I read recently that the great Pinetree Meads, the holder of 55 All Black caps, the man voted as the Greatest New Zealand Rugby Player of the 20th Century, and for legions of fans the living epitome of the grizzled All Black forward, turned 65 a week ago.
I have since boyhood been a great admirer of the fearsome Kiwi — but I must add that it was a begrudging respect, as my loyalties always lay with his great rival, that swashbuckling air ace, Frik du Preez. It is surely fitting, then, to pay tribute to this colossal forward, who for 15 seasons toiled in the engine room of successive All Black packs, in an age when Meads and his fellow New Zealanders endeared themselves to rugby fans, especially in Europe, with their gritty but stylish play.
Meads’ heroic deeds on the paddock have been recorded in many books about the sport, notably in Alex Veysey’s Colin Meads All Black, which, I have been told, enjoys almost biblical status down in the Land of the Long White Cloud. My own autographed copy enjoys pride of place in my growing collection of rugby literature.
"Hey, Ref, I think you’d better count the players. I think Meads ate one of them."
One famous story is told by Kel Tremain, that magnificent All Black flanker, who happened on this occasion to be captaining Hawkes Bay against Meads’ King Country outfit during the inter-provincial championship. Meads was operating with his customary brutish efficiency, and the Hawkes Bay forwards were taking a pounding. “Hey, Ref”, Tremain cried out in exasperation, “I think you’d better count the players. I think Meads ate one of them”.
A lesser-known story is that regarding the Colin Meads Fan Club, which was formed to pay homage to the great man’s memory. The story goes that every 3 June, Meads’ birthday, the Colin Meads Fan Club has its annual shindig in his honour. He is naturally invited to attend every year as its honoured guest, but politely declines each invitation.
Rather predictably when rugger men get together, the evening involves the massive consumption of Steinlagers and other more dubious concoctions. Many of the revellers arrive wearing Meads’ No 5 All Black jersey, and the more devout followers often wear a replica of the protective leather sheath that he wore in the 3rd and 4th tests on the 1970 tour of SA, after he had earlier broken his arm in the match against Eastern Transvaal.
But the true aficionado, I have been told, even goes so far as arriving with a creosote pole over his shoulder, in memory of the rather novel product that farmer Meads once endorsed in the happy-go-lucky days of amateurism.
Once the shenanigans have reached a suitably expansive pitch, no doubt long after midnight, a certain fan, carefully chosen for his eloquence under these trying circumstances, is appointed to make the traditional phonecall to Meads, who is by then invariably fast asleep in his bed, sleeping the righteous sleep of the hard-working farmer.
It is said that, rather than exchanging friendly pleasantries, as is the norm in these days of political correctness, Meads more often than not unleashes a torrent of ferocious language at the hapless, stuttering fellow on the other end of the line. Although he has been compelled to endure the wrath of a man whose grit on the field was renowned from Eden Park to Loftus to the Arms Park, our telephone operator is then, no doubt, the hero of the hour, as he regales his fellow revellers with liberal translations of the Great Man’s words. A yard of ale is probably a just reward for his heroic efforts!
An interesting corollary to the tale is the fact that Meads has only ever once nominated a fellow player as an honorary member of the Colin Meads Fan Club. His name? Frik du Preez, of course. I personally think that it is about bloody time that due homage is paid to oom Frik, who now spends much of his time on his farm in the arid North West Province. Any takers for some founder members?
But in the meantime, Happy Birthday, Mister Meads.