SATURDAY AFTERNOON

Otago Daily Times, Issue 23002, 3 October 1936, Page 18

SATURDAY AFTERNOON

A SEASONAL CONTRAST

By C. H. Fortune

The greatest football season Dunedin has ever known is ended. No longer on a Saturday afternoon will the air about Carisbrook resound to hearty cheering or an occasional boo-ing. For this, nearby mothers with infant children unable to sleep will be, probably, the only ones to express thanks. Nor for another six months at least will the principal subjects of conversation from weekend to week-end be akin; “Wonder how we’ll get on this Saturday? ” “ Think we’ll hold the shield still? ” “ Bet you Trevathan pots another goal on Saturday! ” “ So-and-so shouldn’t be playing for Otago.” “ Can’t see how Whosit came to be left out.” Comments that thus start idly enough perhaps lead up to heated argument. We do not mean to infer that every week in the season hears the same discussions, nor that Carisbrook is similarly invaded week after week. Earlier in the season the chances of this club and that club provide food for argument and the matter of rash cigarette bets, and various grounds are patronised. But as the weeks roll by Carisbrook gradually comes more into its own. Now that the goalposts are removed from Carisbrook and placed in cold storage, and the ground is being prepared for a less thrilling game, what is going to happen to those 20,000 people who, heeding not at all the vagaries of the weather, rolled along every Saturday afternoon dicing the past two months? What are they going to., do? Are gardens at last to receive serious attention, and hasty rushes commence so that potatoes and green peas may be ready in time for Christmas dinner? Undoubtedly a great many of the football public will, under protest, unearth the spade, the rake, the hoe. Yet it seems to us that the gardener who cares hasn’t bothered so much about football, but has gone ahead and prepared his garden, perhaps digging and raking as a certain gentleman “ whangs ” vital football information per medium of the radio from the front (or back) windows.

A good many of these 20,000 followers of Rugby football finding time hanging heavy on their hands will doubtless hang about the house, getting in the way, and probably living in a world of emphatic protesting storms, as, “ Can’t you see I’m busy. Get out of the road! ” or “Shut the back door, can’t you? I’ve got cakes in the oven! ” Or will they turn domestic, chop sticks, fill the coal bucket, and generally ease the duties of the lady of the house? Somehow one thinks not! Perhaps a sunny comer, a book and a pipe will suit some. That is, until a call for help comes from inside the house. Then the harried Rugbyite may be heard to utter a fervent “ I wish the football season was still on.” That may produce an equally fervent “So do I! ” And though the words may superficially agree, there will be a different sentiment underlying. Certainly these 20,000 are not going to scatter about the various playing fields and watch cricket. To Rugby followers cricket may be the silliest thing in the world to watch, unless, of course, there is some really vicious bodyline bowling There is a section of the community that is never happy unless there is some “real touch” in the offing. Cricket seldom provides a decent percentage of “stouch.” Not very many will watch cricket. Some will play tennis, some bowls, some even golf, but perhaps the majority will pray for that elusive quantity, fine weather, and a lounge about the beach and indulge in a spot of surf bathing. For the moment, however, let us consider the case of the casual spectator of life. Does he not see something on Saturday afternoons in summer that is completely lacking in winter? During the football season thousands board trams, walk or somehow or other approach the arena that interests them at the moment, garbed in heavy overcoats, muffled to the tips of red, sniffling noses, perhaps with “ brollies ” tucked under arms, and with goloshes covering uncleaned shoes. There is nothing particularly cheering about the sight. But on a Saturday afternoon in summer it is a treat to see men and women, boys and girls, in gay blazers, spotless whites, and hatless (in many cases), blithely swinging a racket, or with bowls suspended over shoulders, or boldly flaunting swimming apparel. The great call of the open, the vibrant, virile spirit of youth, are epitomised in whites and blazers on a summer’s afternoon. Life appears to have a definite meaning. Winter may give us Rugby, but summer gives us a great deal more. And even if cricket is not as exciting as football to watch, the sight of 11 players in immaculate whites dotted about a verdant field provides something that no football match in the world can ever give. And there are grace and vitality in lively youth leaping at bouncing ball with swinging racket. But there is not much grace or vitality in the spectacle of a forward being hurled indiscriminately through the air, or struggling blindly to his feet out of a puddle with mud and water streaming from face and hair. It may be thrilling to see Trevathan pot a goal, or succeed with a difficult conversion, but there is also a thrill in watching a small, hard ball struck through the air to the boundary, or see a leaping figure successfully intercept a speeding ball on its way to the boundary.

But we still have not decided what all these 20,000 people will do on Saturdays, although we have planted a good few in their gardens along with the asparagus and spinach. As already intimated, the beaches will draw a large number. The surf has an attraction all of its own on a hot day, and it is the acme of laziness (a goal before the eyes of every one of us—deny it if you dare!) just lounging abput the blistering sands and getting as brown as the proverbial berry. In summer hundreds of young fellows experience one great thrill that they cannot get in winter. No Rugby sensation can cope with the thrill that is almost ecstatic in its appeal to the sensibilities when some whitefaced person says enviously on Monday morning: “ My word, John, you are sunburnt! ” And even if shoulders are too much burnt to permit the wearing of a singlet, or legs too painful to permit of comfortable raising, the thrill is there just the same. To the majority of our 20,000 the call of the beach is perhaps the greatest compensation for the loss of Rugby. Mrs Grundy might be shocked if she were able to walk along the beaches to-day and could see the abbreviated garments that serve as bathing costumes; but they. are healthy, and, after all, health should be our main consideration, even if such costumes do reveal ourselves to others as we usually see ourselves in moments of nudity. Others of this army of Rugby followers will favour week-end cribs, and there is nothing much wrong with a week-end in the “ wilds ” of Brighton or elsewhere. And the man

who can afford a car—the man who has a car, that is (there is a difference here) —is enabled to take long runs into the country that football and winter do not permit. Because our harbour has an unpleasant habit of developing mud banks in the most inconvenient places, here we are deprived of the impressive sight of countless white wings moving gracefully over the blue water at week-ends, but a few invariably make their appearance when the football season is over, and to the white wings we might add the disturbing chug-chug of power boats. There are many similar small things that make their appearance when “ the tumult and the shouting dies ” from Carisbrook, and we must not forget that some of our 20,000 don queer garb, and, in an endeavour to emulate the late lamented Izaak Walton, proceed with rod and line to cast flies over placid streams and pools. However dull and slow this may be to some, others find that the excitement of Rugby pales beside the thrill of merely flicking the surface of water with gaudy imitation flies at which experienced trout smile superciliously. Well, we have placed a lot of our 20,000, but we would be the last to suggest we have placed them all; Unfortunately, there are those to whom Saturday is not a Saturday at all, and they stroll like lost souls about the streets, or lounge at street corners, moodily eyeing passers-by, and probably finishing up by having a few slow ones over the bar of some hotel. There are always these, of course, and one is forced to think that football to them is but an excuse to pass away a few idle hours. In summer they always seem so prominent, perhaps because in summer it is such a great pity to see people doing nothing, unless it is on the beach. There isn’t anything pretty about the city streets on a Saturday afternoon, and why some folk prefer to make them a home during their hours of leisure is difficult to understand. These people resent summer. For all I know they resent winter, and maybe life itself. On Sunday they probably stay in bed all day. Prior to this year of grace it has not been convenient for the loafer to stay in bed on a Saturday. Work has claimed attention in the morning. And once dressed and up and about it is a “ beastly fag” undressing and crawling back into bed in the middle of the day. Perhaps now this portion of our 20,000 who are experiencing the privilege of the 40-hour week will be found boasting on Monday that they spent two full days in bed each week-end! Everyone to his taste! Saturday afternoon reveals some queer tastes, but there is variety enough to suit everyone.