It was Friday afternoon and young Sparky Puddswoodle was sitting at his desk at the Eketahuna Bugle. He was looking forward to tomorrow as he would once again be covering the local Primary school under 21 underwater hockey match.  It was a difficult job and he had been left with many soggy note pads and rusting tape recorders. But sports reporting was what he loved and any chance to write about it was keenly taken.

 As Sparky feverishly polished his snorkel at the privacy of his junior reporter’s desk he was interrupted by a smack around the ears by the bugles senior sports editor Septimas Stout. “Clean up that mess and get into my office” Septimas growled. Sparky followed the large former Pongaroa representative prop into the dark musty office.

Septimas lent back in his chair exposing the scar across his ample middle.

Anyone who had been to a Bugle Christmas party knew the story behind that scar.  Last minute of the 1956 North Wairarapa rugby final. Pongaroa trail Norsewood by 2 points. Septimas Stout picks up the ball on the 25-yard line and charges forward. Carrying half the Norsewood pack on his back he drags himself over the line to score the winning try.

Sep has always been a large man and as his team mates attempted to lift him unsuccessfully in glory onto their shoulders he fell awkwardly onto the corner flag. The resulting stomach puncher and lose of his right testicle put paid to a promising representative career. Although some good did come out of the incident with the Bush Rugby Union eventually banning waratahs for use as corner flags.

“Spark” Sep yelled.

“Bit of a busy weekend son, I’m off to Central Otago to cover the shearing of Shrek the sheep. It’s gonna be big front page stuff, international media everywhere. Even that wort faced gnome Holmes will be there.”

Sep adjusted his remaining testicle, “I’ll be taking young Cheryl with me as we’ll be sure to flog this story off for a prise penny to the Asian market, you know how they love a good sheep story.” Sparky nodded. He remembered the bus loads of Japanese tourists stopping to photograph themselves with Dorothy Grundy’s five legged lamb. She had a booming little earner selling scones and tea until those greenies started protesting about the chemical dump in her back paddock.

“Sparks” Sep yelled again. “That leaves you to cover the only other sports event of any worth. You’ll have to cover the Turtles match.”

“The Ta ta ta ta Turtles” Sparky stammered. Surely Septimus was pulling his leg. The Fabulous Turtles Football team where once again reliving past glories. Now at the top of Maters 2 and playing some of the most beautiful football seen worldwide in years. He still had the posters on his wall at home from those halcyon years. The spritely Dodger with the Kevin Keegan curls and the goal scoring magician Spratty, (will he ever be seen again?) were two of his boyhood favourites. Sparky had never done a Turtles match report before let alone attend a match. With the Turtles recent unbeaten run attracting worldwide attention this was the chance he had been waiting for.

Septimas handed Sparky a press pass for the game and 5 dollars for train fare.  “Away game at Kapiti, I’m going out on a limb on this one son, don’t stuff it up“ Septimas growled.

Sparky knew this was his big break and that a good story on the Turtles could catapult his infant journalism career. His biggest assignment to date had been last years Managamutu eeling tournament. But this is what he had always dreamed about and he was determined not to let this opportunity pass by.  Gathering up his favourite HB pencil and Jumbo Jotter pad from his desk he headed home to prepare for tomorrows big game.

Up at 5am on Saturday Sparky quickly got ready for morning chores. He hadn’t slept at all last night due to the excitement of the day ahead. He had read every match report on the Turtles website and had longed one day to get a job at Jetplane Press. Now today, he would get a chance to see the Turtles live and rub shoulders with some international sporting media.

But first there where chores to be done. 85 Jerseys needed milking and as he did every morning Sparky walked with his dad down to the milking shed. Sparky didn’t share his excitement of the coming day with his father. He’d never approved of Sparky choosing a career in the media. “Can’t make butter outta newspapers boy” the old man would always say. Sparky new his father would rather he continued the family business of share milking, and with his older brother still with eighteen years in Rimutaka he was constantly reminded of it.

As number 85 left the herringbone Sparky and his dad, as these always did, attached the milking machine to themselves and added a bit of extra cream to the vat. Back to the house and Ma had their breakfast ready. Sparky packed himself a few extra dripping sandwiches for the train journey to Kapiti and kissed his mother and pet sheep on the way out the door. 

Sparky parked his bicycle outside the Eketahuna station and waited for the 6.30 express to Woodville. From Woodville he would transfer to the 8am to Palmerston North and from there to the 10:45 to Wellington, but making sure to get off at Paraparaumu.

The trip to Palmerston North was uneventful, but as the journey moved south toward Paraparaumu something remarkable happened. Sparky liked trains, in fact you could say he was train crazy. As the express made its way towards Kapiti the clicking of the wheels began to speak to Sparky.

“Spratty playing”

“Spratty playing”

“Spratty playing”

Sparky couldn’t believe it; the train was talking to him. Just then the conductor walked by and Sparky had to tell someone that the train had talked to him.

“Mr Conductor, the train it talked, it told me Spratty would be playing today for the Turtles.”

“What son? What did you say? Did you say the train told you Spratty would be planning? You must be mad boy, there’s definitely no way Spratty will ever play again.”

Sparky didn’t tell anyone else about the train talking, in fact he keep rather quiet and to himself for the rest of the journey.

As the train got closer to Kapiti more and more football supporters boarded at each stop. The majority wore Kapiti colours and any unfortunate Turtles supporter was soon hanging by his feet between the carriages or placed in the overhead bag racks. Sparky noted the atmosphere around him in his jotter as the supporters chanted and urinated in the aisles.

The train finally stopped just short of Paraparaumu station to allow a train from the south carrying Turtles supporters into the station first. From his window seat Sparky could see the waves of black and white dressed Turtles supporters making there way across the motorway to McDonalds and Burger King. A thin line of police ensuring the Turtles supporters kept together and moved towards the stadium. The police never liked being this close to football supporter, but until those recent allegations quietened down they where temporally forbidden from being mounted while on duty.

Sparkys train eventually moved into the station and he disembarked along with everyone else. Following the crowd along the designated route down Raumati road and then right into Weka road. Coaches of supporters from both clubs entering from different ends of the ground. Interest in this match was bigger than he had ever experienced. He had never seen so many people in one place. Still an hour to go before kick off but he wanted to get into the press box and go over the media kit before the game. Sparky showed his press pass at gate 15 and then made his way up towards the press lounge in the west stand.

The security guard looked at Sparky's pass and then opened the door. Sparky enters and is ushered to his seat by a lovely young lady wearing nothing but strategically placed turtle shells. She hands him his press kit and tells him to just yell if there is anything, anything at all, that he might need.

As Sparky moves to his seat he notices the array of international media on hand to cover the Turtle match. Then the room falls silent as in walks the Turtles manager.

“Right, we all know you’re only here to see the Turtles and the oppo today don’t pose any threat so there’s no point having an after match press conference” booms Grunter. His intolerance of the press had grown with the increase in media interest because of the Turtles recent unbeaten run. In fact Holmes had earlier disturbed his traditional Saturday morning crumpet and subsequent cup of tea looking for an exclusive on the possible shearing of Steve H after the match.

“As always the starting line up for today won’t be announced until kick off. It’s a long drive up here for the boys so if we can even get eleven on the pitch by 2:30 we’ll be lucky.”

“Half time drink is Orange mango”

“Excess me Mr Grunter”, interrupts Farken Arrsoul from the Scandinavian Press Assoc. “Do the Turtles plan to try Raro Wacko, the drink that not look the same it taste?”

“I know who you are” snarls Grunter, “they had a couple of your kind playing up front for Eastbourne the other week. Typical stupid Farken question, the lads are in enough of a state of delirium by half time without giving them weird drinks.”

“Mr Grunter, Drovehisskoda Inaditch from the Croatian times. Details please on the alligations by Rebecca Loos concerning relations with Turtles player”.

Grunter knew it was coming, but as always was prepared. “It is true that PK was caught with his tongue down a Loo, but that was a couple of years ago now on an FA cup night and involved a Butter Chicken and half a larger. Nobody wants to see that brought up again, we will not be making any further comments on the Loo incident.”

“Mr Grunter, Tootrains Gobang from the North Korean Communist Journal. Why not Mr PK play today after score first goal for Turtle last week?”

Grunter had kept his cool until now, but last weeks misreporting of the so-called PK goal had caused serious turmoil in the Turtles camp.

“There’s no way that could be counted as a goal, and I’m expecting a full retraction from all of you that reported differently last week.  For his part in that debacle and an on pitch celebration to which at best could only be describe as an assist, PK has been dropped this week. In chastisement,  management have sent him to Rotorua to run around the lake. It’s unlikely he’ll be able to play again this season”.   

“Right, no more questions, this match report is getting far too long and I need to fill my bucket.”

As the Turtles manager leaves Sparky opens his press kit. Inside is a brief history of the team and some bios of its more famous players. Some signed photos of current players, vouchers from some of the team sponsors and a packet of chocolate flavoured condoms.

It was now 2:30 and Sparky pulls his binoculars from his bag to inspect the team the Turtles where putting on the park today and jotting them down on his note pad. It was true, the train was right, Spratty was playing. Sparky surveyed the rest of the team.  Dodge and Tel in front of Snouter, Murray and Chris in the middle, Spratty and Gordie up front, everyone else hanging out wide. Frank had made a come back and some bloke called Oscar had walked in off the street. GT of course late again. The overhead conditions where showery and the pitch was sure to get slippery as the game wore on.

In the first ten minutes both teams were sizing each other up. Wal then decides it’s time for a traditional run down the right and then decides to drive his cross over the keeper, 1 nil. What happened next can only be described as sensational. Not since the Liverpool team of the late 70’s had anyone seen such controlled flowing attacking football. 10 minutes later it was 4 nil and Kapiti hadn’t touched the ball, the game was as good as over. Spratty hadn’t lost his touch and with Gordie along side the play and goals were dazzling. Even Dodger was looking competent. The Kapiti goalie surrendered and there defence confessed to Gordie that the Turtles were indeed brilliant.  Everyone lost interest after that and even Steve H had nodded off a couple of times in defence but Kapiti still couldn’t score. All were glad to hear the halftime whistle.

With that the entire press gallery leaves their seats and moves towards the complimentary bar and finger food. But Sparky rushes downstairs to the pitch to get first hand experience of one of those famous Snouter half time talks. The man was legendary for motivating the Turts. Just a few weeks ago when down by 3 to Brooklyn everyone at the ground was expecting a rousing half time talk but instead there was silence. A stroke of leadership genesis from the captain. The players knew what that silence meant and that each and everyone of them had to take it upon themselves to turn the game around. Words weren’t required and Snouter knew it and the result spoke for itself. Sparky was keen to hear what the great captain was to say today. Again this week the big man had nothing to say, he had it all under control.

The second half saw much of the same although Kapiti were a bit more competitive as the Turtles took the opportunity to experiment with their line up. Kapiti got a couple of goals but down the other end Spratty and Gordie continued to torment their keeper. With Davy J sending in crosses from the right and Zil running the by line on the left the goals continued with Gordie ending up with 5 and Spratty 2 and many others being saved or going wide. With the job done for another week Snouter even resorted to rolling the ball out to the Kapiti strikers for a bit of saving practice.

The full time whistle blows and the electronic scoreboard is illuminated with an 8 – 2 win to the Turtles. Sparky leans back in his chair in satisfaction at reporting on his first Turtles match. As the players wave to the crowd on their way to the changing room Sparky leafs through the pages of notes he has made. Septimas will be proud of his work and he’s got enough material for at least a half page story.

On the train journey home the mood of the Kapiti supporter had changed considerably, and a few of them chat about the phenomenal performance by the Turtles and how they are sure to be promoted to Div 1 next year.

It’s 11:30pm by the time Sparky finally gets home. Snuggling in beside daisy the sheep he glances around his room at the numerous Turtles posters on his wall. Good night Zil, good night Spratty, good night Boy. The next morning he’ll be up early to put his story on paper. It’s a big one for the Turtles next week against the old foe Miramar, and he wants to be there to see it.