Ron Palenskirecalls tales of tough New Zealanders who went for broke

There has, however, been at least one example of an item of physiology being dispensed with in order to reach that iconic status of being an All Black, a status that in New Zealand ensures everlasting fame and brings to an abrupt halt any wishes of privacy.

Dick Conway, otherwise and more often known as ‘Red’ because of his hair, was a flanker who played against the British Isles side of 1959 that New Zealanders regarded disdainfully as being typically British: that is, equipped with forwards who were too inept to get sufficient qualities of ball to backs, who but for a want of possession would have been brilliant.

After the Lions had gone, and during the New Zealand summer, Conway played softball and had a finger broken so badly that he was told even when it knitted together again, there was every prospect that it would break again under the slightest provocation.

The All Blacks were due to tour South Africa in 1960, and Conway wanted to be a part of it. He was told that such a rigorous sport as rugby, especially the way the All Blacks and Springboks played it, would almost certainly result in his finger being broken again. Conway was duly picked in the touring team and, not wanting to risk weeks of inaction because of a dodgy digit, showed up at his doctor’s surgery and instructed him to amputate it.

It was duly removed, and Conway went on tour. He played in the first few matches wearing a glove made to protect his healing hand. (Unlike a couple of untypical All Blacks 20 years later, who wore gloves in matches because it was cold).

Conway wasn’t the only All Black to wear specially-made protective gear. Colin Meads, voted by an enormous margin the rugby player of the 20th century in New Zealand, most famously played a test in South Africa in 1970 with a chunk of leather protecting a broken arm. It had been broken in a provincial match a few weeks before; Meads had felt the bone snap while he was at the bottom of a ruck, and after playing on for several minutes, he told his captain Brian Lochore: "I think my arm might be broken."

It was, and the All Blacks faced the rest of their tour, including the two remaining tests, without their most formidable forward. Such was Meads’ value and such was his desperation to get back on the field, that a leather protective sleeve was fashioned for him. "I probably became the first to play a test with a broken arm," he said. Which is just what was expected of him.

The All Blacks traditionally have a reputation as hard men, and it is in their playing interests for this to be fostered, even embellished. There’s nothing like getting one over your opponent before you’re even on the field.

A prop of the early 1970s, Brian ‘Jazz’ Muller, used to trim the hedge surrounding his house with a lawnmower, holding it outstretched above his head to get to the loftier branches. When this story first went the rounds, it was dismissed as yet another exaggeration, until a television crew showed up at Chez Muller and filmed the feat.

Similarly with Meads roaming about his hill country farm with a sheep under each arm: no-one believed it until there was visual evidence.

The stories about Keith Murdoch, forever branded the wild man of New Zealand rugby after he was banished from the British tour of 1972, were enough to make Samson sound like a six-stone weakling. He once lifted a reporter up by the back of his collar, and held him at one arm’s length under a shower for several minutes. This was as impressive an example of Murdoch’s strength as it was of his regard for journalists.

But Murdoch was also an obliging chap. Driving home in his Dunedin hill suburb one night, he came across a couple of people trying to get their car started. Knowing nothing about mechanics, but all about locomotion, Murdoch asked if they wanted a tow. The grateful pair started running a rope to the rear of Murdoch’s car, but he leaned out the window and told them not to bother: "Just give me one end, and you tie the other to your car." Murdoch started up the hill, one arm out his car window holding on to the tow rope, the disabled car with its two passengers dutifully lumbering behind.

But the hard men of rugby can also be soft. Half-back Mark Donaldson was a tough nut who could give as well as take in the hurly-burly of rugby. In a match in Glasgow in 1979, he delivered an unerring left hook to an errant Glasgow forward, Gavin Angus, who dared to move on to the All Blacks’ side of a lineout. When Donaldson was next tackled, the Glasgow pack quickly formed a ruck over him in retribution. Donaldson emerged bleeding, jersey ripped - and smiling.

When Donaldson was in France in 1977 on his first All Black tour, his father back home suffered a serious heart attack. The tour over, Donaldson went to see his father in hospital and, muttering that he wasn’t big on sympathy, dropped on his bed the jersey that he had worn in his first test. It was still sweat-stained and mud-caked. A quarter of a century later, the jersey still hasn’t been washed, and Donaldson’s father is hale and hearty, full of praise for the healing powers of the Kiwi jersey.

When Frank Oliver, regarded as one of the hardest men to play for New Zealand, celebrated his 50th birthday, his son Anton devised a surprise present. He spirited his father’s first test jersey out of the hot-water cupboard, where it had lain for more than 20 years, and had it and his own first test jersey framed together, listing the place and opponents of each match. When the presentation was made, Anton recalled, Frank was moved almost to tears.

It was several years before Anton indulged in the tradition of swapping jerseys with opponents after matches. "I just wasn’t interested," he confirmed. "Black was fine by me."

So, too, for the others who have worn it.