1956 series the stuff of legends

A dodgy pub-quiz question for you:  Who was the most important New Zealand rugby name during the game’s halcyon 1950s? This legend was known by everyone — his presence echoed through every Kiwi household.

The ’50s era should give you a clue, but let me set the scene more precisely. It is 1956 and not much has happened in New Zealand (again). A fairly prominent fish called Opo died, and the Governor-General sent official condolences. (OK,  correct me. Opo the Friendly Dolphin was an Opononi mammal). Schoolkids lined up for the first polio shots.  But otherwise, the country got on with a cultural life its own folklore claimed was "rugby, racing, and beer".

And was it dull and boring back in 1956? Not on your nelly!  1956 was so exciting your stomach churned.

The Jaapies were here. The fearsome Springboks, undefeated in any test series since 1896, had arrived for a 25-match tour in which they’d crush provincial forward packs, bloody country noses, and if left unfed, dine on the cauliflower ears of opposition props. (No need for cheese sauce. These were savages).

The Springboks were the Tyrannosaurus rex of old-style rugby. They played like Panzer tanks in baggy shorts — grim, Boer bred giants, whose front row was rumoured to casually flatten goalposts for scrum  practice. And they hadn’t been let out of their cages here since 1937.

Like every other 11-year-old boy, I had the official poster, with its team photos, and score box.  I tacked it on the bedroom wall, and diligently kept the tour record. The 1956 series made All Black legends — Peter Jones, Don Clarke, and Kevin Skinner among them. So which was the "best known" — who was the household figure I’ve asked about? Actually, none of them are even close. The man we knew best was radio’s test commentator, Winston McCarthy.  In 1956 all broadcasting was owned by a plodding government monopoly, which forbade crass horrors like competition. There was no television, and in many country towns you strained your ears to hear one station’s crackling radio signal. Few complained, because few knew they could have better.

So in 1956 most of New Zealand "watched" the Springbok series, in the manner of blind men listening to a reader, and we saw football through just one pair of eyes. If Winston McCarthy’s match call had his favourite winger Ron Jarden playing a ripper, all New Zealand blindly (literally) agreed Jarden was the day’s top dog. If a tight five forward went un-called, then he was invisible.

At 2.30pm on Saturday, McCarthy held the country in his palm. Then, through the week that followed, what McCarthy said became the conventional pub wisdom. He created legends, nobodies, and often history’s verdict, just by being the sole match commentator. Fortunately, Winston McCarthy was very good. He knew listeners should feel they were among the shouting crowd.  His technique is best illustrated by the most famed McCarthyism: "Listen . . . It’s a goal."

Each time a kicker lined up a penalty we got "Listen!!!! (the sound guy wound up the crowd audio, we heard the sigh, or better the exploding cheer, then) . . . HITZA GOAL!"

HITZA GOAL became part of Kiwi idiom. And young bucks, who could buy the vinyl records of Winston McCarthy broadcasts, did party trick imitations. The best could follow up with a perfect Syd Tonks race call, then drift into somnolent Iain Gallaway cricket. Radio broadcasters were the most recognised voice of Kiwi culture.

I’ve heard two versions of how McCarthy’s "Listen, it’s a Goal" originated — both from the hugely successful 1946 Kiwi Armed Services tour of Britain.

The first had McCarthy’s broadcast box placed where one of the goalposts was obscured. Unable to see whether a kick crossed the bar, he needed a solution. The crowd reaction would tell both him and his audience the result, so: "Listen . . . it’s a goal," was born.

The second version had Herbie Cook, the Kiwi fullback pottering about as he lined up his penalty kick. McCarthy, running out of words, filled more space with: "If this goes over, you’ll hear the roar of the crowd back in New Zealand."

So when Cook finally got round to kicking, McCarthy gave us: "Listen . . . (crowd roars). HITZA GOAL!"

"Nice idea that," he doubtless thought as he climbed into bed in some English pub. The rugby broadcaster is long gone. Winston HITZA GOAL McCarthy told us how we won that 1956 series 3-1, and the Boks became just flesh and blood.

- John Lapsley is an Arrowtown writer.