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Sport loses one of the greats - my good mate

Expert
12th November, 2014
9

I buried a mate last Friday, way ahead of his time. And in doing so, the sporting world that all of us on The Roar inhabit, became a little poorer.

“Burnsy” was not a champion in the sense that he was a performer at elite level, a national representative or world record holder. Nor was he one of those crusty stalwarts who swept the club changing sheds after every training or manned the bar as a 50-year committee-man.

He was simply a champion bloke who lived and breathed sport, as a willing participant and an eager fan.

Born in Taumarunui, in the ruggedly beautiful King Country, Burnsy did what seemingly every other lad did growing up – played rugby and cricket as main sports, a bit later blending in squash and golf, and then later again, a boat for water skiing and fishing.

And did I mention a keen love of the punt? And a drink?

A move to Wellington for work developed into an intense love affair for the Wellington Hurricanes and Lions, and the roller coaster of highs and lows Wellington rugby sides have an uncanny ability to subject their fans to.

Earlier this year another mate and myself arranged to travel back from Australia to spend a few days with Burnsy to celebrate the end of his treatment for removal of a tumour, and indeed, leading up to this all appeared to be on track for a successful recovery.

However the day before we arrived he received a new diagnosis, one that unexpectedly and unequivocally sealed his fate. No doubt needing some time with his partner to digest this and make plans for whatever time they had left, they both insisted on us following through with the visit, and hosted us generously for four days, as if all was normal.

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What was normal was, on the Saturday, sitting through three ITM Cup semi-finals, followed by the All Blacks vs Wallabies final test from Brisbane, and then getting up on Sunday to dissect the replay. With a timer set for the Caulfield Cup program so that we never missed a race. As tired as he was, Burnsy was in his element.

His mind was as sharp as ever, his rugby analysis on the money, his sense of humour ever present, and his memory and recall of old times keen and accurate.

But his body was failing him, he was visibly ageing before our very eyes and it was no surprise to be back on the plane to NZ within two weeks for the final act.

The Taumarunui Rugby Club is situated at the confluence of the Whanganui and Ongarue rivers, a beautiful little spot known as Cherry Grove, a fitting place for what proved to be a massive send-off. He was a great connector of people and an immensely popular guy.

Many stories were recounted – Burnsy for example was one of the last of the old-school, a big, hulking, goal-kicking lock forward, from straight on, with the square toed boots.

New Zealand rugby followers will fondly remember Stu Wilson and Bernie Fraser running in countless tries for Wellington in the 1980’s, with a sign erected next to one corner flag “Bernie’s Corner” to mark the regularity of Fraser’s try-scoring in that spot.

At a local seven-a-side tournament around the same era, the big fella found himself seagulling on the outside and ran in a couple of tries, which prompted us to make and carry a large sign to place there, “Burnsy’s Corner.”

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When in the next game he touched down again right in front of it, and in the game following as well, we were all delirious. Reminiscing with him at his house, I mentioned that it was a shame that nobody had a photo of him scoring in front of his sign, to which he replied, “it wouldn’t have been any good anyway, I was moving too fast!”

I recalled opening the batting with him against a Te Kuiti XI, which at the time contained a very useful left-arm opening bowler for Northern Districts, Rod Griffiths. He was sharp enough at the best of times, but on a dodgy pitch, with a Coruba hangover, he was unplayable.

Try as he might Burnsy couldn’t lay a bat on anything, delivery after delivery either fizzing past his head, or hitting him somewhere on the body. After a few overs of this, concerned for his welfare, I walked down the pitch to check on him.

“Don’t worry son”, he said, “I’ve nearly got him tired out!”

In the showers later, his body was peppered with red and purple bruises, as if he’d been tied to a stake and shot at point blank range with a paintball gun. I’m surprised that the undertaker didn’t mention that the bruises were still there.

Burnsy’s love for the punt was unfortunately not marked by any notable success. Inspired by his brother’s part-ownership of champion Our Maizcay, his foray into thoroughbred ownership was punctuated by more modest horses collecting trophies such as maiden races at Otaki-Maori and Wanganui Racing Clubs.

Being an owner myself, we watched each other’s horses closely, always following a rule to have something on no matter how dim the prospects, with Burnsy’s standard bet being $10 each way.

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Last week, four days after his passing, I went along to Melbourne Cup day for the first time as an owner, with an unraced two-year old filly in the first race. Burnsy would have been thrilled for me to have a runner on Cup day. Although the filly acquitted herself well she was unplaced – but at least my mate saved himself twenty bucks.

At his wake a plan was hatched for a memorial golf tournament, amongst his mates, to be held every two years on the anniversary of his passing, at the Taumarunui Golf Club. Both as a mark of respect and a means to keep people connected it’s a wonderful idea which I’m sure will be a roaring success.

A few of us got started early with a round on the weekend – for anybody passing through the central North Island do yourself a favour and visit what is a great layout and wonderfully presented course; far superior to many city or big name courses.

Death is a great leveller, it comes to all of us in many forms, be it family, friends or acquaintances. How we process and cope with it is individual to each of us, but it is a necessary mechanism to ensure that we all move forward with our lives, no matter the sorrow we endure.

To that extent Burnsy is no more or less special than anybody else. But on Friday, as we filled in Burnsy’s grave and trampled the pumice soil down it was a time to reflect on our loss. The loss of a loyal and great mate, and the loss of a great sportsman.

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