And all of a sudden there was a wave of applause and people were calling out –
‘Come on the maroon!’ ‘Let it rip Auntie Ruth!’ ‘Rattle those dags, Glory!’
Before we knew it, the darkness was filled with people calling us by our names. People whom we wouldn’t have known from Adam. People who had been following our progress and saw in us something of themselves. Something to do with people who could come out of nowhere and try to get somewhere. Something about reaching for the unreachable, touching the stars with your fingertips, searching after an impossible dream.
The starter came out with his starter gun. Big jolly Uncle Hone, a lump in his throat, pulled his pants up and turned to us.
‘You know me,’ he said. ‘I leave the big speeches to Father or my older brothers.’
‘Kia kaha,’ we answered. At that moment we would have followed Uncle Hone to the end of the world.
‘Work cleanly,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry about speeding. Those other fellas have it over on us when it comes to that. Mahana Four has always had a reputation for good work. I don’t care if we come last as long as we do a quality job. I have never been so proud of my family as at this moment.’
Uncle Hone did not know that microphones were picking up his speech and taking his words via radio to every listening household in the country. From somewhere far away the response came back. Wave after wave of acclamation.
The film crew was ready for action. All of a sudden lights blazed throughout the arena. Aunt Ruth did a double take and brought out dark glasses. Haromi primped her hair in readiness. Aunt Sephora smoothed her overalls. Dad, looking self-conscious, winked at Mum. I gave a special look to Glory, sitting on her stool waiting for the dags. The starter raised his pistol to the night sky.
‘Oh my giddy aunt,’ Aunt Ruth said, ‘doesn’t he know that God lives over there?’
She broke us up and made us laugh.
‘Are you ready?’ the starter asked.
Ready as we’ll ever be –
‘Are you steady!’
No, but that’s not going to stop –
The pistol cracked.
‘Go!’
Peewee, Mackie and I had been born for this moment.
‘Hut!’ Peewee was yelling. ‘Hut!’
There were three judges, one at each of the stages. They sprang to action, watching the sheepos and taking notes on our sheep-handling skills. We pushed the one hundred and twenty-five sheep from the large back pen into the holding pens.
‘Get in there!’ Mackie was whistling.
The strategy was that I would fill Uncle Hone and Dad’s pens; Mackie and Peewee together would fill Uncle Matiu’s, Pani’s and Sam Whatu’s pens. Not until each pen had twenty-five sheep in it could the shearers begin. Our job was to try to give our shearers a head start, get them out front so that they could stay out front.
‘Come on, Molly!’ I was trying Uncle Hone’s trick out on the sheep, pushing them gently into the pens. Peewee was casting a look at how the other sheepos for Gregsons and Poata One were getting on. ‘Don’t bother about them!’ I called. But I couldn’t help sneaking a look myself. The Gregson sheepos were manhandling their sheep over the fences rather than pushing them through the gates. The Poatas were using small sticks to get the sheep through.
Ah well, each to his own technique. I had my own worries to think about. Getting twenty-five sheep in each pen was difficult. The count could easily be wrong.
‘Twenty-five in Pen 5!’ Mackie called.
‘Twenty-five in Pen 4!’ Peewee called.
‘Twenty-five in Pen 1!’ I called.
Already the Gregson and Poata One gangs had finished their counts. No, hang on, the judge over at the Poatas was raising a red flag to indicate their count was wrong!
‘Twenty-five in Pen 2!’ I called.
Finally, ‘Twenty-five in Pen 3!’ Peewee called.
The crowd was roaring. The Gregson shearers had started on their first sheep; we were just behind them and now the Poata shearers had started. However, the job for Peewee, Mackie and me wasn’t over yet. Not until one of the judges had checked our count could we let go our breath.
‘Well done, lads,’ he said.
Phew. But we still had to remain alert. Sometimes when the shearers came in for a sheep, another one would try to get out.
Oh look, that was happening over at the Gregsons! There was pandemonium on the Gregson board as the sheepos tried to catch the culprit and get it back into the shearer’s pen. I gave a look at our sheep.
We love you, Auntie Molly, we really do.
Now it was up to the shearers. The Gregson shearers were positively ripping through their first sheep. Now they were on to their second, rushing with a slam into their pens. The sheep kicked and baa-ed with fear under the arc lights. The Poata gang had drawn level with us. They were fast all right! No, wait, one of the shearers hadn’t quite clicked off his handpiece! It was buzzing like a wild thing out of control and clashing with the other handpieces.
As for us, Uncle Hone was shouting above the noise. ‘Just take it easy, boys. No need to look up at how the Gregsons and the Poatas are doing. Feel the rhythm. Concentrate on your own sheep. We’ve got a long way to go yet.’
‘We’ve got to increase the pace,’ Uncle Matiu shouted back. ‘Otherwise we’ll get too far behind.’ Uncle Hone simply smiled at him. ‘Bro, you do as I say or else —’
Oh it was good to see our shearers moving their handpieces through the sheep’s wool. Then one by one the sheep were going down the slide and our shearers were walking swiftly in to get their second.
Halfway through our second sheep the Gregsons were ahead and going for their third sheep. The Poatas too had pulled ahead of us. They caught up to the Gregsons, shearing neck and neck. The crowd was thrilled. But cries of ‘Tar!’ were going up on their stands.
‘Easy does it,’ Uncle Hone said. ‘Don’t get rattled, boys. We’re here to do a quality job.’
The judge on our stage nodded and made a note.
An instruction came over the loudspeaker: ‘ Change judges.’
The judge from Stage 1 went to Stage 2. The judge from Stage 2 went to Stage 3. The judge from Stage 3 went over to Stage 1. The audience loved the fairness which allowed the judges to get a good overview of the work of all the shearing gangs.
Aunt Ruth and Haromi had begun sweeping in and around each shearer’s sheep.
‘Dags away!’ Aunt Ruth yelled. She pushed the dags over to Glory.
‘Go for it, Glory!’ one of her fans yelled.
Haromi was waiting for Uncle Matiu to finish his sheep. She flicked with her broom at the falling wool — face wool to one side, stomach and underside wool somewhere else. She put aside her broom and started to guide the fleece gently to one side, clearing it as Uncle Matiu shifted the sheep on to its back.
Along came the fleecos, Mum and Miriam, to take the fleeces to Aunt Sephora and Aunt Kate on the table. Oh no, now Haromi had decided to help them. Pulling the fleece clear. Bundling it up in her arms. Then a huge throw like a net and — perfect. The fleece glittered as it unfolded, seemed to pause on the air before falling squarely on the table. No wonder. Haromi had seen the cameras coming to film the action on our board.
‘Talk about lucky!’ Aunt Ruth laughed, hands on hips, forgetting where we were.
‘If you’ve got it, flaunt it,’ Haromi yawned.
They heard the laughter from the stadium and blanched.
‘Oh shi-ucks,’ Haromi said, making it worse. She did a little curtsy to the judge and the crowd.
The Poatas were neck and neck with the Gregsons on their fourth sheep. The crowd roared again as five Poata men on Stage 1 and five Gregson men on Stage 3 went into their pens together, dragging out their fifth sheep. ‘Tar!’ a Gregson shearer cried. Our shearers were just starting the fourth sheep. I took the chance to say to Peewee and Mackie, ‘Thanks, guys. Next season you’re both on the payroll.’ They gasped and reddened. Being on the payroll was even better than coming down to the Golden Fleece. They gulped and shook each other by the hand.