A Black Night to be Green

This past Saturday, September 15th, I had the privilege of attending an All Blacks v. South Africa Rugby match - their first meeting in the expanded Rugby Championship. Below is a recap of the game and experience, written in the "Purple Prose" style of turn-of-the-century sportswriters. Do enjoy.

The grass below sat expectantly, an emerald carpet smooth as a dance floor, pining eagerly for the unchoreographed monster truck waltz between Springbok and All Black. Shielded from the harsh, biting wind and rain on offer in Dunedin, the turf could have been a transplant from Versailles, with the Sun King himself as likely to run out of the tunnel as the modern-day gladiators the crowd was shouting for. The dome above shone and reflected an ethereal light, a glittering monolith standing in stark contrast to its predecessor - if Carisbrook, the original "House of Pain" was built on gritty, dirt-under-the-fingernails footy, then this, the "House of Pane" is a fitting monument to the new game; flashier, faster and made-for-TV.


When those warriors did emerge from the cavernous depths beneath the South Stand, they were greeted with a  jet-engine roar - 29,000 proud New Zealanders, screaming not just for their heroes in black, but also for the very defense of their nation.  Rugby, after all, is not just a sport for the Kiwi, it is a way of life, as intrinsically linked to the land and the people as baseball to America, ice hockey to Canada and football to Brazil. And tonight, under the artificial stars of television lights and camera flashbulbs, the Old Enemy was in town. If New Zealand is the first nation in rugby, South Africa is a close second, and these titanic encounters rarely fail to shake the rugby world. Eighty-three meetings before tonight, each a riveting chapter in an ongoing narrative, written in the blood and sweat of the men in black and green. A fitting opening feast for New Zealand's newest banquet hall.

"It is Death": Weepu leads the Haka against a defiant
Springbok contingent

Though rugby is rarely thought of as a thinking-man's game, much attention is afforded to the pre-match build-up, a chance for both sides to claim a mental edge in a battle so reliant on strength and force. On this occasion, it would be difficult to give that edge to any but the men tasked with defending the sanctity of this new rugby cathedral. The haunting, multi-lingual notes of Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika/Die Stem had barely enough time to finish echoing before the horde launched their return salvo - "God Defend New Zealand", in English and Maori, setting aflame the hearts of players and fans alike. And then the Haka. The noise from the stands ceased in an instant as Piri Weepu, channeling the raw power and visceral emotion of a warrior from bygone days, led his twenty-one comrades through a bone-chilling challenge to the visitors. The thundering roar of their provocation built louder and louder, frothing like a cauldron, until the stadium itself seemed set to blow the roof; standing down that ferocious display would shake the confidence of any man.

And then it started. The pageantry, the nerves, the pregame handshakes, smiles and best wishes all put aside as eighty minutes of hostility kicked off. To the uninitiated, it looks no more than pure chaos - limbs and their bodies flying hither and hence, a lone man darting from the pack, only to be swallowed whole once more, back into the seething mass from whence he came. To the initiated, in truth, it is not much different - the elemental chaos of the game also holds its beauty - yards are won on merit and will, every inch of territory conquered a struggle that penetrates into the core of what makes a man. The opening moments of the match were very much an example of the physical aspects of the game, both sides throwing themselves into the breach again and again, desperate to not be the first to yield.

Alas for our heroes, it was the enemy that drew first blood. The thunderous and typically accurate-as-an-assassin boot of Morne Steyn putting the visitors on the board first. 3-0.

The lead was not destined to last long. The boys in black swept down the field like a South Pacific monsoon, scattering the defense and striking with devastating speed and force. The scorer started the move, and the swiftest cheetah on the African plains would not have stood a chance of pulling down the gazelle that was Israel Dagg. Bounding down the touchline, away from the desperate clutches of outclassed 'Boks, he was over in a flash and sent his team back on top. 5-3, and the game was starting to flow like a fine champagne.

And yet, brutish force, not eloquent speed, was the rule for the remainder of the opening forty. Both sides fought tooth and nail for ground in the midfield, and the oxen in the front row refused to relinquish anything in either direction. Crashing runs from the forwards were met with Iron Curtain defense, and elegant wings "Hurricane" Cory Jane and Julian Savea struggled to display their silkiness in a game being played to the old, hard-nosed standard. Even the hell for leather running of Ma'a Nonu, this author's favorite All Black, bore no fruits against the staunch gang of green giants.

Ma'a Nonu warnms up for the impending assault

The aforementioned Steyn had chances to put the visitors in the lead heading into the break, but a normally clockwork precision deserted him under the withering eyes of the Dunedin crowd. The elements might no longer be a factor in the Deep South of New Zealand, but the fans are as harsh as the coldest Otago wind.

An Aaron Cruden penalty set the All Blacks on their way as the second forty kicked into gear, and yet it was the 'Boks who seized on an opportunity to draw the game level. Bryan Habana, guilty of an egregious drop in the opening stages, atoned for his sins with a darting dash through the midfield. Slippery as a man in a teflon tuxedo, he sped through the hopeless tackles of a slow-motion defense, bodies scattered in his wake - a shark gliding through a school of prey, taking what he wants and leaving naught but shattered souls. 8-8, a tense finish looming.

As the clock ticked to the hour mark, an opportunity for the Hollywood script-writers presented itself. The history of the two sides is filled with stories of the underdog, the unexpected and the redemption of the scorned. It was only fitting, then, that the decisive moment should come from a man seeking just that - a redemption, in front of his home-town crowd no less. Aaron Smith, erstwhile hairdresser and Highlander idol, stepped into the fray seeking to banish the demons of a recent demotion to the bench. After-hours shenanigans in the Capital had cost him the number 9 shirt, and yet mere moments after shedding his warm-up gear, the jitterbug scrum-half, known for his cannon-shot distribution from the break-down, took advantage of a tired defense. Taking the ball into a gap on the blind side, he slipped out of a tackle as easily as Cinderella stepped into her glass slipper and headed for the line, leaving the last defender bamboozled as he flashed by, soaring over for a famous score. Cruden duly knocked over the conversion, 15-8. The home side moves to higher ground.

Both sides traded penalties as the game ground to a weary conclusion, but it was the dedication of one man that provided the highlight of the match. Richie McCaw, a salt-of-the-earth Waitakian and veteran of 111 international fixtures, showed why he has Captained his country for 73 of those occasions. A long Cruden penalty attempt hit the upright, and as the ball hung in the air, so too did Springbok hopes hang in the balance. But in a flash, quicker than you can say Hakataramea, it was McCaw, not one of the gaggle of 'Boks, that was first to the oval. Hurtling down the field like a runaway 18-wheeler, the war-horse threw himself into the crush of bodies, seeming to scorn outright any concern for his own well-being. A seven point lead, two minutes from time, an aging body, and yet, there he was. Captain indeed. Cruden completed the scoring on the stroke of time, making the final 21-11.

New Zealand over South Africa. All Black over Springbok. Loyal Defender over Ragged Interloper. Any description goes - an appropriate and happy end to a wonderful curtain-raiser at the new "House of Pain". It may not yet have the history, but don't tell the men in green it can't hit where it hurts.