ON THE BALL.

Otago Witness, Issue 2934, 8 June 1910, Page 108

ON THE BALL.

IN VAEIOUS WAY&, THE OLD-TIMERS. By Leo Fanning. V. Prince, in one common overthrow The hero tumbles with the thrall: As dust that drives, as straws that blow, Into the night go one and all. W. E. Henley. Ears are on edge at the rattle, Man tho' I am, I am pale, Sounds like the noise of a battle, Here we are riding the rail. Brander Matthews. In the elegant phrase of a recentlymanufactured pantomime, "it is better to be a has-been than a never-waser." All Rugby old-timers, in their own opinion, have been mighty has-beens, horrible slaughtermen, gloating over fields incarnadined in the days of their pitiless onsets. They count their semimurders as gaily as a farmer adds up his cheque after a good wool season. Men of blood and iron, they rejoice in the tally of their victims, espeoially at those times when, warmed Dy loving cups, proffered by admirers and pseans of praise, they have the mood which Alexander the Great had at his famous feast : Sooth'd with the sound, the king grew vain; Fought all his battles again; And thrise he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain. Who has not heard them? Who has not wondered how they managed to dodge the gallows ? How many a time and oft one has listened to such prowess as Milton gave to his Samson Agonistes : But safest he who stood aloof, When insupportably his foot advanced, In scorn of their proud arms and warlike tools, Spurned them to death by troops. The bold Ascalonite Fled from his lion ramp; old warriors turned Their plated backs under his heel. Yet some of these confessing monsters of football iniquity have been " neverwasers" and scarcely ever responsible of the use of more than a square inch of sticking plaster. PAST HIS PRIME.

There are many varieties of old-timer —chiefly the " never-waser," the real "has-been," and the "will-be soon." This last class is the saddest of all. " He has done in his dash," one hears it said about "Old Bill," but "Old Bill" declines to admit that age is numbing his knees and tightening his thews. He plugs on, and a kindly Selection Committee puts him in the representative team. "Old Bill" does retire at last, and one wonders what the Selection Committee would have done if he not not retired. Would he be handed on as a legacy from one Selection Committee to another for decade after decade, till a final whistle blew no-side for ever? "Old Bill" makes a very impatient spectator for a season or two. He broods about "Times past, what once I was, and what am now." He is disguested with the mistakes of

his club's younger men. He is inces-, santly threatening to exchange his coatf for a jersey, and teach the young idea how to ahoot goals or anything else that gets an the way of the boot. His portion is anguish on the touch line; his plight is pitiable. THE OLD WAK-HORSES. But " Old Bill " has many companions in misfortune and misery. They have differences of opinion about their own respective merits in days long agone, but they are united in their declamation about the decadence of modern play. Saturday after Saturday they hold inquests on that old-time Rugby which lives no more, and their verdict is that the game has committed suicide by being permanently insane. But they are not always dull preachers about things alleged to be dead. They have their thrills. The fire brigade horse harnessed to a dust-cart., the cavalry charger yoked to a " bottle-oh's" decrepit vehicle, can be galvanised at the old sounds and have vigorous spasms of energy, to the dismay and desolation of the dustman and the " bottle-oh," respectively. So the venerable jury on the line feels its blood galloping again when it sees strong men using their strength. THE-TIRESOME CHORUS. More annoying to the younger generation than the mournful retired player is the purely spectatorial veteran " neverwaser." He does not know why he goes to the park in these days, for he says, for all to hear, that "the game is mud," but he does go Saturday after Saturday, and season after season, sadly noting a general drift of the game to the utter dogs, to the tune of Thomas Hood's " I remember, I remember." He declines to remember anyone who has worn a jersey since the days of the Warbricks. the Pat Keoghs, the Tom Ellisons, and the others. He does not think the same men are bred nowadays. Perhaps it is the tea-drinking, perhaps not; perhaps it is too much syllabus at the schools, perhaps not. He leaves the scientists to discover the real reason, and is satisfied with reiterating his discontent with the men and measures of to-day. REVENGED AS REFEREES. Some genuine old-timers become referees, and can whistle themselves a full revenge for the passing of their playing days. They can blow much pain and. general suffering into their successors. Warming up, with the motto, " I'll teach 'em," the ex-champion can give himself much delight with the abitrary whistle.' Theoretically, the old-timer should be an ideal referee. He should be able to know where to look for crookedness and read the wing-forward's face as a book. Actually he is not always a perfect controller of a game. He may have a fiery, fighting temperament, and when the battle is hot he may be inclined to " let 'em have a go," as one of these referees once playfully confessed. However, some do use the whistle nobly and well. One example can be quoted to all other oldtimers, without paining any of them. He is Mr F. T. Evans, of Christchurch, he of the impassive face and quick-searching eye, and prompt decision. His referee work has many" admirers in the four centres. Some old-timers do not become extinct volcanoes for a good few years after they have been written off the active list. They have at least one annual eruption, though it is mostly smoke and steam. It is the old-timers' match, and great is the fun of it. The tragedians have turned comedians. The buskin has been cut down to a sock. Hamlet is in motley. And they laugh, too. And that is life. THE> VETERAN LEAVEN.. Old-timer types have been selected at random, a few muts from a well-filled bowl, but the mournful ones are the meagre minority. The vast majority of the " has-beens " are " sitill-ises," for the good of their game and their club and their province and New Zealand and the world. In their innermost heart they may think " that there hath past away a glory from the earth," but they do not show it; they do not weep about it. They give the glad face and the helping hand to their successors in the team. They go cheerfully to the gymnasium and aid valuably in the training of the new backs and the new forwards., They spend their time and their money, to keep their club flourishing, and make the most jovial of " barrackers," hearty likable men, with a cheer for work well done by friend or foe. It is good to meet them; they are big, and burly, and . breezy, even if the yard measure will do no better than sft 6in for them, and the penny in the slot will not send the pointer above 1501 b. They are the manlier for their football, and 'it is their wish and their will to modesty naka others manlier. It can be said of them as Emerson wrote :—" That which takes my fancy most, in the heroic class, Ts the good humour and hilarity they exhibit." The solid old-timer is a sweet-chimer.