The Sun 42 WYNDHAM STREET AUCKLAND SATURDAY, JULY 19, 1930 THE LURE OF A BALL

Sun (Auckland), Volume IV, Issue 1028, 19 July 1930, Page 8

The Sun 42 WYNDHAM STREET AUCKLAND SATURDAY, JULY 19, 1930 THE LURE OF A BALL

"/\NE Englishman a fool; two Englishmen a football match; V three Englishmen an empire.” Such is the recent comment of a witty Spaniard on the singularities of our race, and possibly there is just enough truth in his acute observation to give it the pungeuey of a Spanish onion. Today, the first of two famous Saturdays in Auckland, aren’t we all—Englishmen?; too happy in anticipation of a spirited football contest between our own lads and the sturdy sons of Great Britain—all British, irrespective of birthplace, colour, temperament and national rivalry—to take umbrage at a Spaniard’s tilt at splendid British foolishness. In any case, did not a sailor-howler, on a far-back occasion, make the Dons of Spain appear more foolish than Englishmen? But this is not a day to fall out of temper. The lure of a hall holds the interest of the excellent kind of fools who play football matches and maintain an Empire. Of course, it may seem to foreign observers definite proof of leisured folly that the British Empire is ringed about by and ringing with excitement and exaltation over football, cricket, tennis, golf, all other ball games, and bowling, not Grimmett’s, which may not be despised, but that deft bowling of ancient youths who alone know bow to keep the Black Gate closed. It easily could be argued that there is far too much sport and pastime for an Empire loaded with appalling difficulties, but why raise and pursue so depressing an argument? It is better and nearer wisdom to be merry and kick and hit a ball, always accepting the result with a laugh, than to brood over a sombre record of economic trouble and misery. The Select Parliamentary Committee on Education could tell you at once that comparisons are odious, but it may not know that they also can be consoling. So: One Spaniard a donkey; two Spaniards a bull-fight; three Spaniards an empire’s ruin. But are we moving any nearer to Eden Park and (let it he hoped!) thrilling delight? If Auckland today be not foolish enough to adopt the follies of ancient Rome when agitation and riot raged with fury in the hippodrome, it should be wise enough at least to adopt old Rome’s virtues. It is the first day of a football carnival, and there will be streamers, rosettes, flags, and the glorious tumult of honest partisans, all English at heart for the best things in their Empire, but mostly for Auckland in desire and demand for something better than defeat. “I’ll bet you. .. .” “How many points in?” Everybody knows what a week it has been for challenge and shrewd bargaining. All-niglit queues, discord on the Sabbath Day, explanation, disappointment and discontent, and all the time a torrent of money rushing headlong into the bulging coffers of the New Zealand Rugby Union. It would be a delight in itself if one could imagine hours before the event the scene this afternoon at Auckland’s football Eden which may not necessarily prove to be a paradise. Space for avid spectators has been measured out more sparingly than the most precious of Persian carpets. Room on the stand has a frontage value akin to residential land on the Remuera ridge with a harbour view. Incidentally the question of a view today at Eden Park will be for thousands of spectators a problem more tantalising than that of unemployment and a poll-tax is for the Government. How are little men to fare at this big match? In times of normal depression they can find comfort in reflecting on the greatness of Napoleon and Foch, and other famous wee heroes, and in fooling themselves that giants often have sacrificed a lot of other gifts for height, hut all these comforting ruses will not serve on this abnormal occasion. Just think of it: unless Bonaparte were accompanied by his Grand Army, lie would, if at Eden Park today, be as miserable in outlook as lie was at St. Helena. Even Mussolini, without a bodyguard of Fascists, would find it exasperatingly difficult to see the reason why two Englishmen symbolise a football match, and three an empire. More impressive still, if Alexander himself could have assembled with all his hosts on the confined terraces of our Test football field, he would not have sighed for more worlds to conquer, but would have wept over the lack of a chit for a grandstand seat. It is a hard football world for men lacking in stature. And how the sons of Anak praise the value 'of periscopes and the possibilities in an ingenious use of stilts and captive balloons. But little men at the worst will hear the match. For all men, tall or short, lean or otherwise, the great occasion will he a laborious striving for excitement and pleasure. Already, long before the ringing of the starting and startling hell and the response of a shrill whistle (may there he but little whistling!) half Auckland appears to he happy in trying to forget that the Spaniard may altogether be right. Still, it is good to hear a community singing to kill time, although song may not beat Great Britain. And the happiest singers ought to he the Rugby Union. “Pack up our troubles in an old chit bag and smile, smile, smile!”