Run it? Or take the points?

There’s less than 20 minutes left in the national secondary schools’ 1st XV quarter-final between Wesley College and Mt Albert Grammar. Wesley, ahead 14–7, get a penalty 15 metres from Mt Albert’s line. Straight out in front. Wesley’s hulking No.8, Sekope Kepu, grips the ball in one hand, and wonders what to do next.

Three times in as many minutes Wesley have charged at the Mt Albert line, only to be pushed back. Kepu’s starting to wonder if there’s any way through. These Mt Albert backs are strong. They won the sevens title this year, thrashing Wesley 24–7 in the semis, and their fullback, David Smith, one of the most gifted players on the field, has already turned his opposite inside out, scoring a slashing try in the first half.

What are you gonna do, Sekope?

“Take the kick!” screams Wesley’s coach, Chris Bean.

“Take the tap!” yells Wesley’s assistant coach, Waisake Sotutu, ex-Auckland winger and one-time NPC Player of the Year.

But there’s no way Kepu can hear his coaches. Wesley’s support posse, around 100 boys clad in black-and-white-striped blazers, are in full voice, chanting dementedly: “Wes-leeey! Aaaaah! Pow-waaaah!”

Kepu, who has the school crest tattooed on his shoulder, knows he’s playing not only for the quarter-final, for the championship, but also for a legacy. Arguably the best rugby school in the country, Wesley’s won the national title four times since 1990, an astonishing achievement for a school of only 300. Its alumni includes Sotutu, perhaps the most talented player never to play for the All Blacks, and current All Blacks, Casey Laulala and Sitiveni Sitivatu. Then there’s the most famous Wesleyan of all. Jonah Lomu played more than 100 games for the 1st XV, scoring tries almost at will, sometimes laughing as he ambled forward, ball under an arm, a visiting forward pack being carried along on his back. Like a man playing boys they’d say.

But this year’s squad is no match for those great Wesley teams of the past — there’s no Lomu, for one thing, and coach Bean fretted at the start of the season that his boys were too small. The forwards, critics said, were lazy and out of shape. “I thought this year we wouldn’t be strong enough to compete at this level,” Bean admits. But they’ve cruised through to the quarter-finals, regardless, racking up an intimidating set of victories.

So now Kepu’s faced with a crucial game-changing, potentially season-altering decision. Run? Or kick?

A few years ago, against Wesley’s great rival, St Stephens — a game in which Kepu’s brother also played No. 8— Wesley peppered the St Stephen’s line for half an hour but couldn’t break through. Three times they were held up over the line. No matter, they were ahead by six points. But then in injury time, someone lost the ball, and Wesley watched as the St Stephen’s backs threw several ridiculous cut-out passes, flinging the ball way out wide to a winger who ran 105 metres to steal the game. Wesley lost by a point. If they lose today, it’s not only the end of their season but, for 16 of the 24 boys due to leave later in the year, the end of their high school careers.

So take the points, Sekope.

He runs. Mt Albert’s forwards are clustered on one side of the field. Kepu sees a five versus three overlap. He pulls his headgear down tight over bunched corn-braids, taps the ball, and runs wide to draw the defence. Only, the defence doesn’t follow. Without breaking stride, he brushes the Mt Albert winger aside like he’s straightening a bedspread. Kepu balletically places the ball just inside the dead-ball line, then joyously wags his finger skyward. It might just be Wesley’s day.

Established by the Methodist Church in 1844, Wesley claims to be the oldest school in the country. Ten minutes out of Pukekohe, Wesley’s rural location — its neighbours are farms, market gardens and the Paerata dairy factory — is a long way from the state housing neighbourhoods where most of its students grew up. The boarding school’s roll is predominantly Polynesian, reflecting the Methodist Church’s close links with the Pacific — of 300 students (including 38 girls), 39 per cent are Tongan, 38 per cent Maori, 10 per cent Samoan and four per cent Fijian. The standing joke is that the 1st XV always includes a token Pakeha to dispense oranges at half-time, but this year there isn’t a single white boy. Instead, the squad is composed of eight Tongans, six Fijians, five Samoans, four Maori, and a Nuiean.

Many are from tough backgrounds and can afford the tuition and boarding fees only because the school’s beneficent trust board (which owns a hunk of Hillsborough and industrial Penrose) subsidises each student’s bed 50 per cent. Decile 1 Wesley also gives special assistance to orphans and the disadvantaged.

Wesley is an anomaly in an affluent, mostly white farming community. In the early 90s, during a local derby with Pukekohe High, the referee was heard in conversation with his line-judges referring to the Wesley players as “coconuts” and “coons”. This year against Waiuku, several players told me, the team’s charmingly polite Fijian lock David Qaranivalu — David Q’ — was called a monkey and an ape (Wesley won by 60 points). There are often whispers about the age of Wesley players, the implication being that they are men posing as boys; when the player’s eligibility is proven, the complaint becomes that they are brutish bullies, relying on their bulk to compensate for their lack of brains.

It’s true Wesley’s players are often bigger than their opponents. A few years ago, a front page story in the New Zealand Herald noted with wonderment that the Wesley 1st XV forward pack was heavier than the All Blacks. This wasn’t especially noteworthy: when Sotutu was a student, his under-15 team had a bigger front row than the All Blacks.

Certainly, Wesley haven’t endeared themselves to their region by routinely humiliating their opponents. This year, they destroyed Manurewa 108–0 in the Counties semi-finals, before easing past Rosehill 41–3 in the final. In 2002 and 2003, the 1st XV didn’t even bother to enter the Counties schools competition, instead competing in — and winning — the more senior, more difficult under-21 championship. Not that that left other schools a chance: Wesley’s third-string team won the schools’ competition.

“We are like brothers here,” says Uluakifolau ‘Folau’ Fifta. “Most of the team has been at the school since 2000. We’ve grown up here together. We have an incredibly strong bond. Nothing can break it.”

Hardened by their outsider status, the students take solace in rugby, school and God. The Pacific Island boys are especially religious: grace is said before each meal, chapel attended every day. Many are conversant with the Bible, and will recite the stories of Jonah and the Whale, Samson and Delilah, David and Goliath. One boy I spoke to described Wesley as like David: small in size, mighty in spirit, seemingly favoured by providence.

While Wesley’s main rivals boast vastly larger rolls — Kelson has 1070 students, Mt Albert Grammar 2065 (1353 of whom are boys), and Auckland Grammar 2426 — there are advantages to coming from a boarding school where everyone knows each other. “We are like brothers here,” says Uluakifolau ‘Folau’ Fifta, a blindside flanker who has been at Wesley for five years. “Most of the team has been at the school since 2000. We’ve grown up here together. We have an incredibly strong bond. Nothing can break it.”

“We all room together in the dorms,” says the combative halfback Josh Davies, whose cousin, Tipuna Ropotini, is the first-five-eighth. Asked if he has any interests outside rugby, Davies seems momentarily puzzled, then answers, “I just like to hang out with the boys. Go shopping with the boys. Just, you know, be together with the boys.”

“The only time we are ever apart,” he says, “is if we go home for the holidays. It gives us a big edge over the other teams.”

“It means everything to me, getting into this Wesley 1st XV,” says Folau, who made the team in his final year of school. “Every day, after tea, we’d have chant practice so we can support the team. I remember when I was a junior, a senior said to me, ‘One day this could be you, Folau. You could be playing for the firsts and the whole school will be chanting for you’.”

At half-time, coach Bean tells his team he’s noticed a weakness in the Mt Albert defensive line. “Watch their blindside,” he says. “See how they’re exposed. I want us to attack through that channel.”

Mt Albert’s captain, Chris Lawrey, an imperious blindside flanker and Northern Regions rep, is repeatedly being exposed by his own defence. His own number eight has a habit of bursting from the back of the scrum and running straight at the Wesley defence — a habit that’s seen him too often buried at the bottom of a ruck. Wesley’s defenders have been regularly stealing the ball, leaving Lawrey and a winger as the sole defenders.

Not long into the second half, Wesley’s inside centre, Tevita Lepolo, nicknamed TX after “The Terminator”, scores an extraordinary try. Tackled midfield on the Mt Albert 22, Lepolo staggers sideways like a sozzled King Kong, several defenders hanging off him, but he refuses to go to the ground. He lurches forward, taking leaden steps, dragging Mt Albert defenders with him, until he crashes over the tryline in the corner.

The Wesleyan supporters are delirious. “Too Big! Too Black! Too Strong!”

Mt Albert’s resolve is broken. The game threatens to become a rout.

But then, perhaps out of fatigue, perhaps out of complacency, Wesley ease off. The bloodletting ceases for 15 minutes.

Mt Albert introduce a substitute, a blond-haired white boy, slim as a reed. He’s met with jeers of “Fresh meat! Fresh meat!” Bravely, he tries to tackle Sekope Kepu. The No.8 falls on top of him and the blond boy’s ankle buckles. There’s a sharp, sickening crack. He screams in pain. The game stops. A spectator drapes an old duffel coat over him as he lies on the ground, gripping his coach’s hand.

Another spectator sees me taking notes and implores me not to mention this incident. “Mums won’t let their kids play rugby if they read about that sort of thing.”

The boy’s stretchered off the field, and Wesley resume their assault. Winger Iliesa Samusamuvodre streaks down the sideline from halfway, points mockingly at the Mt Albert player tearing across to cover him, then theatrically dives across the line for the final try. Wesley win 47–7.

The Wesley players gather in a circle in the middle of the field, each resting on one knee, eyes closed, and pray. Solemnities concluded, the team are engulfed by their supporters.

Kepu sees his brother, Sione, once the school’s superstar, and gives him a hug. “You played well today, bro,” Sione tells him. “How’s the knee?”

“All right,” Sekope says.

“So you live to fight another day?” Sione says.

“Yeah, another week,” Sekope says. “Then it’s do or die time again.”

He laughs, gives his brother a homeboy’s handshake. “But now it’s KFC time, bro.”

In the changing sheds after the game, assistant coach Waisake Sotutu is in a contemplative mood. Several unseen voices sing Shoshaloza. Their rich harmony is interrupted by the ringing of Sotutu’s cellphone.

“Feilding’s been beaten by Hastings,” he announces. The team are happy to hear it.

“What? Don’t you want to play Feilding again?” Sotutu chides. “Don’t you want revenge?”

Four months ago, Feilding Agricultural College handed Wesley their only loss of the season. They still haven’t mentally recovered. Talk to the players and they’ll tell you that they’ve learned from it, that it won’t happen again, but their rationalisations lack conviction. Even now, they’re not quite sure how they lost. Some blame the fact the team was separated before the game. “We didn’t want to be billeted,” Tipuna says. “We were forced to. The bond was broken.”

“Key players didn’t play well,” Sotutu says. “Guys did things out of character. Tevita was kicking the ball all the time — he’d never kicked it in his life. And Tipuna was missing kicks from right in front.”

“The field at Feilding was shocking,” Davies says. “It was muddy as.”

Some of the team reckon the Feilding coach told the groundsman to water the ground before the game.

“Our boys, being as big as they are, just got mired in the mud,” Sotutu says.

Folau isn’t buying it. “There was too much worrying about the field conditions,” he says. “Yeah, we were sliding around and stuff. But it was the same for both teams. We just played badly, that’s all.”

Wesley lose so rarely that a loss is never forgotten. Sotutu vividly recalls his last game for the school, the national secondary schools final against Kelston. Wesley lost thanks to an injury-time drop-kick. “I’m still gutted to this day,” he says.

Sotutu’s phone rings again. Wesley will play Hamilton Boys High in the semi-final. Because they won today by such a large margin, they get to play at home.

It’s Wednesday, a hundred hours out from match day. Practice is going badly. Wesley’s number one field is an elevated plain exposed to the wind, and in bad weather — like today — it’s a horrible place to be. The third member of the team’s coaching triumvirate, Saua Leaupepe, is worried about the boys’ health. Some are coughing. David Q, squinting into the rain as he waits for the ball, should be at home in bed, so bad is his flu. But they have to get the lineout right.

The team work through a dozen lineouts, but the tap-backs are messy, the ball dropped far too often. Leaupepe tries to rally his increasingly disconsolate players. “Hey, c’mon boys,” he says. “Shitty run, shitty weather. Don’t be too down about it.”

Leaupepe and Bean are working out a new defensive system designed to negate Hamilton’s strength — their halfback. “They’ve got a New Zealand halfback so we reckon he’ll be pretty speedy around the scrum,” Bean says. “We need to get our defenders out quickly to counter him. Traditionally, number six would hit number eight, and number eight would drift wide and help cover number nine. But we’re gonna get number six, Folau, to drift wide. And Sekope will cover the inside channel and hit number eight.”

Bean calls the team in. “Listen up. Hamilton are coming up tomorrow to check out the field and facilities. They’re coming here with four busloads of supporters. That’s how serious they are. Keep yourself isolated from them. Don’t go down to the field to check them out.”

Later Bean will tell his fellow coaches that he intends to send some “runts” down to practice when Hamilton turn up. Sotutu knows this trick well. Back in his day, the coach would send the halfback to meet the opposition team, wearing a prop’s number three jersey.

Back in the changing sheds, you notice the team and coaches have pinned their year’s goals, scribbled on torn foolscap, to the wall. Most of the players have written platitudes about doing their best for the team, being there for their mates in good times and bad. Folau’s goals are to “increase his speed” and to “grow taller”. Douglas H, the team’s diminutive waterboy, aims to “support the team with water”. Josh, who admits to having a short temper, has the most detailed list:

1. Destroy every opposing team
2. Demolish the Auckland sides
3. Intimidate and break down every halfback
4. Make teams know they’re inferior to us
5. Win NZ Sec Schools title in 2004

Later, I ask Josh over fish and chips — he folds his chips into chip butties, three slices of bread on each side — why he feels so antagonistic towards Auckland teams. “They Auckland sides rubbish us,” he says. “[We are] the poor little brother from Counties-Manukau. They wouldn’t let us in the Auckland comp. We were turned down by [Auckland Grammar] for a traditional game.”

“Scared, I reckon,” he adds.

Josh was selected for the 1st XV last year, but contracted osteomyelitus, a bone infection, shortly after the season began. He nearly died. Couldn’t walk for months. The day he was discharged from Middlemore Hospital, Wesley lost to De La Salle in the national quarterfinals. He hasn’t forgotten it. “I want to do it for those boys from last year,” he says. “Fulfil their dreams of winning the title.”

As Josh tucks into a second plate of fish and chips, 100 metres away in the student lounge the rest of the school starts practising haka and chants. The Wesleyan chants — a fusion of Pasifikan gospel, traditional Maori songs and African beats — have been “remixed” over generations. You’ll hear them in chapel, in the school showers and on the sideline of Field No. 1 as the school exhorts its 1st XV to greater efforts. There’s the inevitable We Will Rock You variation: “You’ve got mud on your face, you’re a big disgrace… our 1st XV’s gonna waste your face.” And so on.

“Every Friday after tea we do to the haka to the school, then the school do it back to us,” Josh says. “Then every member of the team says something, thanks the supporters. We finish with chants and songs, then the whole school embraces. We’re very close. I know every person in the school inside out.”

Semi-final day. A few hours before kickoff, overlooking the main field in the sixth-form dormitory, Karl Manuel, the self-appointed DJ in charge of “atmosphere creation”, is putting together his playlist. He’s propped an old wooden speaker on a chair outside the window so that his stereo can be heard across the college grounds. The trick, he explains, is to start slowly — Boyz II Men, The Doobie Brothers — and build up to the hardcore gangsta rappers like Dr Dre. “That fires the team up,” he says.

I ask what he plans to play just before the team take the field.

“Whakaaria Mai,” he says without hesitation.

His mates, leaning over the dorm partitions and eavesdropping on our conversation, crack up. “Eeeeeeow! That’s a hymn, bro.”

Manuel looks hurt, even a little cross. “No! That’s what get’s the boys going,” he says. “That’s what gets their hearts pumping.”

While Manuel decides the music, the team are warming up in the school gym. Bai, the hooker, takes lazy, looping jumpshots at a basketball hoop while Josh — nicknamed Bullets because of his lightning pass — spirals rugby balls towards Tipuna. Two other boys sit in the bleachers listening to a discman, one earphone each. No-one speaks; there’s only the sound of balls being passed and caught. One of the locks, lying on his back stretching, begins softly singing:

Pass it here, pass it there,
Oh pass it everywhere,
We are the greatest team of all…
C’mon Wesley College, do it again

“All rather sombre today,” Bean says.

Sotutu calls for order — “Four corners!” — and the players burst into action. They break into four groups, each standing behind an orange cone at the edge of a three-metre square, and run diagonally toward the opposite cone. Sotutu watches contentedly. “Sharp boys, sharp.”

I ask Sotutu what the backline’s tactics will be. “I dunno,” he laughs. “We just try and catch the bloody ball and run.”

I ask Sotutu what the backline’s tactics will be. “I dunno,” he laughs. “We just try and catch the bloody ball and run.”

Time for another drill. “Who’s on the shields?” Bean shouts. Four players take their positions behind heavy foam pads, ready for their teammates to come crashing headlong into them.

“Smash it, Josh!” Folau yells as the fiery halfback thumps into him. “Hit it low, man. Hit it low, here.”

“Don’t let them come to you,” Bean urges his four defenders. “You go to them. Smash!”

One after another, they thump into the pads. Thump, thump, thump.

Bean looks at his watch. “Okay boys, it’s time. Downstairs.”

Eight minutes until kick-off. In the sheds, Bean offers some final words of motivation. “This is our Grand Final today,” he says. “Our last stand. If we don’t win today, there’s no training on Monday. No game next week. That’s it. It’s over.”

There are a few nervous coughs. “This is the second fight of the heavyweight belt,” Leaupepe adds. “You played your best game of the year last week. Be proud of that. But you can do even better this week. As a team, you’re only just starting to realise how good you can be.”

He pauses a moment, lets this sink in. “Anything 10 metres from our line,” he says, “we play safe. Just get the ball out. Anything from our 10 metres to the tryline, it’s a green light. Try anything!”

The coaches step outside and the players huddle. “No-one’s gonna break through our line,” growls the team captain, Sione Lea.

“No one!” choruses Sekope.

“This is our backyard,” Lea says. “No one comes here and pushes us around.”

The first half is dreary, messy. Wesley are playing into the wind and seem befuddled. As he did against Mt Albert last week, TX rumbles through the opposition backline, setting up a try for his captain, but Tipuna has two clearing kicks charged down and Hamilton respond with a try of their own.

The only moment of brilliance comes from the high-shouldered, long-striding Folau, five minutes before halftime. Hamilton’s fullback, seeing Wesley caught in a ruck, spears a kick through the middle. It bobbles around two metres of the Wesley line. Folau, the only defender anywhere, slides onto the ball, scoops it up one-handed, stands upright, and uses his other arm to fend away two tacklers who immediately hit him. Felled by a third tackler, Folau releases the ball a metre from his line, where it’s snatched by one of the attackers. The Hamiltonian lunges for the try but Folau somehow holds him up, wrenches the ball out of his arms, and manages to stay on his feet until his teammates arrive. This all happens inside two seconds.

At halftime, Wesley are lucky to be down only 10–7. Leaupepe subs off David Q, the flu-stricken Fijian second-rower, moving Folau to lock. Bean takes his No.8, Kepu, to one side and pleads: “I want you to do more running.”

As they take to the field for the second half, one of the supporters, noticing a black Mercedes SUV parked on the bank, cries, “Look! Jonah’s here! Jonah’s back!”

Kepu, his coach’s words still in his ear, breaks from the scrum 20 metres from the Hamilton line and scores. Now, the team are inspired. Folau, playing in his new position, seems to win every lineout. Wesley attacks sweep from one side of the field to the other, then back again. They score. They score again. Then, with just a couple of minutes left to play, Kepu cuts back through Hamilton’s drifting defence and slips a one-handed ball to Folau. Eyes flashing, Folau crosses the line, touching down in front of the exultant Wesleyans.

The final score: 34–10.

In centre field, the Wesley team remove their jerseys, face their support whanau and perform a maniacal haka. The school then haka back.

“That’s the best game Folau has ever played,” a beaming Bean tells me after.

“I didn’t realise how good a player he’s become,” Leaupepe adds. “He plays way above his size.”

The coaches can be barely heard over DJ Manuel’s stereo, now blasting ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’.

Two days before the final, the team are having lunch in the school’s dining hall. Suddenly, there’s a commotion as a souped-up, metallic-blue Skyline pulls into the carpark. The boys have seen this car before. They know the driver. They rush to the dining room window, mouths agape, to see if it really is him.

“Calm down, boys,” scolds coach Bean. “C’mon. Sit down and wait for Jonah to come inside.”

The greatest Wesleyan of them all takes his place at the front of the room, leaning against the servery. He has encouraging words. “One of the very best experiences you can have in rugby is to represent your school,” he tells them. “For me, playing for the Firsts was second only to playing for the All Blacks.”

He wishes the boys well. “Don’t play the game beforehand in your head,” he instructs. You’ll tire yourselves out from thinking too much. Play for each other on Saturday.”

Jonah leads the boys outside to his car, cranks the stereo up, plays them some beats. He starts the car, gratuitously revs the engine, then, with the boys whooping, does a burnout and drives off…

He asks the boys if they have any questions.

“Jonah! Are you really coming back?” one of the boys asks excitedly. Is he going to play rugby again after his kidney transplant?

Yes, Jonah says. In fact, he’s on his way to training right now. He leads the boys outside to his car, cranks the stereo up, plays them some beats. He starts the car, gratuitously revs the engine, then, with the boys whooping, does a burnout and drives off.

“Jonah’s off to training,” one of the boys says knowingly.

“Yeah,” says another, even more sagely. “He’s gonna do 15 three-minute rounds of kickboxing.”