Ross Alexander Mills

Surname:

Mills

First names:

Ross Alexander

Clubs:

Pahiatua

Provincial teams:

Bush 1965, 1966, 1967, 1968, 1969, 1970
Bush, Wairarapa combined 1965, 1966
Wairarapa Bush 1970

Provincial captain:

Bush 1967, 1968, 1969

Biography:

1965: 1/5 - 7 games
1965: Bu/Wai combined: 1/5 - 1 game
1966: 1/5 - 9 games - 1 try (3 pts)
1966: Bu/Wai combined: 2/5 - 1 game
1967: 1/5 - 12 games - 4 P, 3 DG (21 pts)
1968: 1/5 - 9 games - 1 DG (3 pts)
1969: 1/5 - 10 games - 2 tries, 4 C, 1 P, 1 DG (20 pts)
1970: Bu: 1/5 - 7 games
1970: WB: 1/5 - 2 games

Sub Total: Bus: 54 games (47 pts): WB: 2 games
Others: 2 games

Total: 58 games (49 pts)

Endorsement

When the battle scars have faded
And the truth becomes a lie
And the weekend smell of liniment
Could almost make you cry.
When the last rucks well behind you
And the man that ran now walks
It doesn’t matter who you are
The mirror sometimes talks
Have a good hard look old son!
The melons not that great
The snoz that takes a sharp turn sideways
Used to be dead straight
You’re an advert for arthritis
You’re a thoroughbred gone lame
Then you ask yourself the question
Why the hell you played the game?
Was there logic in the head knocks?
In the corks and in the cuts?
Did common sense get pushed aside?
By manliness and guts?
Do you sometimes sit and wonder
Why your time would often pass
In a tangled mess of bodies
With your head up someone’s......?
With a thumb hooked up your nostril
Scratching gently on your brain
And an overgrown Neanderthal
Rejoicing in your pain!
Mate – you must recall the jersey
That was shredded into rags
Then the soothing sting of Dettol
On a back engraved with tags!
It’s almost worth admitting
Though with some degree of shame
That your wife was right in asking
Why the hell you played the game?
Why you’d always rock home legless
Like a cow on roller skates
After drinking at the clubhouse
With your low down drunken mates
Then you’d wake up – check your wallet
Not a solitary coin
Drink Berocca by the bucket
Throw an ice pack on your groin
Copping Sunday morning sermons
About boozers being losers
While you limped like Quasimodo
With a half a thousand bruises!
Yes – an urge to hug the porcelain
And curse Sambuca’s name
Would always pose the question
Why the hell you played the game!
And yet with every wound re-opened
As you grimly reminisce it
Comes the most compelling feeling yet
God, you bloody miss it!
From the first time that you laced a boot
And tightened every stud
That virus known as rugby
Has been living in your blood
When you dreamt it when you played it
All the rest took second fiddle
Now you’re standing on the sideline
But your hearts still in the middle
And no matter where you travel
You can take it as expected
There will always be a breed of people
Hopelessly infected
If there’s a teammate, then you’ll find him
Like a gravitating force
With a common understanding
And a beer or three, of course
And as you stand there telling lies
Like it was yesterday old friend
You’ll know that if you had the chance
You’d do it all again
You see – that’s the thing with rugby
It will always be the same
And that, I guarantee
Is why the hell you played the game!

By Rupert McCall

Credit: Sutton & Epsom Bs

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