The streets will be loud tonight, car horns will blare until the early hours, we will drink and scream and cheer and groan and complain and cheer again. We will applaud and slap backs and hug and some of us will cry. We will congratulate winners and buy drinks for losers. We will revel in the last night of a party that has been more fun than most of us expected, even the people who just wanted to hang out in the metaphorical kitchen.
Wherever you are, what ever your opinion on the game, if you watch it, you have to watch it with people. No hiding in the bedroom calling for updates, no sitting home alone watching the TV. Go out, the rest of the country is going to be. Even if you don't want to watch the game, I don't think we're going to see anything of this calibre here for a very long time, and you don't want to waste an event like this. It's the Halley's Comet of long weekends.
Win or lose, it's going to be loud. Right there, that third fucking word, I used the L-word.
Despite the confidence of the rugby-watching public, the veneer is thin. We've been in this position before. Many, many times. Does it bear thinking about? Probably not. Then I read this, again.
In that four year-old thread Charles Mabbet collected Fairfax media commentary from just before our game against the French:
Jim Kayes: Forget '99, the last four years are what matters. The All Blacks are too quick, too strong, to skilful, too good. France has forgotten how to play French rugby. No scrum and little flair, they will rely heavily on a kicking game.
Marc Hinton: Everybody keeps saying that the French have a big one in them, a la '99. I don't see it. This is an average Les Bleus side and Bernard Laporte's selection gambles are nothing but last rolls of the dice. The All Blacks have been waiting a long time for a significant test at this tournament, and I fully expect them to be magnifique.
Tony Smith: The moment of reckoning. Now is the hour to justify the All Blacks' billing as world No 1. France can't beat them - they can only beat themselves. This is one of France's worst World Cup squads. Where are the backline Serges? Bernard Laporte has chosen robots as backs.
Greg Ford: Kip time is over lads. Time to earn your pay by bludgeoning France into submission and then by flaying them some more just for kicks. The tabloids in the UK call the French Cheese-Eating-Surrender-Monkeys. Could not have said it better myself. They'll roll up the white flag.
Check the papers today to see if they say the same thing. Though this isn't the same tension I had before the game against Australia. This is more a hope that we can actually finish it off this time.
I have previously joked that losing the World Cup in New Zealand's quadrennial tradition. But after all of this, all these weeks of travelling the country, of meeting some amazing people from around the world, of partying into the night because everyone is in high spirits, losing just doesn't seem like an option.
And then...
There's a lot of things going on right now that will suddenly be spotlit by a public and media in the lull that inevitably follows an event of this size. It's the hangover and no amount of Blue Powerade will help.
This is not a post about rugby. Or sport of any kind. Which is pretty much what you should've expected from the sports blog on Public Address after the All Blacks made the final. This is a post about oil and a white sand beach.
I haven’t been swimming at Mount Beach for years. When the Rena ran aground and started to leak oil on the beach, it was all I wanted to do.
I lived at the Mount for first few years of my life, in the shadow of Mauau, before moving across the harbour to Tauranga. I have spent a lot of time at that beach, I got attacked by a dog there as a child, I got stoned in the dunes as a teenager and, well, other things too. I spent eighteen years of my life in that area before moving away for uni, this is my home town.
Then I hear things about shipping companies not feeling guilty and not taking responsibility, about insurance companies who have put limits on the amount they’ll pay out and politicians who seemingly keep telling us: “Don’t worry, she’ll be right, I’m sure they’ll pay us. Until then though you’ll have to foot the bill”. This gets me a little angry. Actually it made Hulk-mad. I had to go home.
I arrived at my Dad’s house and he showed me all the papers he had collected with the Rena on the front. While other newspapers are dominated with smiling All Blacks, the BOP Times keep showing the population a destroyed ship. This is more important to the people of Tauranga, right now, than the outcome of the World Cup. Yesterday’s paper had some sobering numbers:
1346 tonnes of oil remain on the ship.
350 tonnes has been lost into the ocean
5000 volunteers are registered to help
500 volunteers were used over the weekend at Papamoa and Maketu
618 tonnes of oily sand removed
181 live birds are being treated after being covered with oil
1250 birds were found dead
$3.5million has already been spent on clean up.
I had to go to the beach.
The signs were clear: the main Mount beach was open, but the water was closed. This did not mean the beach was empty. The sun was shining for a time and there were quite a few tourists around and kids playing everywhere. Some rather clever person had written huge letters in the sand spelling out “Clean Me”.
The air was fresh and smelled like the sea. This is a contrast to previous days when, my Mum told me, the beach had stunk of oil. Walking along the soft white sand in the sunshine it was hard to fathom that an ecological disaster had occurred here. The waves were a wonderful blue green, birds (NZ dotterels, see the pics above) ran about on the sand and it just seemed like any other work-day when the beach wouldn’t be packed. The cafes were doing a great trade and only three hazard suited workers were seen.
They weren’t working today, but the beaches weren’t clean. On the open part of the main beach (for those who don’t know the main beach stretches from the Mount to the little spit of land known locally as Leisure Island) I found a lot of clumps of oil. Solid pancakes ranging from the size of a 50c piece to ones the size of my hand. The beach considered safe enough to open to the public was still contaminated.
The economic impact of this disaster, and let’s be clear that’s what this is, to Tauranga’s economy will be huge. Not only will The Mount potentially “lose the summer”, like Amity in Jaws, but the downstream impact on job creation in the area could be affected. The Port of Tauranga wants to dredge the harbour to allow even larger ships in, ships much bigger than Rena and with more oil on board, the exact type of ships people are scared of now. Understandably they are keeping their heads down, though ships are still coming and going, now much more noticeable on the horizon.
We drove down Marine Parade, stopping every now and again to take a look at the beach, but no oil could be seen from behind the “keep out” tape. The tape covered every path down to the beach; every official path. The dunes are filled with desire-lines, and walking down to the water is simple if you wanted to. Today nobody did except, about a few hundred metres down from Tay St, a lone surfer bobbed out behind the break. A long boarder too, he seemed so relaxed catching a wave in to shore and possibly having the best day of his life.
This game is going to affect you. You may not give a shit about rugby but if you live inNew Zealand then this game has significance. Someone you know will have anemotional investment in the outcome.Youwill have an emotional investment in this game.
As I drove north from Wellington, the signs were all there. Literally. Hand-written signs in fields. Flags hanging from trees and fences and balconies. Words carved into hillsides. All spurring on our national rugby team, despite the fact that the players themselves will never see it.
Approaching Auckland a bright yellow ferrari screams past me heading south, with an All Black flag attached to the window. Going in the other direction is a motorcycle with a large Welsh flag trailing out behind it. On the motorway a van has been painted with the orange, white and green of Ireland complete with scores of the games written on the back window (and a message that read "save your horn for your wife").
It's the night of the semi-final between France and Wales. My friends walk me up throughKingsland along the fan trail, where the number of daffodil heads out number the chicken heads. The mood is, as it has been for all the games, light and joyful. Everyone in good spirits and laughing. Only those fans in black look a little pensive.
Along the trail are buskers and bands and hawkers and fire. It is an amazing sight. Andof course, you saw or heard about the game.
There is also the possibility that the outcome of this match could alter the political landscape. If the All Blacks lose, we could see a change of government as the rose-tinted glasses are lifted and a fog of undirected angst falls on the population.
And now, here I am jotting down awful unfinished thoughts, as the anthems start ... And I am so fucking tense! So please excuse grammar and spelling, but go for it in the comments.
Colin Slade is a watched man. A full house at Wellington Stadium is watching him with a nervousness that comes from seeing your star player replaced by a guy who had to fight for a spot. For the most part they are silent; like 32,000 Grizz Wylies with a grim look and a note pad.
It's an incredible contrast to all the previous games here, which have been loud and boisterous. Fans from the opposing teams chanting constantly at each other with passion; here the noise rises only for events on the field. Cheers and groans. That is until the Mexican wave starts.
Slade's first touch of the ball is a groan moment. His kick is charged down by Canada and the resulting ruck ends in a very kickable penalty. Colin Slade is the reason Canada is leading at the beginning of this game. It does not build confidence.
The crowd remains quiet for most of the game. The noise of a New Zealand crowd is like the ocean; rising and falling depending on who has the ball and how far they run with it. They sing along to the songs they know and even when the music cuts off for the restart of play they continue:
"I don't kno-oooOOOOW, why does love, do this to me? I don't know. I don't know."
I suppose the more poetic might see this as a song about the New Zealand rugby fan and Dan Carter.
I miss you/You know that/But when I see you sometimes/I'm cut up and I'm broken/There am I asking you how you are
New Zealand will end up winning by a predictably impressive and hollow margin.
The interaction between the All Blacks after the game is interesting. Sonny Bill, who had a good game, is the only player to double back on the handshakes to congratulate his own team. He also has a complicated fist bump with Zac Guildford. Henry pats a stern looking Jerome Kaino on the ribs and says something causing the man of the match to break into a huge grin.
Everyone seems calm and happy. No worried faces here. They've moved on. Somewhere, Dan Carter watches this and feels ill. He'll later call a press conference and tell us all to "get over it", secretly worried that we already have.
All you hear is… HORNS IN THE CITY
Tonga wins! Tonga wins!
It was a joke at the start of the game. Then as momentum built the crowd began to realize that France weren't staging a typical comeback. None of their passes were going anywhere, no one could break the Tongan line, the kicks were off-target and the handling at crucial times was failing them. On top of that Tonga was completely disrupting French ball at the rucks. Good God Tonga is going to win this!
Head down and storming at the French line again and again. Every French tackle was made in desperation not through defensive strategy. The only thing stopping Tonga from a blow-out was their own inability to hold the ball at crucial times and an overzealous touch judge making calls from the far side of the field.
I had sent an email at half time, with Tonga having scored their try, to my French friend in Toulouse. I knew she'd be watching and joked about the state of her heart. I feel bad about that now.
In the stands you couldn't stop the Tongan fans. They were waving flags and cheering and whooping and did not stop making noise. They made a ¾ full stadium feel like a sell-out. The French fans sat in disbelief and in some cases disgust at their own team. This is not to say they were angry, it was more that they were sad that their team would play so badly (I personally blame the uniforms).
Word from the inside the French team is that there is no cohesion between the players, and some outright hatred in some cases. Marc Lievremont has come out and said that this team is like the French football team at last year's FIFA World Cup. As an aside some in the media booth (not me) on Sunday were angry that this press conference had been "cancelled" only for it to un-cancelled without notification.
But back to the Caketin which was awash in red and white. The Tongan fans were going crazy. In the booth the French journalists had their heads in their hands. The Tongan team thanking their fans with a Sipi Tau (possibly the best of the Pacific pre-game challenges) all the way around the stadium. This is their biggest triumph.
In town there are hundreds of happy Tongans cheering and flag waving and car-horn honking and being as loud as they can. And they were as loud as the horns that were blaring continuously in Newtown from midday. There are almost three times as many French fans; they aren't making much noise (other than cheering for the Scots in the late game).
But eventually the Tongan fervor dries up and Courtenay Place's usual late night demographic takes over. The French fans continue on into the early morning. If you can win anything, at least win the after party.
Deadspin
When I heard that Deadspin, a website I have spoken of before, was sending a couple of reporters here for the Cup I thought it would be a great opportunity to talk to them about rugby reporting in the US.
Turns out they were doing the cup on a shoestring budget with Deadspin contributing "beer money" and an audience. So I helped them out, bought them beer, let them crash at my place and did my bit to help ease that old ANZUS rift.
Apologies for the sudden ending to this, but my camera ran out of memory.
We have loved you all
We've had some great times haven't we? Some close games. Some blow outs. We've welcomed some of the happiest people and sadly waved as they have played their games and left. Some with tears, some with smiles, most with both.
At the end of the Japan-Canada game I made my way through the stands and helped a few people to take group photos. One in particular struck me. Two Japanese men: one in a kimono, the other in a Japanese rugby jersey. As I raised the camera I realised the man in the rugby jersey was crying, a lot. And why not? The crowd where he was sitting was unbelievably loud and cheering for a team that was playing its last game in the tournament. Its last chance to get a win. And all they got, after their best performance of the Cup, was a draw. I took their photo, patted him on the shoulder and walked on.
The press conference was delayed as the Japanese team were given their medals and walked slowly around the stands. When they arrived, coach John Kirwan and Japanese captain Takashi Kikutani were smiling at least, before the Japanese press launched an attack on Kirwan's selection policy and coaching choices. After the third question on this topic the humble Kikutani, politely asked if he could speak, and in one of those moments where the quietest man in the room held everyone's attention he defended JK, leaving the press silent. After the questions the two stood and hugged.
It's been slightly heartbreaking watching the teams leave; the Italians and Scots weeping after leaving everything on the field. The Italian captain wanting to lament with his teammates but not being able to leave the clutches of the post-game interview. Mahonri Schwalger, with his soft tone, wanting to apologise to the Samoan fans after a spirited performance against South Africa. And then Marius Tincu, with a smile and a shrug, as his team bow out.
These were our own teams for a time. We adopted the Lelos and the Brave Blossoms. The Eagles and ʻIkale Tahi had homes and communities all over the country. We cheered when they won and patted them on the back when they lost. We painted our faces with their colours and took some of our own traditions and changed them for these new teams.
And their fans came here too. Some reveling in a trip to the other side of the world, others amazed at being in "the home of rugby" (sorry England). Check the photos above for some interesting stories I found in the crowds (and bars).
After the All Blacks played Canada we bumped into a group of Canucks in a local beer bar. One of them was wearing a brighly coloured, seemingly official, Canadian rugby jersey, so I had to ask. Turns out he was a former international who had played against the All Blacks in 1980 (something which current Canadian players were jealous of). As they left they gave me a little pin to remember them by (turns out the Canadian government gives these away free to giveaway when you're overseas, what a great idea!)
But this guy is my favourite:
Troy had flown in from Tampa, which is where he broke his nose playing rugby. The large number of flights between there and New Zealand meant that his nose never healed properly and was still bleeding. After watching a few games he was off to Australia and some Pacific islands before heading back home... which is when he'll finally get the nose fixed.
It's enough to make you want the pool matches to continue. We loved having you all, please stay longer.
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Thanks to Samsung for the Galaxy Tab 10.1 which I use to report from the games and to Telecom for the SIM card inside it, which actually has reception at the Caktein.
Thanks also to Honda for giving me that flash hybrid which meant I could get to Napier and back.
The week started with the non-upset of Tonga by Canada and then suddenly Ireland are beating Australia. I was in a comedy club at the time when the news came through a cheer went up and the comedian (whose name I have forgotten) said:
Shhhhhhh! Don’t get too excited! Remember last time we all started cheering when Australia lost and then the All Blacks had to play France.
But if you think we’re nervous, you should talk to a French fan. They’re pretty worked up, but they have a different attitude. While we fret, they laugh. One French friend of mine made a bet with Ma’a Nonu for a bottle of wine if the French won. And I got this from another rugby-loving French friend in Toulouse:
… one thing is good, is that our two teams meet in the pool stage cause we love playing the All Blacks and when the Tricolores happen to win over them it's like they just "made love" so they crash on the next game cause they all ready have given all their love.
I love this analogy. Trust the French to bring love into the equation. They are keyed up on nervous energy, excited like it’s Christmas Eve and they can’t sleep. While we are also nervous it’s because of a creeping dread that maybe we’re going to lose this all again. Le Sigh.
Did you notice my friend called the French, “The Tricolores”? I have only read one article in New Zealand calling them that instead of Les Bleus. But it’s hard to call them Tricolores these days with a uniform that is almost two-thirds black.
Yes, it has come to this. I couldn’t give a fuck about England’s black uniform; it was Nike gimmick that made no sense with England’s traditional colour scheme (red and white). To have black (outlined) numbers on the back of the white jerseys was also terrible.
But then France ran out… oh Nike what have you done?
Black shorts that fade to a royal (French) blue at the collar, with the same effect down the socks (with blue at the ankles). Thin little red and white stripes on the collar and cuffs do not make up for what is a travesty of a uniform. And make no bones about it this is a direct play at adidas and the All Blacks. For all the wank about clean stadiums we have two multinational corporations going at each other and one of them is ruining a team’s national colours to do it.
So, let me say this: France, ignore the fact that Nike are making some of the best designed uniforms in the competition and drop them unless they agree to take a closer look at your flag and redesign your uniforms accordingly. Les bleus sont pour le chant.
And speaking of uniforms I have a give-away! The lovely folks at adidas have given me two jerseys to give away: a Los Pumas Argentinian jersey and an All Blacks jersey (yes, one of those expensive ones). How do you win them? Go to this thread and tell me your best World Cup Story. The best story involving people from overseas in New Zealand wins the Pumas jersey; the best story with only locals wins the All Blacks jersey. I’ll draw them next week so hopefully you’ll have them before the quarterfinals kick off.
With any luck you can wear that All Black one all the way through to the final and even the morning after, when you might feel like a Frenchman... so to speak.
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Thanks to adidas for the awesome giveaways! Viva Los Pumas and Go the All Blacks!
And thanks to Samsung for the use of their Galaxy Tab 10.1 for the duration of the Rugby World Cup. The lovely little device is the perfect machine for a journalist on the go, like myself.
