Shearers shear twenty-five sheep each. The best overall shearer in the competition will get the Jason statuette.
‘Goodness me, how will the judges be able to choose!’
‘It’s going to be ber-loody close, love.’
Let’s have a look at the programme.
Twenty-seven shearing gangs have made it to the finals of the first Golden Fleece championships.
‘Doesn’t that just make you feel so proud to be from Masterton?’
The shearing gangs have come from way up north of Whangarei to way down south of Invercargill. There’s even a gang of Aussie shearers come all the way from Darwin. Doesn’t that just take the cake?
Today are the preliminary heats — nine heats, with three gangs competing in each. At the end of the day there will be nine winners. Tomorrow, the nine winners will face each other in the three semifinal heats. Three days after that, the three winners of those will face each other in the finals.
‘Which shearing gangs are in the first heat, love?’
The spectators begin to place their bets. Let’s see — Morrison (Wanganui), Karaka (Christchurch) and Simpson (Bay of Plenty). Let’s put five quid on Morrison! Oh, and our own Wairarapa gang, the Gregsons, are in the second heat, we must bet on them. Who are they up against? Oh dear, that shearing gang from Otago is supposed to be very good … Ah well, that’s the luck of the draw.
Now, when are the Maoris on? You know, the family whose photo was in the newspaper? Ah, there, heat 6 this afternoon. Wilson (Hawke’s Bay), Jelley (Southland) — and Mahana Four (Gisborne).
Ah yes, the photo in the newspaper. If you ask people today what they remember about that first Golden Fleece championship in 1958, it’s not the name of the shearing gang which won but ‘Oh yes. The family of God.’
The photograph was a lucky snap taken by a photographer from the New Zealand Press Association and wired to all the newspapers in the country as well as to Australia and England. The London Times picked the photograph up and put it on the front page under the headline: The family that prays together shears together.
The photograph shows Mahana Four at prayer the night before the heats. Uncle Hone, Uncle Matiu, Dad, Sam Whatu and Pani are standing at the back. Aunt Sephora, Aunt Ruth, Aunt Miriam, Aunt Kate, Mum and Haromi stand within their protective arc. David, Benjamin, Peewee and Mackie are on the left. Glory and I are on the right. In the foreground, Grandfather Tamihana has his hand upraised. Behind us flutters Aunt Sarah’s flag, the maroon one with the golden angel at its centre. None of us even knew the photograph was being taken. We had our eyes shut.
The photograph caught the public imagination.
In the photograph Mahana Four looks the very picture of serenity and calm. The reality was — hardly. No sooner had we arrived at the stadium than Aunt Sarah, who had been watching the heats all day, came running into the dressing rooms like a chicken with her head cut off.
‘Oh my goodness, oh heck, oh —’ She acted as if it was the end of the world.
‘Now what’s this all about, sis?’ Uncle Hone asked.
‘I knew I should have brought the cloaks,’ Aunt Sarah gasped. ‘Or at least the sashes.’
‘What for?’
‘Have you seen what the other gangs are wearing? They’ve made new outfits! Bright red singlets. Or yellow shirts with their own insignias. Even Hukareka had the presence of mind to bring their hockey shirts. And what is Mahana Four wearing?’
We looked at Aunt Sarah blankly. Didn’t she know? Our usual rough woollen pants held up with string, of course! Our black singlets and sack moccasins, naturally! And Mum and the fleecos were wearing what they always wore — their dresses with coveralls and bedroom slippers.
‘This is how we always look when we’re at the shed,’ Aunt Ruth shrugged.
‘You will look like hobos!’
‘Well,’ Haromi yawned, ‘I wouldn’t say everybody.’ She had teased her hair up and planned to wear high heels.
Uncle Hone tried to calm Aunt Sarah down. ‘This is a shearing competition, sis, not a beauty contest.’ He looked at Haromi. ‘No high heels. You throw the fleeces crooked enough already.’
To top is off, Uncle Matiu started to panic too.
‘Look, bro,’ he said, ‘we’re the only gang with kids in it.’
‘What’s the fuss?’ Uncle Hone asked. ‘This is the way Mahana Four has always been. We’re a family shearing gang.’
‘Don’t you understand?’ Uncle Matiu said. ‘Of the twenty-seven gangs here, all except us are composed entirely of adults. Even Rupeni Poata’s gang. What hope have Simeon, Peewee and Mackie against adult sheepos? Those other sheepos are fast. They’re not worried about beating each other. All they’re worried about is beating the clock. Father wants Mohi to come in as sheepo —’
Uncle Hone sighed.
‘Then,’ Uncle Matiu persisted, ‘having Glory on the dags will make a laughing stock of us, and —’
Uncle Hone had had enough. ‘No,’ he said. ‘The trouble, Matiu, is that you and father have never actually seen Mahana Four in action. You’ve both been too busy burying your heads in the sand to even see how good we are. Mahana Four is a good team, Matiu. We’re all used to each other’s ways. We know each other’s strengths and weaknesses. You’re just a ring-in for Mahana Four. I will not have you and Father upsetting my family like this. Things stay as they are. That is final.’
Way to go, Uncle Hone!
‘Well,’ Uncle Matiu shrugged. ‘Okay, bro, you’re the boss.’
He smiled sickly at us. ‘But I think we better all stay clear of Bulibasha for a while and let him think he’s had his way!’
He looked across at Grandfather and waved cheerily. How Grandfather wanted to interpret that was his business.
Even so, by the time our heat began we had seen enough of the other teams to know we didn’t look like being in the running at all. We also heard that Poata One had won their heat by a mile, outgunning the competition like Machine Gun Kelly’s gang. Although the news was expected it didn’t make us feel any happier. Nor, on a personal level, was I feeling happy either. Since that first kiss Poppy seemed to be avoiding me. Every time I looked at her she looked away. Then, just before we were ready to go on, she came up to me.
‘You’re a Mahana,’ she said. ‘I’m a Poata. We’re on opposite sides.’
The loudspeaker blared. ‘Heat Number Six —’
Six six ix ix nix ix.
‘On Stage 1 the Wilson gang from Hawke’s Bay; Stage 2 the Jelley gang from Southland, and Stage 3 the Mahana gang from Waituhi, Gisborne —’
Gisborne scorn forlorn orn orn or.
I gulped and clutched Glory’s hand. She looked up at me, puzzled. What was all the fuss?
The two other gangs came running out in their bright scarlet and blue mocker. They looked like silver people, smiling and bowing to the audience. We were still cowering in the wings. Aunt Sarah was right. We did look like hobos, even worse than Fred Astaire and Judy Garland singing ‘We’re Just a Couple of Swells’ from Easter Parade. The Vanderbilts would never have asked us out to tea.
‘Ah well,’ Uncle Hone said, ‘let’s say a prayer to make us feel better.’
And there we were, praying again, our heads bowed to the Lord. We didn’t realise that everyone in the stadium could see us. Had we known, do you think we would have done it?
Oh look. So it is true. They do pray.