AT THE PARK

New Zealand Times, Volume XLVII, Issue 10961, 25 July 1921, Page 4

AT THE PARK

CUSHIONS & SOU’WESTERS ON THE HILU AT THE SPRINGBOK MATCH. “GO ON, ZAMBUES!” “Going to the match?” “Betcher.’ Everyone had the same salutation, and the same answer. The morning broke grey and dull, after a copious downpour in the “wee sma’ ’oors.” But the girl m the cake shop said that, if it rained, vV'eilington would win. as the boys were accustomed to it. K\ cry one left work early, having bargained with the, boss to make it up to him on Monday; others, less trusted, perhaps, made it up before hours on Saturday morning. The streets had a Christmas Eve appearance—the number of country folk, from as lar as Taranaki, was astonishing. - At one well-known city cafe, lunches were called 'for as early as 10 o'clock. At the Bgme cafe, the waitresses said they were “eaten out” at noon. It was much the same at the hotels frequented by the country people. Trams began to fill by 11 o’clock, and a rumour was passed round that there were 7000 at the Park at that hour. A middle-aged woman boarded an Island Bay car, carrying a piece of weather-board. “That’s a' nice bit of firewood,’’ remarked the friendly conductor. “Not at all,” said ihe woman. “That’s my seat at the football match.”

At 1 o’clock, the hour at which the city has its busiest appearance on Saturdays, it was almost deserted, save for a few belated holders of reserve tickets. At half-past 1, an hour before the commencement of the match, there were 28,000 people at the Park. High up, on the ridges of the terrace, people had waited for four hours, many of whom had taken their iunch and eaten it there. When the gale sprang up, these felt it most. Hats were blown in the air by the score, but if was dangerous to move, as every inch of rain-soaked clay was occupied. One hat was blown across the field, and landed on a city-bound double-decker. Another, wafted away during the progress of the match, was lost under a low cloud. One man brought a hat and a cap; he lost both. Seated round the enclosure on forms were several thousands. Many of these brought cushions, sou’-westers and rugs, and the front row gave one tho impression of the deck of an ocean-going liner, during the hour of the aiternoon siesta.

“It is extraordinary the number of Sinn Feiners in Wellington,” remarked a man from the country, noticing the green and orange rosettes worn by barrackers for the Springboks. “Go on, Zamhuksl” called another as Van Heerden set off on the wing. He subsided when Aitken downed the “flyer.”

The crowd was a merry one, although it got soaked by the early ram, and frozen in the wintry blast that howled up the slopes of the terrace. _ It was a sportsmanlike crowd, too, giving just measure of approval and applause to either team, according to the value of the individual effort. Tho soene at the close of the match will Unger long in the memory. As the people descended from the terrace on to the main enclosure, making for the only exit, bundles of newspapers, that had served as seats, were carried high up by the wind, like a flock of seagulls making north for their restingplaces. In a moment the playing area was covered With a mass of moving humanity, which jostled and joked, as it was pushed through the gates on to the tramline. It took just ten minutes for the vast concourse to leave the ground, and a word of commendation is due to Police Superintendent Norwood for the manner in which he and his staff marshalled the crowd, without injury and unpleasantness. The nearest to reach the South African captain seized him by the legs, and, after vainly protesting, the Cape ’Varsity man allowed himself to be borne above the heads of the crowds to his dressing-room. “Good old Zamhuksl” said the man from the terraco, bringing up the rear. The great match was over.