All Blacks team naming

It was 1962. Canterbury v Auckland at Lancaster Park. I was at boarding school at Christs’ College down the road, and it was a day I will never forget. I was pretty ordinary at rugby in those days, but despite that had made the school’s third XV – the name given to the team of boys who, at other schools, might not have made the team at all.

That said, I was not so bad at running. It was not unusual for me to be last man in a lineout – in those days lineouts went on forever until someone scored – and I “wouldn’t be caught”.

On this particular afternoon I had been selected as 23rd man, which meant it was extremely unlikely that I would get on the field. However, you never know. If a couple of our props had to go off with broken legs and a couple of our halfbacks were carried off on stretchers after having their heads kicked in, then by golly I might get half an hour out there at Lancaster Park in front of 30,000 people.

The first half was tough. The scrums were colossal. Every time the ball came out, it was like a flashpoint. All hell would break loose. I could see that it would not be long before one of our props or halfbacks would need a break, and then it would be my turn.

But no. Halftime came, and I was still on the bench. I knew that nowadays substitute players get to sit in comfy chairs with their feet up, but in those days the reserve players had to run up and down the sideline to keep warm. And so, at halftime us subs were racing from one end of the field to the other while the first XV had a breather.

The second half began. I could see that the game was getting away from us. Our forwards were being pushed back. Our backs were under pressure. I could see that I would have to get out there soon.

And it happened. Just after the hour, one of our props was helped off the field with a broken thumb. The coach ran to me and said: “Get ready”.

My heart started beating faster. This was it. I was going to run out onto Lancaster Park in front of 30,000 people.

The coach said: “Make sure you bind properly in the scrums. We need you to hold your ground”. I am sure that I nodded enthusiastically. All I wanted to do was run onto the field and help my team.

As I jogged on and took up my position, I could hear a commentator saying: “And now for Canterbury, replacement prop, J R McIvor”.

J R McIvor! But that wasn’t my name. I was no 23. My name was James Ross McIver. What was going on?

It was only as the commentator said “J R McIvor of Ashburton” that the penny dropped. I was not J R McIvor from Ashburton. I was J R McIvor from Timaru. There must have been two J R McIvors in the Canterbury team. Why else would my name be changed for the team announcement?

I have never met the other J R McIvor, but whoever he was I owe him a huge debt of gratitude. It was thanks to him that I fulfilled an ambition by running out onto Lancaster Park. And even better – I stayed on the field for the whole of the second half without making a fool of myself. Canterbury lost, but I didn’t care. I had played on Lancaster Park in front of 30,000 people.

It is 50 years since I played on Lancaster Park, and I am still grateful to that other J R McIvor who allowed me to fulfill a dream, and who still believes, as I do, that it is better to have played and lost than never to have played at all.