1970 springbok tour

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Protests, politics and a bus hijack: the rugby tour that gave Mandela hope

Fifty years ago South Africa were battered on and off the pitch in Britain and Ireland as apartheid felt the fury of the people

T he tour that changed international sport ended 50 years ago. South Africa, No 1 in the world now and vying with New Zealand for supremacy then, returned home after four torrid months in Britain and Ireland when they were dogged by anti-apartheid protests and failed to win any of their four Tests.

It was a rude awakening for the vast majority of the squad who had little experience of the world outside their homeland, their isolation fostered by the lack of television in the country.

Europe was emerging into the world of colour at the end of the 1960s, but black and white in South Africa amounted to a political system that was abhorrent in a world that knew the power of protests.

The Springboks, as Chris Schoeman shows in his book on the tour, Rugby Behind Barbed Wire (Amberley, £20), were innocents abroad. There were exceptions, such as South Africa’s vice-captain Tommy Bedford, who studied at Oxford University and warned at the official reception on the eve of the squad’s departure that what lay ahead would probably be reflected in results.

“If we did not win all our games or even lost Test matches because none of us would have had any idea of how to cope with this additional demonstration phenomenon, the people back home and those in the comfort of the function room should remember this,” he told Schoeman. “That went down like a lead balloon.” A later speaker implied that Bedford was being disloyal.

Fifty years on, Bedford lives in London. He was so changed by the tour – identifying with the aims of the protestors to undermine apartheid through sporting isolation, if not all their methods, one of which involved the commandeering of the squad’s coach when they were on board before a match and crashing it into parked cars – that after his Test career ended in 1971 he committed himself to political change in South Africa.

He was interviewed by the Rugby Paper last November, after Siya Kolisi, the first black captain of the Springboks , had held aloft the World Cup in Yokohama and spoken movingly about his hope that rugby would help unify a divided nation . Those protesting in 1969-70 – the Stop the Seventy Tour was chaired by Peter Hain and one of the organisers in Scotland was Gordon Brown – were written off by the rugby media here as idealists and do-gooders, irritants who did not understand rugby union’s fraternity.

If any of the reporters watched last year’s World Cup, they should by then have come to appreciate not only what the protest was about but that politics and sport were not mutually exclusive, not least because governments such as South Africa’s in the apartheid era used sport for sustenance; and it was South Africa who blocked Basil D’Oliveira after the Worcestershire all-rounder was called up as a replacement for the MCC’s 1968-69 tour, saying it was a politically motivated selection when it seemed that his original omission was exactly that.

“We knew that no other country could afford a tour like this,” said Bedford last year. “That was the catalyst for change in a radical way. When I got back to South Africa from the UK I took time out. I went to a deserted part of the country and I thought about Peter Hain, Bernadette Devlin and all those anti-apartheid people who put us in this laager [camp]. I came to the conclusion that maybe they did have a point.”

Schoeman largely concerns himself with the tour itself, his book ending with a short chapter entitled Aftermath. He interviewed several of the South Africa squad, including Bedford and the captain, Dawie de Villiers, who was to serve on Nelson Mandela’s first cabinet following the fall of the apartheid regime, as well as a player from each of the four home unions: the Springboks lost against England and Scotland before drawing with Ireland and Wales and were beaten by Oxford University, Newport and Gwent in the first two weeks of the trip.

Mandela was on Robben Island when the matches were played. A news blackout for the prisoners was undermined by the warders, who were unable to hide their frustration at both the results and the protests. “It was as if Mandela and his comrades were to blame,” said Peter, now Lord, Hain. “His apartheid jailers were beside themselves with rage and that gave him a glimmer of hope.”

The protestors succeeded in forcing the postponement of one match, Ulster, while the opener against Oxford University, which was played exactly 50 years before South Africa’s victorious 2019 World Cup squad returned home, was switched from Iffley Road to Twickenham on police advice. Protestors who invaded pitches in the early matches were often dealt with by stewards, not always leniently, prompting the government to decree that only the police could take such action.

Personal memories of the tour are disappointment that Cardiff were overwhelmed by players who were far bigger than the usual opponents at the Arms Park. The politics went over the head of a young boy whose questions were to find answers later as rugby, showing its amateur status then, continued to maintain links with South Africa: New Zealand, France, England, South America, Ireland and the Lions all toured there at least once up to 1984. The visit of the Springboks to New Zealand in 1981 sparked protests that rivalled 1969-70 and two matches were called off.

New Zealand were due to visit in 1985 but their tour was called off after a high court ruling that it would contravene the union’s stated purpose of fostering and encouraging the game of rugby. The Cavaliers went there the following year, for money according to reports. It was apartheid’s last, laboured gasp, strangled by the sporting boycott.

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British citizens protest apartheid South African sports tours (Stop the Seventy Tour), 1969-1970

Time period, additional methods (timing unknown), segment length, external allies, involvement of social elites, nonviolent responses of opponent, campaigner violence, repressive violence, classification, group characterization, additional notes on joining/exiting order, success in achieving specific demands/goals, total points, notes on outcomes, database narrative.

The world voiced its opposition to the National Party’s apartheid government ruling in South Africa in a new way in 1964. International sports tours and matches had become a focal point of cultural identity for whites in South Africa. Victories, to them, demonstrated a kind of symbolic power of white South Africa. White elite South Africa was considered “sports mad.” Once this became apparent to other countries in objection to the political state of South Africa, they found a way to use the situation to send a message. In 1964, South Africa was suspended from the International Olympic Committee and subsequently declined participation from the Tokyo Olympic games. After 1970 almost every South African sport had been isolated from all levels of international competition. However, the pride of the Afrikaners had yet to be diminished. Rugby became an important battleground for the anti-apartheid movement around the world.

In Great Britain, the “D’Oliveira Affair” brought the topic of sporting competition with South Africa to the foreground in 1967. The apartheid government had announced the inability of colored player Basil D’Oliveira to compete in the upcoming English cricket tour of South Africa against their all-white teams. Strong British opinion on the announcement came from two different groups of people. The first group supported competition with South Africa normally but were appalled at the attempt to impose apartheid laws on their own country. The second group was those in opposition of apartheid, generally political Leftists. As England canceled their tour in response to the announcement, opinion on sporting competition and apartheid splintered further throughout Great Britain.

The controversy soon returned in light of the 1969-1970 Springbok rugby tour of Great Britain. The Springboks were South Africa’s national rugby union team, made up entirely of Afrikaners and worshiped by the white ruling elite of South Africa. Once the tour was announced, the strongest opposition came from the political Left. The front-page article of the New Statesman read “Apartheid is not a game,” declaring that the tour should not go on. Defense of the rugby tour came generally from the political Right. An article written in The Spectator called attention to the fact that Great Britain competes with many other oppressive nations and no protests ensue.

Things began to really escalate, though, once a South African cricket tour of Great Britain was announced to take place in 1970, following the rugby tour. A sector of the British population was already upset about the approaching rugby tour, but with the “D’Oliveira Affair” still fresh in their minds, the idea of hosting a cricket tour for South Africa was an outrage. Those in opposition began to see the up-and-coming rugby tour as an opportunity to set the tone for the cricket tour. They would give the South African government, along with the British government, a preview of the resistance to come during the cricket tour with their actions during the rugby tour.

The overall campaign was a unique one because of it’s scattered participants. Different sectors of the British population got involved in the protest. Nineteen-year-old Peter Hain emerged as the chairman of the Stop the Seventy Tour campaign in Great Britain. As mentioned above, the campaign was treating the rugby tour as a dress rehearsal for the cricket tour. The ultimate goal was for a cancellation of the cricket tour due to the demonstrations carried out during the rugby tour. Hain had lived in South Africa up until his parents, anti-apartheid protestors, were expelled from the country because of their political activity. He got involved in anti-apartheid protests in Great Britain and was given the nickname “Hain the Pain” during his organizing in the 1969-70 Springbok tour. The Catholic Church in Great Britain was another force in the campaign against the rugby tour. The Church added legitimacy to the campaign. The most distinguished group acting under the Church was the Bishop of Woolwich’s “Fair Cricket” campaign. Last of the categorized campaigners were those already committed to the Anti-Apartheid Movement in Great Britain.

Although these groups have been designated as participants, it’s hard to know who exactly was involved in which demonstrations during the campaign. The fact that there were many Brits opposed to the tours, who did not explicitly identifying themselves, further blurs campaigner specifics. Another result of the lack of unity among the opposition is an unclear timeline of the demonstrations. Methods of the campaign are known, but the time and often place within the tour is not. Most often, demonstrators invaded the rugby pitch while the Springboks played various British opponents and the game would have to be stopped. As a result, matches had to be played on fields surrounded with barbed wire fence. Campaigners glued shut the hotel door locks of South African players. In December 1969, a few Springbok players had boarded their bus in Twickenham, England, when it was hijacked. Player Tommy Bedford got his hands on the driver and forced a crash. No one was injured. Once, protestors placed sharp thumbtacks on one of the rugby fields.

Campaigners held an anti-apartheid torchlight procession when the team was in Coventry, England. Demonstrator Adrian Smith recounted, “I was starting to become politically aware and, as a rugby fan, I knew how important the game was to the Afrikaaners. It was time for a lot of us to make a stand. I’ll never forget the look of amazement on the Springbok players’ faces as they stood on their hotel balcony watching us parade underneath.”

Sometimes the Springboks faced demonstrations from the teams they played in the tour. Welsh flanker John Taylor abstained from playing in the match against South Africa. Coach Carwyn James refused to come out of the locker room during his team’s match in protest.

Regardless of an unclear timeline, the campaign was successful as “one of the most bitter sporting tours in the history of this country (England).” Not only that, the cricket tour scheduled for 1970 was cancelled due to the potential for similar demonstrations. This campaign’s victory was followed by numerous other anti-apartheid protests in sports competition.

In 1960, cricket players in Great Britain individually boycotted matches against South Africa. (1)

This campaign influenced the New Zealand Anti-Springbok Rugby Tour Protests, 1981 and the case "Australians campaign against South African rugby tour in protest of apartheid, 1971" (2)

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Chris Schoeman co-authored the autobiographies of Springbok rugby legends Danie Gerber, Frik du Preez (South Africa’s Player of the Century), Os du Randt and Dawie de Villiers, as well as international cricket umpire Rudi Koertzen. He has also written several books on the Anglo-Boer War, World War I and South African regional histories.

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Home Moments in history

Barry Richards, Graeme Pollock, Mike Procter and other South African greats’ last day as a Test match player

South africa completed a 4-0 rout over the visiting australian side. with fantastic players and phenomenal all-round strength, the springbok cricketers were the best unit in the world. unfortunately, they never played international cricket for over two decades..

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March 10, 1970. South Africa completed a 4-0 rout over the visiting Australian side. With fantastic players and phenomenal all-round strength, the Springbok cricketers were the best unit in the world. Sadly, the next time they played Test cricket was in 1992. Arunabha Sengupta  recalls the last day of glory and the events leading up to the isolation.

It ended in a comprehensive knockout. The cricket starved South African powerhouse, studded with glittering talent, steamrolled over the Australian tourists.

True, Bill Lawry ’s men were not a happy bunch. Constant bickering with the management and discontent about pay-checks did not really boost the performance. However, the 4-0 rout was both unexpected and testimony to the phenomenal strength of the Springbok outfit.

Not having watched Test cricket since the 1966 tour of Bobby Simpson’s men, and with the threat of isolation hanging over their heads, crowds flocked to the ground in huge numbers. And the final Test at Port Elizabeth underlined the tale of South African dominance.

Barry Richards led the way with 81 in the first innings before running amok in a spectacular display of brimming potential in the second. The 126 in the second innings contained 16 fours and three sixes, several scintillating drives and thrilling hook shots.

The enormous all round versatility of the side was emphasised by Lee Irvine scoring a hundred and Denis Lindsay  getting 43 and 60. Lindsay kept wickets, and Irvine played as a batsman. They could have as easily turned out with their roles reversed.

In the Australian first innings Peter Pollock and Mike Procter struck telling blows with the ball. In the second, the premier fast bowler of South Africa limped off the ground with a torn hamstring, unable to finish his second over — which turned out to be the last of his career. Procter knocked over six Australians and Pollock’s absence was not even felt.

Captain  Ali Bacher was chaired off the ground, borne on the shoulders of the proud team. The side oozed flair, genius and confidence.

Barry Richards had scored over 500 runs in his first Test series, with stroke-play of majestic proportions. John Arlott  described him as a batsman of staggering talent.

Graeme Pollock was perhaps the best batsman in the world alongside Garry Sobers — with an average over 60. Brother Peter was one of the great fast bowlers of the era with 116 Test wickets already under his belt.

Mike Procter had played 7 Tests capturing 41 wickets at just 15 apiece. He would go on to stand alongside Don Bradman and CB Fry with 6 consecutive hundreds in First-class cricket. A genuine all-rounder equally gifted in all departments.

Eddie Barlow  was a fantastic batsman who could open the innings, an aggressive medium-pacer who often pleaded with his captain to have a bowl, and a slip fielder of uncanny reflexes.

Lee Irvine was coasting on a fabulous start to his Test career. Denis Lindsay was touted as the greatest batsmen among wicketkeepers since Les Ames.

Pat Trimborn had performed the role of the economic seamer to perfection, carrying on the job Trevor Goddard had done so ably all these years. And on the spinning front, a young man named John Traicos had just started to turn his off-breaks.

In 1970, man for man, this was by far the strongest side in the world.

On March 10 of that year, Bacher caught Alan Connolly off Trimborn to complete the rout. As the Springbok skipper was chaired off the ground, this great South African side walked out of the St George Park ground in Port Elizabeth and away from the international scene. The next time the nation appeared in a Test match was in April 1992. Only Traicos managed to play a few more Tests — for Zimbabwe.

As the capacity crowds cheered the victorious side through the series, even the happy stands spoke eloquently of the political situation. The spectators sat segregated according to colour, in line with the Separate Amenities Act of 1953. The cricket loving blacks turned out in large numbers, especially in Cape Town and Durban. However, it was apparent that most of them were cheering for Australia.

And all through the series, dark clouds had gathered over the forthcoming tour of England.

Clouds gather over the great side

When the Test series was taking off, the South African rugby side was going through a troubled tour of England. At every venue, the team was faced with violent anti-apartheid demonstrators. It was a harrowing experience when the team bus was hijacked on the route to the England international at Twickenham.  It became increasingly apparent that further sporting conquests would be accompanied by more and more opposition.

The Basil D’Oliveira affair had led to the cancellation of the English tour of 1968-69. The apartheid regime had refused entry to the Cape coloured all-rounder chosen in the English team. Naturally, there had been a lot of disquiet surrounding the return tour scheduled in 1970.

For a while, the cricket authorities tried to pretend that nothing was wrong. Yet, the rest of the sporting world was not untouched by the political situation. The first flutter was caused when Kenya cancelled a visit by the Marylebone Cricket Club (MCC), stating that it would not host a club that welcomed sides from South Africa. On the same day it was discovered that agitators had poured weed-killer over the outfield at Worcester, the venue of the first match of the touring South Africans.

By the end of January, as many as twelve county grounds had been vandalised by protesters.

And all the while, the South African saga of discrimination had continued. Arthur Ashe, the 1968 US Open tennis champion, was refused entry into South Africa because of his colour. On January 30, the International Cavaliers, a touring multi-racial side consisting of leading cricketers playing for charity, had been refused entry into the nation.

With time frozen still in its premises since the days of the Empire, the Long Room at Lord’s distanced itself from the International Cavaliers, stating that it was a private club. But, the rest of the world was not very amused by this apparent apathy towards the sentiments of the times.

Buckling under increasing pressure, the MCC cut the itinerary from 28 down to 11 matches, slashing away encounters scheduled in grounds potentially prone to protests. In fact, the perennially archaic authorities were flirting with cutting edge innovation. Artificial pitches were approved to counter the vandalism. The Lord’s square was by now surrounded by a protective barbed-wire fence.

After the rout of Australia had been completed, John Arlott announced that he would not go on air for the forthcoming South African visit. The master commentator was hugely popular in South Africa and had enjoyed his time in the country. At the same time he was vehemently against apartheid. Once he had put down ‘human’ as his ethnicity in his immigration form at a South African airport. It was largely due to his efforts that D’Oliviera had managed to eke out a career as a cricketer in England.

Other journalists soon followed suit, many of them splashing newspapers and magazines with stinging criticism of the MCC.

The most telling blow came in April, when Prime Minister Harold Wilson told BBC that MCC had made a big mistake in allowing the tour to go ahead: “Everyone should be free to demonstrate against apartheid. I hope people will feel free to do so.”

Towards the second half of April, eight African countries lodged a combined statement, refusing to participate in that summer’s Commonwealth Games in Edinburgh if the Test series went ahead. And soon they were joined by India, Guyana and Jamaica.

In spite of the developments, in early May MCC stubbornly announced that the tour would commence as scheduled. As a reaction, sodium chlorate was sprinkled on the wicket at Gloucestershire’s county ground. There was no tour match scheduled to be played there. Supposedly it was done because the county team contained all-rounder Mike Procter as one of their overseas players.

Warwickshire declared that they would not pick any of their three coloured players, Rohan Kanhai, Lance Gibbs and Khalid Ibadulla, for the match against the South Africans. The next day the gates at Edgbaston were vandalised.

With security becoming an issue, major hotels refused to entertain bookings for the visiting team. Hundreds of British policemen also voiced their refusal to protect venues from protesters.

The action was slated to get underway on June 1. On May 20, the Cricket Council, later International Cricket Council, almost unanimously voted in favour of the tour. Secretary Billy Griffith said: “It was agreed in the long term this policy was in the best interests of cricket, and of cricketers of all races in South Africa.”The caveat included to pacify negative feeling was that there would be no further series involving the nation “until South African cricket is played and teams selected on a multi-racial basis”.

This failed miserably to appease the anti-apartheid protestors. Daily Mirror was scathing in its verdict: “The rulers of cricket stonewall on. If this is their last word, they are assuming a terrible responsibility.”

It was politics which had the last laugh. Wilson’s Labour government could not risk negative publicity with the general election just a month away. There were also fears it would trigger racial unrest within the country.

The British Home Secretary sent across a strongly worded message to Cricket Council, ‘requesting’ the tour to be called off. The Council announced the cancellation with deep regret, apologising for the discourtesy to the South African Board.

One and a half years ago, when D’Oliveira had been selected in the English side, South African Prime Minister had called it ‘the team of the Anti-Apartheid movement.’ Now, after the cancellation of the tour, he did not mince his words: “For a government to submit so easily and so willingly to open blackmail is to me unbelievable.”

However, Bacher, who had led his side to the 4-0 win just two months earlier, made a statement at once bold and understated: “I regret the manner in which politics have become involved in cricket… [but] unless we broaden our outlook we will remain forever in isolation.”

The isolation lasted over two decades. The gilt edged South African team disbanded and drifted to county cricket, domestic circuits and occasional rebel tours.

There were several South African cricketers who felt strongly about apartheid as well.

In 1971, Barry Richards and Mike Procter organised a sterling demonstration. During a match to celebrate the tenth anniversary of the formation of the Republic of South Africa in 1971, players from both teams, including Procter, Richards and the Pollock brothers walked off after just one ball, issuing a joint statement: “We cricketers feel that the time has come for an expression of our views. We fully support the South African Cricket Association’s application to invite non-whites to tour Australia, if they are good enough, and further subscribe to merit being the only criterion on the cricket field.”

Brief scores:

South Africa 311 (Barry Richards 81, Eddie Barlow 73, Denis Lindsay 43; Alan Connolly 6 for 47) and 470 for 8 decl. (Barry Richards 126, Ali Bacher 73, Lee Irvine 102, Denis Lindsay 60; Laurie Maybe 3 for 83) beat Australia 212 (Ian Redpath 55, Paul Sheahan 67; Peter Pollock 3 for 46, Mike Procter 3 for 30) and 246 (Bill Lawry 43, Paul Sheahan 46; Mike Procter 6 for 73) by 323 runs.

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( Arunabha Sengupta  is a cricket historian and Chief Cricket Writer at CricketCountry.   He writes about the history and the romance of the game, punctuated often by opinions about modern day cricket, while his post-graduate degree in statistics peeps through in occasional analytical pieces. The author of three novels, he can be followed on Twitter at  http://twitter.com/senantix )

• apartheid era
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• Australia vs South Africa
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• South Africa vs Australia 1970

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Protest against the 1970 Springbok tour

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Protest action was not new in 1981. Here, a march against the 1970 All Black tour to South Africa leaves Victoria University in Wellington.

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The Spinoff

The Sunday Essay April 9, 2023

The sunday essay: the cancelled springbok tour of 1973.

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Fifty years ago a rugby tour of New Zealand was scheduled. After loud and often rowdy protest against it, the tour was called off. Trevor Richards remembers the cancelled Springbok Tour of 1973.

The Sunday Essay  is made possible thanks to the support of Creative New Zealand.

Illustrations by Joe Carrington

On April 10, 1973, then prime minister Norman Kirk told a crowded press conference that he had written to the New Zealand Rugby Football Union (NZRFU) advising that the government saw “no alternative, pending selection on a genuine merit basis”, to a postponement of the proposed Springbok tour to New Zealand.

Given the history of our rugby relationship with apartheid South Africa, the decision was somewhat surprising. Less than two decades earlier, the 1956 Springbok rugby tour had gripped the nation. Even the New Zealand Communist Party supported it, but by the late 1960s, times were changing.

New Zealanders were being confronted with a stark challenge. Eric Gowing, the Anglican Bishop of Auckland, was blunt: “What you think about sporting contacts with South Africa depends on what you think about racism.”

Whether the 1973 Springboks tour should proceed became a major issue. Its cancellation was an early indication that New Zealand was beginning to shed the rigid, conservative, “rugby, racing and beer” assimilationist values of the post World War II era.

At the time, New Zealanders were well aware of protesters’ commitment to disrupt the tour should it proceed. Almost none were aware of the behind the scenes “dialogue” between the prime minister Kirk and the leadership of the Halt All Racist Tours movement (HART) leading up to the tour’s cancellation.

HART had been formed in 1969 to stop the 1970 All Black tour of South Africa. Looking back, we were Pollyanna at the barricades. Our 1970 strategy had been based on the assumption that those in positions of power – the government and the NZRFU – could be influenced by facts, logic and morality. What we discovered was that prejudice and self-interest were immune to such appeals. A new approach was needed.

By the end of March 1971, HART and CARE (the Citizens’ Association for Racial Equality) had announced policies of “non-violent disruption” of apartheid sport. Mr Niceguy was just too easy to ignore. There needed to be the promise of a frontal attack on such tours.

While policies of direct action are what HART and CARE were best known for, most of our time and money was spent on education. Hundreds of thousands of leaflets were distributed. We published a monthly tabloid newspaper. Meetings were held in draughty halls up and down the country. Between March 1971 and February 1973, five overseas speakers toured New Zealand.

The 1972 general election campaign did not fill anti-apartheid hearts with any great confidence. The ruling National Party declared its support for the tour. Although the opposition Labour Party did its best to avoid the issue, leader Norman Kirk promised not to stop the tour. On November 25, twelve years of National Party rule came to an end. Labour was elected with a whopping 23-seat majority. What would the new government do?

On January 3, 1973, the Supreme Council for Sport in Africa (SCSA), the body which coordinated and promoted Africa’s anti-apartheid sports policies, called on all Commonwealth countries in Africa to withdraw from participating in the 1974 Christchurch Commonwealth Games if the Springbok tour went ahead. It was New Zealand’s first direct taste of the strength of independent Africa’s opposition to apartheid.

On January 23, the new prime minister sent the NZRFU a letter, attaching a report on the implications of the tour for New Zealand’s international standing, for internal race relations and for law and order. The report concluded: “it is the considered police view that the tour would engender the greatest eruption of violence this country has ever known.” On the international front, the report said there was “a virtual certainty that the Commonwealth Games would … either have to be cancelled or be a failure.” Serious concerns were expressed about the tour’s potential impact on race relations.

Margaret Hayward, Kirk’s Private Secretary, wrote in Diary of the Kirk Years that “the prime minister is optimistic. He appeared to believe that if the rugby union was treated like a group of responsible men, they were more likely to act like reasonable men.” If he had a concern, it was about anti-apartheid groups.

At the end of January, his message to an anti-apartheid deputation had been to “cool it”. We could understand his logic. If he was going to stop the tour, he could not be seen to be giving in to pressure from HART and CARE. But the “if” was a very big one. Labour’s election promise not to cancel the tour sat front and centre in our minds.

In early February, following a meeting to consider the prime minister’s letter, the Rugby Union announced that “arrangements for the tour are proceeding”. When a radio journalist asked if this was the union’s last word on the tour, NZRFU chairman Jack Sullivan smothered the microphone “with a big fist”. New Zealand’s rugby authorities in 1973 were men who fondly remembered the 1956 tour. The NZRFU was never of its own volition going to stop the tour.

Stories in the daily metropolitan press started speculating that the tour might be stopped “in the public interest”. I didn’t believe it.

In the second week of February, HART issued a comprehensive statement outlining what it would do if the tour proceeded. “Let everyone know that … the whole of New Zealand will have to be guarded on a 24 hour a day, seven days a week basis.” Many papers accorded it front-page lead status.

The statement infuriated rugby supporters. The prime minister issued an angry statement: “Richards, you are not running the country.” The police announced that they were considering prosecuting me for the statement. Some leading figures within the movement considered that I had overstepped the mark. Sometimes, it could feel a bit lonely.

At a HART meeting in Ashburton a few days later, around 600 pro-tour supporters turned out in an effort to prevent me from speaking. The meeting went ahead, but only after a number of their placards had come crashing down on my head.

Privately, the PM was remaining optimistic. Hayward wrote in her diary: “Everyone else seems to be making moves, but Mr. K remains quietly confident. He just grins and tells us he’s moving with ‘dynamic caution’.”

In mid February the Rugby Union met with the prime minister. Kirk’s concerns were ignored. The NZRFU announced the tour was proceeding. Asked what the government’s next step would be, Kirk said “wait and see I guess”. Asked to be more specific about timing, he said “soon, in the soonest sense of soon”. By now, most political commentators were of the view that Kirk would cancel the tour. We could see no evidence for this.

At the end of February, the prime minister met with a deputation from the pro-tour lobby. Some time later, a full transcript of the meeting fell off the back of a truck and into HART’s hands. The prime minister had told the delegation that his decision on the tour must be based only on one fact and that was what is in the best interests of New Zealand. “There is no evidence that I can find,” he said, “that supports in any way the continuation of the tour.”

Frank Corner, secretary of foreign affairs and head of the prime minister’s department, was later to say “the tour did not fit in with Kirk’s view of what New Zealand should do in the world, and what it’s standing would be should the tour proceed.”

Around this time, I was contacted by Bob Scott, an Anglican minister and director of the Wellington Inner City Ministry. He had just met with Norman Kirk. The prime minister’s view, which Kirk wanted relayed to HART, was that the job of the anti-apartheid movement was to be calm and quiet. The government believed that our views were well-known, and the ball game was now being played on a different field – theirs. For the next six weeks, until the tour’s cancellation, Scott acted as go-between for the prime minister and HART.

At the same time, Southern Māori MP, Whetu Tirikatene-Sullivan contacted me with a similar message. The prime minister was clearly leaving nothing to chance in getting his message through to us. She assured me that Kirk would act. But the doubts and concerns we had were both real and multiplying. Over the next six weeks, as Scott played out his go-between role, the single question exercising the minds of all in HART’s national leadership was whether or not Scott’s assessment of the prime minister’s intentions could be trusted.

By the beginning of March, those opposed to the tour split into two broad groups. One faction, which aligned with the Labour Party, trusted the prime minister to deliver, and were opposed to HART and CARE being too critical of the government. Others believed that all social democrats were untrustworthy and urged more radical action.

In early March, Bob Scott attended a HART national council meeting. For about an hour, he argued that Kirk could be trusted, and we needed to stay calm. The meeting agreed to what Kirk wanted. We would keep a low profile until the end of the month, but we did so with considerable misgivings. What exactly did “soon, in the soonest sense of soon” mean? It sounded just too glib.

Sharpeville Day, March 21, 1973, saw leafleting, picketing, vigils, a rock concert, marches, rallies and commemorative services throughout the country. We publicised recent messages of support from diverse groups and individuals, including former UN secretary general U Thant and the Anglican Bishop of Woolwich and former MCC cricketer, David Sheppard. The most militant action taken was by members of the New Zealand Seamen’s Union, who stopped work for 24 hours to demonstrate their opposition to apartheid.

After Sharpeville Day, tensions escalated significantly. At the end of March, I was in Dunedin for an anti-apartheid meeting. Scott was also there. I reminded him that our agreement with Kirk was about to expire. Scott indicated that he, too, was concerned with how slow the prime minister was moving. He undertook to contact Kirk.

Towards the end of the first week in April, Scott contacted me. “Early early next week,” I was told. I was fed up. At the beginning of March we had agreed to what the prime minister had asked. We had sat on our hands for a month, and marked time. Now we were being told to wait until mid April. What would we be told then? That the tour was on and that I and others were to be prosecuted? By now, the common view in the HART leadership was that Scott was being taken in by the prime minister, and that we were being taken in by Scott.

It was not just an issue of what the HART leadership was thinking. What about our supporters? We at least knew more or less what was going on between ourselves and the prime minister. Most of our supporters did not. They were becoming increasingly restless. It was easy for some of them to regard the HART leadership as just a bunch of media freaks who had got cold feet.

If we could not control events we at least needed to be singing our own song instead of being in a chorus singing someone else’s tune. A meeting was planned in Wellington for Sunday, April 8. Most of the HART leadership was there. All of us believed, with different degrees of conviction, that the tour was on. In about three months, the Springboks would be here. We needed to start planning and organising for their arrival.

We never got to do that. There was a knock at the door. In walked Bob Scott, who had not been invited to the meeting. A silent sigh ran around the room. How many more days were we going to be told we had to wait? “It’s near its conclusion,” he said. “Just wait a few more days.”

“You keep saying that – a few more days, a few more days,” we replied. Some in the room were adamant one day was a day too long to wait. Others, outside of HART, were clearly thinking the same. That night, a rugby grandstand in Papakura was burnt to the ground.

I sat and listened. I wanted to believe Scott, but ever since he had started acting as go-between, it felt as if we were all players in an updated version of Waiting for Godot. If it came to a vote (which it wouldn’t – most decisions were arrived at through consensus), I would not go with the “just wait a few more days” line.

Towards the end of the meeting, Scott signalled to me as he left the room and I followed. “If I tell you something, will you go back inside and tell them?” he asked. Half a dozen qualified responses flashed through my head. This wasn’t a time for a philosophical discourse on the nature of loyalty, trust or honesty. “No,” I responded, and hoped I would be able to keep my word.

“I spoke with the prime minister yesterday,” he said. “The tour is off.” I must’ve looked unconvinced. “He has written to the Rugby Union requiring the tour be called off.” And then he repeated, “It’s off. The letter has gone to the NZRFU. They have it. Mr Kirk will make the announcement next week.” I believed him.

I went back into the meeting, which was by now grudgingly of the view that we would extend the contract with Kirk and “hold off” for another week. No one asked me what Scott had wanted to tell me but I was asked for my view on how we should proceed. I spoke briefly, positively endorsing the emerging consensus.

I got a ride down to the airport. As we twisted down Mount Victoria, I had great surges of excitement. It was off! The tour was off! The joy was pure, immense, uncomplicated. I felt like a kid at Christmas. The flight back to Christchurch was fairly empty. A flight attendant came and chatted for a few minutes. How was I? Did I think the tour would be called off? I gave the standard response, but inwardly, my smile was so large I feared it might take over my face.

Looking back at the 1970s, the cancellation of the 1973 Springbok tour was part of a brief, exhilarating, period in our politics. If I had to name my favourite year, it would probably be 1973. I was 27, and after 12 years of conservative government, change was on its way.

Trevor Richards was national chairperson of the Halt All Racist Tours movement (HART) from 1969-80, and international secretary from 1980-85.