oven. His suicidal gesture was doomed to failure due to the fact that it was an electric oven. And a fairly sophisticated one at that. Apparently the rotisserie device began rotating immediately and when Fred finally managed to extricate his head, not only were his ear lobes beginning to melt, but he was not quite sure which way was up for some little time.

Due to the rigours of the outdoor life, Fred unwittingly converted his 110 kg of lard into UOkg of unyielding muscle and because he stood a shade obrt 183 cm he presented a more than substantial figure. It was only his

somewhat _ bulbous head with its generous forehead and occasionally rolling eyes that belied any slight abnormality. The fact that he was a little below par intellectually would not be revealed through speech for in an area of "men of few words,” Fred was a man of no words. He could speak, of course, but preferred to limit his statements to grunts, grimaces and sundry jerks of his granite-cased head. Fred’s first encounter with the rugby world was spectacular. One day at the beginning of the 1955 season, a group of players from one of the local rugby clubs were out pac-

ing the back road in an attempt to break through the initial layers of summer fat. One of these back roads formed the western boundary of Fred’s uncle’s farm and Fred just happened to be tearing totara stumps out of the ground with his bare hands as the wheezing road-runners stumbled past. One of the rugby types spluttered that the big bastard over the fence would go well in the rucks if the way he was disposing of those stumps was anything to go by. The others grunted agreement and forged onward sending high kicks up in the air as a spur to their defiant bodies. The chances of Fred becoming involved in rugby might have ended

there and then had one of the runners not effected such a high kick that the leather became • lodged in the struts of one of the power poles lining the road. While his sweating companions huddled beneath the offending pole the perpetrator of the predicament jumped the fence and approached Fred, hoped to receive some local advice im solving the problem. On hearing of the situation, Fred rolled his eyes, grunted and strode meaningfully towards the knot of players, some of whom had collapsed among the ferns that lined the road. Those remaining at the base of the pole stepped

aside with an agility that belied their dehydrated condition when they saw Fred approaching them. Even at the age of 16 he appeared to be twice their size, which was probably the case.

After gazing intently up at the firmly-wedged ball for a number of minutes, Fred suddenly began scaling the pole, while a murmur born of awe and sheer surprise, emanated from the loose maul at the base of the pole. Some had earlier suggested that a turnip or similar missile be hurled at the ball. Another had even suggested borrowing a shotgun and discharging that at the stubborn leather. Certainly no-one had considered Fred’s course of action possible. The fact that the pole had been found to be less than secure, precluded in everyone’s mind the prospect of retrieving the ball by Fred’s direct but somewhat. foolhardy method.

Not that anyone mentioned the fact for they no doubt feared they would be branded unwilling to scale the heights and, therefore windy. Perhaps this was why no-one attempted to stop Fred. However, it seemed more likely that Fred’s directness plus the fact that he was twice as big and ugly as anyone else which enabled him to slip through the screen.

Whatever the reason, Fred had by now sidled crab-like up to the top of the pole and was in the process of working the ball loose with his free hand. An uneasy cheer went up from the players as they saw the ball begin to move from its wooden stranglehold, but this was soon replaced by an anguished roar as the pole listed crazily towards the Steep bank which shelved

away sharply from the road’s edge. In unison the players advised in hysterical tones that Fred’s best course of action would be to jump into the thick clump of fern and bracken which lay in his direct descent path. However, their calls went unheeded, for with a mighty crack, the pole dislodged completely and with Fred clinging firmly to its girth like the sea captain to a sinking ship, it disappeared like a tossed caber over the bank.

Has Beast gone to ground, or under it? Will he only stalk an ethereal footy field? The answer on Wednesday.