BY AIR MAIL

Manawatu Times, Volume 61, Issue 11, 14 January 1936, Page 5

BY AIR MAIL

ABOUT THE ALL . BLACKS WHO IS THE BEST BACK? DAILY TELEGRAPH’S COMMENT Mr. V. R. Meredith, the All Blacks' manager, and Mr. S. S. Dean, who was in charge of the 1924 team, were fcotk taking tt busman’s holiday at the ’Varsity match on Tuesday, Howard Marshall tells me, says the Rugby writer of tee Daily Telegraph. And very cold they looked in that bitter wind. They are great enthusiasm, but Mr. Meredith, I fancy, is not altogether sorry that the tour is comiug to an end,

Few people realise the strain entailed in managing a touring team —the letters that have to be written, the arrangements, the decisions that have to be made.

Strain of Travel. And on top of all that the travelling itself is no light matter. The New Zealand playcre. have told me many times how tired they are of the long train journeys and the constant shifting from one hotel to another, I cannot help feeling that much of this travelling is unnecessary. Why must they make two journeys to Scotland, for example? Who not arrange all their Scottish fixtures together? And need they play quite so many matches in Wales! Who is Best?

It was at luncheon before the 'Varsity match, incidentally, that an argument developed about the respective merits of the New Zealand backs. A famous Scottish international said that in his opinion E. L. Griffiths, tee first five-eight, is the best footballer of the lot.

Others voted for C. J. Oliver, and others again for 0. F. Hart, the wing. I doubt at any rate whether any ol the present players can hold a candle to Mark Nicholls of the 1924 team. On one point, though, we were all agreed. New Zealand have never sent us a better scrum half than little B. S. (“Joey”) Sadler.

R. G. DEANS, NEW ZEALAND , (By an Opponent.) One fights shy of Rugger lays In these namby-pamby days, When British sides get drubbed by

Maorilanders. And the tale of dreadful rout Which our visitors served out Is just enough to raise good patriots’ “dander.” Now in the stalwart group That put us “in the soup”— The stuff you never see in soup-tureens The finest man I knew Of all that All Black crew Was that rollicking six-footer, R. G.

Deans. It was “Deans, Deans, Deans!”

The Maorilanders playing like machines. When the leather was heeled out, You would hear the skipper shout: “Hi‘ Hand the oval on to Mister (Deans! ”

I shall never forget the sight As he charged down on the right, Like a locomotive engine on the spree; I was shiv’ring in my shoes, In a dreadful fit of blues, For I knew that it was mine “to do or dee.” I tried to get him low— By his waist, or hipe, you know—• And give the youth a purler by those

means. But who e’er supplied the mirth As a body went to earth, I’m confident of this—it wasn’t Deans. O Deans, Deans, Deans, A-serving out a man’s supply of “beans”: As I got up from the dirt I observed: “Is someone hurt! And are those fragments mine, or are they Deans’?” They took me far away To where a stretcher lay, Away from such revolting, horrid scenes; With my frame a total wreck. And some fractures in my neck, A few black-eyes—and things— sup- ’ plied by Deans. And in future I’m resolved, Ne’er to get myself involved In sanguinary battles on rough greens. But to tackle, if I must, Buffaloes upon a bust, Or traction-engines wild, instead of

IDeans. No, friend Deans, Deans, Deans, I’ve no wish to lark with powder

magazines. When next time you do a run, I’ll be there to see the fun, But only as spectator, Mister Deans!

Bob Deans died at Christchurch after an operation on September 30, 1908— tw r o months after playing for New Zealand against the Anglo-Welshmen at Auckand.