WHEN WE REACHED the woodchop we looked at the line-up and knew it was the old boys – the vets. There they all were, quietly lined up before their stumps. None impatient, most carrying guts. One or two looked well over sixty, the age to qualify as a veteran. Most were in sleeved shirts. They milled around, waiting the ten minutes in quietness that didn’t look anything like preparation for a world championship.

The guy on the far end, right in front of the overhead footbridge, had come from New Zealand, so everyone in the small stadium knew he would be good. The guy down the other end, a tall man with a reserved, inwardly focused attention was the defending champion. We bet on who would win.