There is no autumn in New Zealand
after James Wright
so, the boys gallop terribly all year round, bodies on bodies on
cow shit, chocolate chips sprinkled on the iced field. New boot studs,
tiny backhoes turning bad soil. Their proud fathers now pastured, hot fries
drooped from lips like ketchupped cud, salt beard snow globes cast into
perma-winter by their makers, falling always, because there is no autumn
in New Zealand. Our mammals don’t hide. Our birds stay put. Our trees evergreen,
even if our boys are not. I once saw a promising young teammate choose
nothing over rot, his blood ribbed as bark in the bathtub we drank
beer from. We ate oranges on the run, played on. Fans barbecued sideline
couches for heat. Butchers prowled back paddocks for the postgame meat pack
in the eyes of October hail. The grass whined under the dragging gut hooks.
The boys dug in, inches won and lost. Possession became gold, the ball slippery
with slicked citrus and sweat. I once saw a promising young teammate drop
himself from contention, while fathers’ gullets choked against mothballed ties.
There is no autumn in New Zealand, if there was, it would come in March,
when the sky drools a difficult blue, as young grapes fatten on the vine and boys
kill themselves so they won’t die men, while pullets snap their beaks on frozen dirt.
It’s enough to make a new mother cry. But there is no sorrow in New Zealand,
when the game is on; the referee’s calves harden like a whetstone, his unblown
whistle dry, mascots go at each other in the stands, there’s always something to watch.