The Ranfurly Shield is a tart. More Kiwi blokes have slept with her than you could point a stick at. And a bloody big stick at that! Mind you, she's not everybody's gal. Generally she only makes herself available to members of the team who successfully challenge for her favours. Even bigprop forwards with hardly a romantic bone in their bodies have whispered sweet nothings in her ear. Invariably with the smell of stale beer on their breaths. Wives, partners and mistresses, of course, despise her. Being vanquished to the spare bed for the sake of an old sheila with pock marks all over her front is not exactly a happy thought, is it? Especially when you know the man in your life will never be the same now that his fantasy woman has actually materialised. Imagine then the trepidation in the mind of your humble correspondent when I actually came face to face with the scarlet lady this week. Journalists, they say, are cynical creatures. Trophies come and trophies go. A rugby goddess is a very different trophy though. Her charm was overpowering. One look at her and I knew she had to be mine. History reeked through her oval-shaped body. Sweat poured off my brow and I plucked up the courage to invite her home. Amazingly she accepted, locking herself into her wooden box and inviting me to carry her to my abode. And once there the electricity between us came to the inevitable conclusion. She stayed the night and I woke a happy man, her ampleness still cradled in my arms. Next morning she was gone, away to find another suitor. But she will be back, next Thursday to be exact. Then 15 Wairarapa-Bush rugby players will be competing for her attention. Young, virile fellows all. My message to them is go for it no holds barred. She is well and truly worth the effort.
