Billy Bush: A front row view on life

By Bill Bush

Bill Bush has a life story unlike any other All Black. A kina diver at primary school, a labourer at the Marsden Point refinery at 14, it took a promise of a Fanta and a pie to get him to play rugby, a sport he initially reckoned was too rough for him. The reluctant warrior became a fearsome, revered All Black prop, and captained and coached the Maori All Blacks. His insights on rugby, and its place in New Zealand life, are unique. The journey Bill takes readers on is not all about playing rugby but explains his whakapapa (lineage), his upbringing, his beliefs, and hopefully demonstrates that there are other ways to get on in life and to be successful.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Upstart Press
• Release date: Jun 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9781776940240

Bill Bush

Bill Bush was born in Hawke’s Bay, went to school in Bay of Plenty and Northland but played all his provincial rugby for Canterbury, for whom he achieved a century of games between 1971 and 1982. A legendary hard man, Billy Bush played 37 games for the All Blacks between 1974 and 1979. As well, has been a wonderful contributor to Māori rugby, both as a player for the Māori All Blacks, and also as a coach and administrator.

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Introduction: standing tall

Like many spirited non-academic Māori boys, in my youth I had not been bothered about studying at school. The outdoors, swimming and my social life held more of a fascination for me. When I was young, I didn’t care much for the sport of rugby union at all. Known at school as Kingi Bush, I represented Apanui Primary School and Whakatāne High School at swimming, but as it transpired the vagaries of life were to deal me other sporting cards. One of those cards would later have the New Zealand Rugby Football Union presume that my name was William Kingi Bush. I am not actually William Kingi Bush. My correct name is Kingita Ngahere (Bush) Te Pohe.

If, like me, you left school with a PhD, a degree as a Post-hole Digger, I can tell you that I gained hope with perseverance and hard work.

Sixty years on I look back and wonder — if I had put in half the effort to studying at school that I did pushing my body to the limit to become an All Black, could I have been a lawyer or had a similar white-collar career?

Should you be expecting to see only my rugby career as All Black No. 738 covered in this book, you will be disappointed, but I make no apology for that. The journey I want to take you on is not all about playing rugby but explains my whakapapa, my upbringing, my beliefs, and it hopefully demonstrates that there are other ways to get on in life and to be successful.

My father always wanted me to play rugby, but I never did while he was alive. I was not introduced as a player to the oval ball until I played my first game for a Wairaka Marae third-grade team in Whakatāne at 13 years of age, for a pie and a small bottle of Fanta. My next game was for a Whakatāne St Joseph’s side a year later, but I only agreed to play based on getting a ride in the coach’s new Vauxhall car.

At 14 I moved from Whakatāne to Whangārei to live with my sister. They wouldn’t let me into the socials at the Otangarei Rugby Club in Whangārei unless I joined the club and played for one of their sides. Much to my displeasure, I paid the three-quid joining fee, and they put me in the front row as a prop in their senior side.

It was with this club that I got selected for the Whangārei representative side by the former All Blacks halfback, Lindsay Townsend. At the time rugby still did not feature highly on my personal radar, but I was getting noticed.

On 20 October 1968 my mum passed away, and I went home only to discover that my whānau were selling the house.

It was a turning point in my life, one of many caused by an event beyond my control.

Good luck would often play a part, like climbing on a ferry in Wellington thinking I was going to Christchurch but ending up in Picton. Then, in 1969, hopping on a New Zealand Road Services bus that was heading for the wilds of the West Coast.

It was a trip that changed my life. The Canterbury Māori team were off to play the West Coast on a one-game tour that showed me that this was a great way to get around. I learned that if you played rugby with a bit of determination, you might get selected for another trip away.

Seeing new places was the catalyst, and that insight was to introduce me to new adventures and new friends, along with seeing me selected to play for the All Blacks four years later.

Today young Māori seem to think that joining a gang is a way of making money, of getting ahead in life. Drugs have damaged too many of our rangatahi, with many ending up on the scrap heap or in prison.

As a result, some people tend to quickly forget the great Māori sports men and women and Māori who have excelled in other fields. Many young Māori have a natural flair, being musically, artistically and physically talented.

If you’re athletically inclined, hard work can see you achieve your aspirations no matter what sport, or level, you play at. You only need to read Joseph Romanos’s book 100 Māori Sports Heroes to realise that. Like me, you may not be academic, or you were brought up on the hoof away from the big smoke of the cities only to find, when you got to the big town, you had doubts about your ability or your future.

Sport introduced me to new friends and teammates, and in Māori sides to a culture that taught me a lot spiritually about my heritage, which allowed my natural abilities to shine.

Becoming an All Black was one of the high points in my life, but it was not the thing that initially inspired me, nor is it where my heart naturally lies. Māori rugby holds my interest and concerns in that regard.

It still has me reflecting on where the silver fern brand and the haka came from initially, and whose intellectual property it truly still is. How the Treaty of Waitangi should be interpreted in the modern professional game also poses questions for me, and perhaps this is something our national union might like to reflect on.

In this vein, many believe that there should not be Māori-only sides in New Zealand, but I strongly disagree with that stance. There’s a lot of home-grown Māori rugby talent in this country who play with the mana of being Māori, while embracing their culture and team spirit in sides where other Māori flourish.

South Africa has a policy of reaching a 50/50 balance of Black and Coloured players with Whites in their national side. I’m not advocating a racial quota like that, but I would like to see a better balance in selection of Māori talent in our All Blacks side, and the protection and fostering of the New Zealand Māori All Blacks, and Māori rugby in general, when considered alongside other Pacific Island nations.

If you’re a young Māori, my advice is to be proud of who you are, along with your whānau, tīpuna and whakapapa, but don’t carry your heritage around as a racial chip on your shoulder. Cherish your spiritual and cultural differences, but don’t fall into the trap of believing in your own self-importance or in any form of racial bias which achieves nothing in the long term.

Don’t get trapped into seeing the grass as being greener on the other side of the fence. Stand tall and proud alongside others, enjoying the simple things in life along with your successes, however small they may be. Embrace the things you enjoy as a valued New Zealander by focusing on simple goals with honesty, hard work and determination.

CHAPTER 1

Selection and start

Making the All Blacks

I was amazed to hear my name read out when the chairman of the New Zealand Rugby Football Union, Jack Sullivan, announced the All Blacks team to tour Australia in 1974.

We’d just played a trial on Athletic Park, Wellington and were all crowded into the function room under the old stand to hear the team. It sounds strange, but initially I wasn’t too fazed about playing for the All Blacks. To me it was just another game of rugby. That attitude did change, however, and I started to feel good about my achievement.

I guess things started to sink in that night when we went to see Ghanaian boxer Joe Tetteh fighting Kiwi Joey Santos in the Wellington Town Hall. Blow me down, one of the first people I’d see was an old rugby coach of mine from Whangārei, Bob White, who had come to see me play in the trial game, and to support Charlie Dunn, who was on the boxing undercard, fighting for the national heavyweight title. I’d known Charlie Dunn as a great boxer from the days when he trained at Fowler’s Gym in Whangārei.

But if I hadn’t been affected immediately by the announcement at Athletic Park, that certainly wasn’t the case with my good mate Bob Barber, a big, tough No. 8, who I’d played with on the 1973 New Zealand Māori tour of the Pacific.

He was sitting next to me as Jack Sullivan read out the team, and I hadn’t realised Bob was such an emotional chap. When his name was called before mine, the TV camera focused on both of us. Bob burst into tears, leaning on me. I didn’t think it was that bad being selected, but I guess we all handle surprises differently!

It hadn’t been all plain sailing on my way to the All Blacks. On a 1973 New Zealand Māori tour, I’d damaged my wrist. I was told it was simply a sprain, but on my return to New Zealand it didn’t heal properly. I had kept quiet about it, but then found out I had actually broken a bone. An operation after Christmas that year sorted things out, and by the start of the domestic 1974 rugby season, I was able to complete 20 press-ups without a problem.

I’d come close to being an All Black in ’73, and played in the trials, where I’d been outshone by Murray Jones, a man whose career was tragically cut short early in 1975, when he drowned trying to save the life of his young son who had fallen from a yacht in the Waitematā harbour.

But I was in the reserves when in ’73 the All Blacks played a one-off test against England at Eden Park. In hindsight, it was probably lucky for me that I was in the stand, and not on the field. To the horror of the whole country, the All Blacks had a terrible off-day, losing 16–10. In the backlash Murray Jones, No. 8 Alex Wyllie, fullback Bob Lendrum and first-five John Dougan were dropped and never played another test.

There were big changes all round for the Australian tour in ’74. The biggest was that Andy Leslie, at the age of 29, was not only finally picked to be an All Black after a record 96 consecutive games for Wellington but was also appointed captain, taking over from Ian Kirkpatrick. Halfback Sid Going, so admired by All Blacks he was known to most of them as Super Sid, was dropped.

I was All Black No. 738, 25 years old, 1.85 m (6 ft 1 in) tall, and weighing in at 103 kg (227 lb).

It wasn’t a time when becoming an All Black meant you were showered with money and kit. In ’74 I was supplied with a blazer, two shirts, two ties, two pairs of trousers and two pairs of socks, but I had to supply my own belt. I also got given one pair of rugby boots from adidas, but if I wanted another pair, I had to buy them myself.

As for money, our captain Andy has noted that ‘We were given an allowance of $2.50 a day, and a jug of beer at the after-match function.’

My first All Blacks jersey was presented to me by Les Byars, our team manager. Les was an undertaker from Taumarunui who used to say, ‘I will be the last person to let you down, so don’t think you can let me down. I have a plane ticket here and it will be for you if you misbehave!’ He was quite a funny guy, who would always keep that ticket sticking out of his top pocket as a warning.

The first of my 37 games for the All Blacks was against Western Australia at Perry Lakes Stadium at Perth on 5 May 1974 where we won 31–3 in atrocious weather conditions.

The first of my 12 test caps came in the first test against Australia at the Sydney Cricket Ground on Saturday, 25 May.

Before the game I tried to keep myself relaxed by sitting in the team room at our hotel strumming the three chords I knew on the team’s guitar.

It didn’t go down very well with some other players in the room. I was told to ‘piss off’ and play the damn thing somewhere else. Everyone has a different way of preparing for a game, and I suppose I was an oddball, trying to be very casual about the situation, even if actually I was a little tense.

Two hours before the game we boarded our team bus. These trips were normally quiet affairs with no one saying anything. On the way to the stadium I started to get butterflies in my stomach. For me this was the biggest occasion in my rugby-playing life.

It was cold, pouring with rain, and the SCG was flooded. I knew it would make things difficult. Hoping I wouldn’t mess things up, I was extremely nervous running out on the field for my country.

In all honesty, I still couldn’t get over how the bloody hell I had got into the team. It was certainly an experience in front of a large crowd waiting for the kick-off. The haka, which had usually been done at home games, was now being performed at the start of away test matches. Several of the boys weren’t that interested in it, but for me it was a chance to psyche myself up, and I relished it. After that, it was simply a case of getting stuck in.

Given Australia’s newfound skills and competitive spirit, we only managed to win that match 11–6. Ian Kirkpatrick thankfully scored a late try to seal our victory.

Dr Roger Vanderfield, the medical director of a major Sydney hospital, a man with a lordly sort of manner, was the referee. The first of three test matches against the Wallabies that year, this game was the start of both Andy Leslie’s and my long struggle with referees in international rugby.

I wasn’t really that happy with the way I played, even though I tried like hell, with nothing going right, and the referee being a right ‘a’hole’. Andy later said, ‘Before the game Roger Vanderfield had said to me don’t hesitate to ask me anything.’ In the first minute our team was penalised with a lineout infringement, and Andy asked Roger, ‘What was that for?’ and Roger said, ‘Piss off!’ It certainly gave me a new view on refereeing.

The second test was at Ballymore Oval in Brisbane. The only change we made was forced on us by an injury to our wing, Grant Batty, who was replaced by Jon McLachlan, making his All Blacks debut.

We started really well. Andy Leslie scored what would be his only test try, and midway through the second half we were ahead 16–6. But the Aussies rallied to 16-all, and they would have won the game if their first-five Paul McLean had been able to convert his fullback Laurie Monaghan’s try five minutes from time.

Our coach, JJ Stewart, didn’t select me for the deciding third test in Sydney, making four changes to the side that started in Brisbane. We bounced back with a resounding 16–6 victory. Dr Vanderfield was back in charge and didn’t win over any All Blacks’ hearts. After the final whistle, our second-five Joe Morgan ran up to him and called him all the bloody names under the sun.

We finished the tour in Fiji, playing their national team at Buckhurst Park in Suva. In those days the game wasn’t given test status, which, if I was a Fijian, I would have felt cheated by. We only squeaked in, winning 14–13.

And there was a second blow to add to the lack of recognition of what today would be a test. Fiji had been leading at the end of normal time when the referee awarded us a penalty that gave us the win. Fiji should have won.

Another thing that was very different all those decades ago: today the Bledisloe Cup is cherished like fine crystal, carefully stored in recent years in a secure glass case at New Zealand Rugby headquarters in Wellington.

In ’74, having won the series, we retained the Bledisloe, so were given it to take back home. It was handed to me for the trip to New Zealand. Was there an extra seat on the plane to make sure that what’s now a revered trophy returned undamaged? Not at all. It was put in one of my bags and thrown in with the rest of the luggage in the hold.

CHAPTER 2

Huhu and kererū

Growing up in Hawke’s Bay and Bay of Plenty

I was born on 24 January 1949 to Huitau (Bully) Ngahere Te Pohe of Ngāti Hineuru from Te Hāroto, and Clara Te Rangiwhakapunea Wright (Raiti) of Te Whānau-ā-Apanui from the eastern Bay of Plenty. Christened as Kingita Ngahere (Bush) Te Pohe, my name was later changed to William Kingita Bush.

For Māori the ngahere (forest/bush) has birds valued for food and feathers for adorning korowai. For my tīpuna, bird behaviour was used to predict the weather and the future, and so for us Māori the ngahere and all that lives within it are taonga.

From this meaning of the name ‘ngahere’, it’s easy to see how our family had been given the European surname of Bush, but in fairness to my culture I really should be named Kingita Ngahere Te Pohe.

During her life my mum had three husbands, with my father being the last of the three. I was number 16 out of the 17 children my mother gave birth to. There were 10 in our immediate Bush whānau, with nine being children of both my parents, while the oldest was