Lions Lore

The Return of the Lion

by The President

Each year, about August, they return to the crease,

When girlfriends and wives renew the summer's lease,

The bats and pads emerge from under the beds,

And Cricket Wellington ask - What's going thru their farkin heads.

For year after year, with results a side-show,

Our cricketing pride takes blow after blow,

Yes, the Fortress of Kelburn has seen the 'odd' loss,

But the Lions Lore is to not give a toss!

Indeed, just up the road is our treasured Occidental,

The one saving grace to prove we're not mental,

Cricket has become a game much more than wins,

There's chopping pints and cuffing gins!

When the need arises, the Lions will win,

Just to tell Eastbourne they'll drop down again,

The question of promotion has never been tipped,

But nor has Saturday's beer ever been sipped!

For the class of a Lion is not measured by wickets or run-rates,

But in humour, pints and the quality of mates.

So, my boys, a Lion's success is guaranteed,

As a pint and a laugh is all that he'll need.

Enjoy the season fellas, I wish I were there to pepper the car-park.

The Breakout at Macallistar Park

by Diego Pariano

In the 2001/02 season the Lions were winless, rooted to the bottom of the table and staring defeat in the face playing Collegians on the barren, windswept wastelands of Macalister Park. What followed was a breakout of homeric proportions, as Diego Pariano reports..........

Guardians of the Lion's Lore Committee I salute you.

Remember in Bursary English when you did extended conceits? A theme that went right throughout the whole book like the rain in A Farewell to Arms or the London grime that punctuated much of Dickens’ books? Well I have the perfect one for the Lions effort, the sequel to The Seige of Kilbirnie Park.

When an army is holding a purely defensive position under attack it is called a siege. A successful siege is quite an achievement. When an army turns a siege into a counterattack, brazenly baring their vulnerability, turning the subservient position into a dominant one, it is called a breakout. Victory after a breakout is rare, nigh on a miracle. The Battle of Al Alamein is one such example.

In 1942, without a single victory to their name, the Allies led by Montgomery (Monty!!!) held a defensive position between Cairo and Tunis after being driven across the northern edge of Africa east by Rommell’s Afrika Corps. To the allies right was the sea, to their left the vast sands of the Sahara desert and the treacherous Qatar Depression. All cards were held by the ruthless German General and both sides waited for the other to move. 

In the crucial position were the 25th New Zealand Battalion led by First World War hero General Freyberg. They were at the northern edge of the desert, tantalizingly close to the Mediterranean but trapped and perilously exposed to the elevated kidney ridge to their left held by the elite German Panzar division. Attached to the 25th were a small British artillery division and the 2nd Maori Battalion who were charged with holding their position at all costs, even under the deadly fire of kidney ridge.

The battle on the first day was a barrage of fire with little advantage going to either side, Monty unleashing the colossal artillery he had acquired, the last throw of the dice for the Commonwealth forces in North Africa. The Allies had superior firepower but the Axis had the position and momentum. It was a classic siege and the odds were squarely in Rommell’s favour. But early on the second day the course of the battle, and indeed the whole war, changed. "Before Alamein," Churchill said, "we never had a victory. After Alamein, we never had a defeat".

Brazenly, Monty decided to throw a band of infantry into the fire of tanks and mortar. And it was to the New Zealanders, whom the Afrika Corps considered the elite of the Allies Army, that Monty looked to lead the counterattack. Here began the breakout at Alamein.

On a cold hazy desert morning, as the skirl of bagpipes from a decimated group of Scottish Royal Fusiliers rang out and the baritone of the haka floated across the battlefield, the 28 Maori Battalion charged across the sand and grit, their taiaha and bayonettes at the ready, at the Panzers on kidney ridge with hot metal raining down upon them. It was a suicidal move, charging straight at the elevated the elite German troops, by all conventional wisdom doomed to fail, but the Axis had not expected them to go straight towards them in hand to hand combat. It was brutal fighting and the hardened Axis troops could not help but fear the haka dripping with menace and the haunting moans of the bagpipes hanging in the crisp air like ginger headed whiskey drinking ghosts.

At a huge cost, the ridge was taken. Bulky German tanks and mechanical rigid Axis tactics were not equipped to fight highly mobile Maori scurrying behind them and dropping grenades into hatches.

With the ridge secured, the second breakout at Alamein began. While the rest of the Allies were pinned in the south by artillery, the New Zealand divisions supported by the Fusaliers and an Australian and South African division, punctured the main Axis lines with a pincer like thrust. Rounding on the Germans to the south and followed up by a larger British division, the Axis were circled; Alamein was won.

And so it was on that fateful day in March. A bitter wind chilling the bones of the Lions at the desert that is Macalister Park, raised above the Gallipoli like Island Bay to take the full lashing from the Autumn southerly. The first day of the two dayer had been a barrage with considerable advantage going to the Collegians. They had mounted a respectable score and bowled us cheaply, only narrowly avoiding the follow on. There weren't three figures on our board. The second day saw the birth of the 4b legend and another ragged bunch of hungover Lions. The Collegians scored swiftly and, in arrogant push for victory, set the Lions a total within grasp but with each fall of wicket, more heart breakingly far away.

But the Lions had mounted their campaign by stealth. Their armory was large, their batting deep, and Rock had brought with him Let the Arse Kicking Commence. The weather worsened. In the sea spray off the straight we could hear McDougall's bagpipe like Cmmmaawwwwwns. When Parish walked to the crease in decade old pads with Rock's revered hunk of willow the Lions faced a fight for survival - 100 runs off 80 balls with two wickets in hand. First it was Rock, flailing straight armed, sending the ball through well placed gaps in the slips.

And then it was Homo, one wicket in hand, 10 overs to go and 11 runs per over needed, who edged us closer, creeping up Kidney Ridge. Homo flung his bat, flailed at the off-drive, and found runs in the rapidly demoralising Collegian field, until it came down to the last over. A draw was a miracle with the last two batsmen in, but some dared hope, with 16 runs off the last over, that a breakout was possible. And with fingers crossed, feet off the ground, it was all of a sudden down to the last ball with 2 runs needed. Parish surveyed the field. The Collegians were caught: did they protect the deep and risk 2 runs in close or did they bring the field in and thus create a sieve of players. Parish gave a small nod to Monty at square leg, hunched forward in his vest. It had never occurred to Parish that a slower ball would be an option. He was too concerned with avoiding ball on stumps. In the slow motion of the ball coming down the pitch, Parish opened his child-bearing hips, gritted his over-sized teeth and hit it straight into the waiting arms of the forty year old Indian man in covers. It went into his arms, and then it went into his stomach, and then it went into his hands, and then it went out of his hands. By the time the ball had hit the ground Parish and Homo had run their first and begun the 22 yard sprint for victory. The fielder threw the ball, girl-like, to the keepers end, and Parish saw he would be short. He dived, closed his eyes, and went skidding along the ground, his open fly collecting cooch-grass and it ploughed. When he opened his eyes above him stood the Hero of Alamein, Monty, shaking his head to the Collegian appeal. Parish was in. The game was won.  As the Lions President Scott Anderson was heard to remark "Before Macalister Park, we never knew victory. After Macalister Park, we never knew sobriety."      

Lions' Pride Restored

By the Guardian of the Lion's Lore

Retreat to The Fortress

Guardian of Lions Lore, the Committee, and the Protector of the Seal of the Lions, I salute you and submit the following account of 23 January 2005.

In the winter of 1812 the might of Napoleonic France and the dishevelled disorganised but patriotic Russians met on the marshes of Borodino . In charge of the French, Napoleon at the height of his powers; at the head of the Russians, a bung-faced pervert named Kutuzov. Taken by surprise at the French strength, the Russians began fall back on Moscow, exposing themselves completely in what became the greatest retreat in history, that is, until 23 January 2005 at Kelburn Park.

At the end of the first day against Naenae the Lions were exhausted. They played circumspectly and straight-batted but in humid swinging conditions they succumbed 10 times to the looping in-swingers of Hutt trash for just 77 runs. Demoralised, they knew quietly that destiny was still in their favour: thirty-five phone calls had been made to secure 11 players, several of whom had never played before, 4b had turned up drunk, Bob’s pitch was unpredictable, and the wind gusted with such force it gave players whiplash. Yes, nothing was going right – all factors were present for the making of a legend.

But out in the field their faith took a battering. Naenae came out firing, smashing a reckless 257 runs. Where the Lions had played purist cricket for little result, the Naenaeites had swung in giant arcs, sending the ball fizzing over the slips heads like musket fire, sailing over the heads of covers like cannons. And so the Lions sat in their lair pondering what to do. 180 runs behind, needing a 181 to make the trash even bat again. Their bung-faced pervert leader, Parish, harked back to the events 193 years ago, almost to the day, and decreed that the retreat into the fortress must begin.

With nine overs left on the first day, two mavericks, Mollis, waving his bat in an aggressive club-like manner, and Laurence, embarking on guerrilla tactics like his great-great uncle T.E. of Arabia, fought a rear-guard action of 41 off 56 as the sun sank behind the Cable Car summit to allow the escape of the main force.

And so it was on the 23rd of January, 139 runs behind still, that the Lions began their true retreat. The wind had dropped, they had 10 players, on this day it was Corkery, faux-Lion, who had turned up drunk, and words of encouragement had come from all  quarters: the drunken texting of the President, the swarthy French of the Guardian, the flirting gurgles of 7 days-old Lioness, Alice Johns.

Much like the youth of the first and second world war had lied about their age just to get a piece of the action, so too had young Duke Pomare, a year under the drinking age – a major Lions pre-requisite – turned up for the excitement and adventure of the Retreat at the Fortress. Today Mollis would not hold his bat in a club like manner. Against the smug Naenaeites, unable to comprehend how they could do anything but win, Mollis and Pomare sucked up over after over with their tenacious batting in, again, swinging conditions. Both raised their bats in acknowledgment at the half-century marks and the Naenaeites began to scratch their heads even though the Lions were still a long way from even making them bat again.

It was here that a nemesis raised his head. Little did he realise the strength Lions would gather from his potty-mouthed smack. He was English, but he had not the boisterous bravado of Lions Cornes, nor the laconic invective of Lions Skinny, no, he was the proto-typical whinging Pom. Nae Nae seemed unable to comprehend that the Lions would not lie down in their retreat. They whispered suggestions of declaring, even before we’d wiped off the deficit, such was the Naenaeites adeptness at math.

As often happens, the valiant Mollis Pomare partnership fell with Pomare, and Mollis quickly followed. Homo did not spend much time in his pads either. All of a sudden batsman six was in with the Lions still 40 in the red. Naenae smelled victory. Little did they know not a dent had been made in the Lion’s resolve to hold the retreat at the fortress. The nemesis whinged away as Parish and 4b resurrected the defences. The pair pushed past the 180 mark and all of a sudden there was a drop in the Naenae shoulders, with each cut of 4bs, with each drive of Parish’s it was as if another block of concrete was dropped on the Nae Nae shoulders. Then 4b went, and another odour of victory came to the noses of the trash as the lower order batsmen came out. Like Napoleon they saw Moscow, like Napoleon, they were blinded by its glory, too arrogant to see its traps.

In the Lion, the tail is where the heart beats the strongest. Parish evoked images of the Guardian’s crashing cover drives at Kilbirnie; he recalled the confident hoiks of Anderson during the 196; he thought of Monty’s solemn head-shake as he dove to make his ground at McAlister and M. Waugh’s lofted 6, and in the haze of these memories and through the mist of dehydration 50 runs were in his ledger, then 70, then 90, then 100, ably supported by Sharp and Prior. Prior a Lion for just one day, blocked over after over as the Naenae nemesis whinged and swore and sewed seeds of dissent within his own army. The overs read 90 as Parish dropped to his knee and crashed a drive straight into the opposing captains stomach. Like Napoleon in Moscow, the trash, who thought they’d claimed their prize, found themselves trapped with too few overs to accomplish their goal of 180, and with each ball faced by the Lion’s tail a knife was twisted into their cold black hearts. The Lions had batted for 96 overs; they had scored 360. In a final act of spite, the heavens opened and washed out the last 10 overs and with it, the Naenae chances of chasing the 170. Like the snow in Moscow, through the rain God had declared his hand, and it was the Lions who were the chosen ones.