Field Theory by Hadyn Green

"He's seven foot tall if he's an inch. Hands, so wide they make a rugby ball look like a rice bubble. His jaw is strong and square, so tough you could build a house with it. And away across the room there", the old man pointed to an empty corner, where network cables hung limply from a space in the wall like some robot glory hole. "That's where the machine sat. All metal and no humour".

The engineers had brought it in with pomp and grandeur, it'll "revolutionise the industry" they said. "No need for frail men any more; this will keep going for years, without the complimentary spring rolls, samosas and beer. All it needs is the numbers".

The huddled group of commentators looked at the shiny beast with fear. It's electrically generated witty banter and rambling stories were infinitely better than anything they could think of. One of the older men, Smithy, began to cry knowing that the days of real men, working with their hands on the airwaves was over.

Then a hand rose from the crowd and kept rising. His arms were as long as highways and his hand had almost reached the ceiling of the broadcast booth before he had to straighten his elbow. In a quiet, gravelly voice that spoke with simplicity and… well simplicity… Murray said: "With respect sir, you don't know what you're saying. I'll beat that machine."

So they lined them up: Murray, whose sports jacket alone had the collected memory of a hundred rugby matches; and opposite him the box, the Monkey. The machine started fast and was fifteen quips in before Murray had even coughed first gaffe.

"But Murray always started slow. I recall back in Ought Two when he said only one off-hand remark during the first half but then come the second half, he was roaring like a Wellington wind", and then for no reason he added, "Yessir!".

The machine kept on, but while it kept pace with the game, Murray roared ahead. "He was throwing off tautologies and meaningless asides like smokestack throwing steam!"

Later folks told that when he was a little boy on his daddy's knee, Murray pointed to a microphone and said: "That microphone's gonna be the death me, Daddy, the mic is gonna be the death of me." And as the final whistle blew Murray whispered his last and fell, the microphone still clutched under his nose.

And now the machine is gone. Murray proved that a man could beat the machine, but it cost him his all. They buried him with the microphone in his hand.

The sun was shining, the grass was warm and I was genuinely enjoying the silence of the ground. The crowd murmur mixed with the background rumble from the city and was only punctuated by the whack of bat on ball (and because the Australians batted first, that happened a lot).

The bank at the Basin Reserve is wonderful too because the most comfortable position is lying down. This is not strenuous sports-watching; especially compared to the last event I went to (the Phoenix last home game).

We had strange position at the ground. At the southern end of the ground, we sat with a gap to our left for sometime as various groups would sit down and then realise the umbrella over the TV camera obscured their view. We were placed, rather un-wittingly, between the loudest Australian fans at the top of the hill and a freak-show of weirdoes who were all loosely affiliated with Sonny Shaw.

And this is where things changed. These two groups, and to a lesser extent another group of very intoxicated guys a bit further around, were the worst fans I have seen at a sports event. And I say this only because I don't count the leering fat bastards I saw on TV at the Hamilton V8s. As the day went on and more drinks were consumed the more obnoxious each group became.

Only the most non-descript could pass without comment. And heaven forbid you should own breasts. The freaks at the front clutched an A4-sized picture of (I think, I'm not going to Google it) Lara Bingle in cricket pads and a bikini that they would brandish at passing women with a comment or two. The guys up the back were resorting to wolf whistles.

At the time I was angry at them but not enough to do more than loudly deride them. Thinking later I realised how awful it really was. Even at the Sevens the munters weren't as bad as this. In contrast, the streaker (photos contain buttocks) was civilised. It felt good when, after an off-colour comment was made to a girl, a passing guy turned and told them to "fuck off".

As we left a fight was breaking out as some "Dutch-couraged" New Zealand fans attempted to steal an inflatable kangaroo from the Aussie supporters, in particular one large guy who didn't look like the fun-having type. The kangaroo ended up on the field.

On the whole though, watching a test is a fine way to spend a day with friends. In much the same way that Sevens and V8s aren't all munters, most folks at the cricket were just there to enjoy the day off. This could be seen when someone tried to start a Mexican wave to no avail. There were too many nice older gentlemen with transistor radios.

All of Mike's images are here

I like drinking with Dan because he always tells me interesting stories. Sports stories usually, ones that I've never heard, that sound dramatic and theatrical. And so it was the other night.

We were in the basement beer house Hashigo Zake, and Dan (with the West Ham wallet) was telling the story of the 1953 Christmas cricket test between South Africa and New Zealand. If Christmas 1953 sounds familiar, it might be because that's when the Tangiwai disaster happened.

The story is deeply moving. It has it all: drama, action (the pitch was terrible and players like Burt Sutcliffe were hospitalised), and lost love. It also has the best part of any good sports story, an underdog fighting back against adversity.

When Dan had finished his story all I could think was: why isn't this a movie? Fuck Invictus.

Jonathan Brugh had the same thought and without a Clint Eastwood sized budget instead wrote a stage play. I strongly urge you to go and see The Second Test in its run at Bats. To be honest I got emotional just reading the press release, the story is very powerful.

"Out of the gloomy tunnel beneath the stand, into the clean white sunlight, Blair walked slowly, fumbling with his gloves, and as a man the spectators in the huge stand stood for him, stood in complete and poignant silence. Grown men, among them the New Zealanders in the pavilion and the South Africans on the field, shed tears at this moving moment, and they were not ashamed."
R.T. Brittenden

The run is timed to coincide with the test at the Basin which starts on Friday.

And speaking of that, we'll be there! By "we" I mean me (under strict instructions not to talk lest it disrupt some mystical cricket mojo), Emma (who promises not to ogle too much, well, maybe too much) and Keith ("I'll be there but don't expect me to cheer, and if I do, don't expect me to mean it"). And of course you're invited to join us. There was talk of a sign at one point, but I'm sure you'll find us either way.

Afterwards we'll be finally having those Wellington Public Address drinks that y'all love so much. The official start-time is 5pm at Hooch, so pop along after work and meet some folks from the Public Address System in "real life".

I might be the only one who actually likes the idea of Weta making a rugby statue for Wellington. However, I do have two issues with it:

1. what it is, and
2. where it is.

Anyone who has been to The Caketin (or as it's affectionately known, Westpac Stadium) will know that the approach is rather, well, empty. The Fran Wilde Walk is a vast expanse of concrete designed solely for getting a large amount of people the fuck out of the stadium after an event.

The only bit of artistry to break up the grey is the Māori art work on the front that includes a mountain form that relates to Wellington for some reason. I actually quite like it. It's nice to see it as you approach along the "walk".

So it surprised me to find that the Weta sculpture was going to go on the Wellington waterfront. Why not on that long stretch of featureless pavement that most people hate walking along?

It's one of the many things I love about American sports, the honouring of history. Imagine if the pathway into the stadium was filled with statues of the great players from Wellington's sporting past (across all codes). The pillars for the lights already exist, so it wouldn't too hard to change it up with some sports-related artwork.

Making statues that are strongly-related to the city's sporting history also means that you can dispense with the symbolism that's been hastely stapled onto the Weta sculpture. "It's representative of the fault line…" I like Richard Taylor but he really lays it on thick sometimes.

First an announcement: Wellington Public Address Get-Together on Friday March 19, Emma and I (and possibly Keith and Graeme) will be at the Basin Reserve in Wellington to watch the first day of the first test between Australia and New Zealand. And we would love for you to join us. And if cricket (or lying in the sun enjoying the day) ain't your bag then well be heading to Hooch afterwards (from 5pm) for many, many drinks.

Go write it down in whatever you use as a calendar or diary. Done? Choice.

Watching the cricket on Saturday, at Beerfest, was rather strange. It was bit like the world's biggest pub. We were staring at a massive image projected on a concrete wall, drinking some of the best beer brewed in New Zealand, and there were still people chanting "[Aussie bowler]'s a wan-kah!"

Did I mention, that beer was goooood!

While Jed (who you may remember from last year's Beerfest shenanigans) went to see the beer-food matching seminars I wandered off to get my first beer of the day. I'm still unsure how fortunate it was that Epic was the first stand I went to.

It was definitely fortunate in that I got to try Luke's new Thornbridge Stout (seen above) with it's thick coffee flavour and Epic's trademark hoppiness. Then, at Luke's insistence I washed it down with an Armageddon. I was glad I had decided to cook myself a large breakfast that morning.

This was beginning to feel like last year's event. In fact the streams were crossing substantially. I even bumped into the same journalism students.

I talked to Stu the Wellington Yeastie Boy (that's the brewery, not a horrible nickname) over a His Majesty 2009, of which only a few rare bottles remain. I wanted to know if my music industry analogy of a year ago was correct. He confirmed that it was except that he was quite happy with his distributor.

And these guys are a bit like rockstars. From the Kiss-like stage show of Epic (including a tweet-wall) to the quieter surrounds of Renaissance. And in front of each stand, a mosh pit full of drinkers wanting to either try something new or to pick the brains of the brewers.

Beer nerds. That's they're called. Stu had just done a tasting in the Waikato for a group of agricultural scientists who were dying to get their hands on his yeast. But it's not just real scientists; it's also the home chemists who want to know what goes into each mash. Some want to be the next Renaissance or Crouchers or Epic others just want to create that one great beer they can share with friends.

And there are always niches. Brian Thiel at Renaissance told me about their unusual bottles. Naturally bigger bottles (a glass and a half) make the purchaser feel better for buying an expensive beer. But the real trick is keeping them short. Three Boys make tall bottles which means supermarkets have them on different shelves (too high, or too low) whereas the Renaissance stays at eye height.

I did eventually make my way to the tasting sessions. Sadly Brian's venison never showed but the beer was good (and when I later tried a full glass against the venison it did go well, but the meat was too bland). Luke matched his Armageddon with Rogan Josh perfectly while Stu's Nerdherder went with vege pizza nicely (quietly I think it would've been perfect with Hawaiian pizza because it needed a tiny bit of salt that the ham would've provided).

I also had a chat with Dave Cryer of Cryer Malt and head of the Brewer's Guild. We talked about where beer was heading in New Zealand and the news seems to be good for everyone.

We're heading for the age of the session beer. Alcohol levels are coming down without losing that strong taste that drinkers enjoy. The brewers are keenly aware that the World Cup is coming along and that there is going to be a lot more beer drinkers in the country and beer tourists. Beer is now competing with wine for the tour business. But beyond that drinkers want to try more than one beer in a sitting, and if they are all full-flavoured 8% beers then that is going to be a very short session.

Beers of note:

• Epic Stout – a thick coffee flavoured hit that's not officially for sale until the 5th of May, but there will be a preview keg at the Malthouse in Wellington on the 15th of March(?) to go with the seasonal release of Epic Mayhem.
• Yeastie Boys His Majesty –wow, I can see why there isn't much left of it. At 6.4% it's not as strong as it seems either.
• Renaissance Paradox Blonde – always a nice drop in the sun

• Golden Ticket Summer Babe – this was a surprise and I didn't know quite what I was getting when Stu poured it. A nice light summery beer and well worth it if you can find some. And Jed told me later it's named after a Pavement song.
• Croucher's Cherry Bock – It looked like a stout but tasted like black cherries mashed into a spicy beer. My surprise favourite

Enough with the serious beer stuff. Beerfest is only partly about beer nerdery, it's also a summer festival (hence "fest"). I managed to catch the Checks in full rock strut. And the crowd were lapping it up. And there no grumbles about sitting on the concrete or the lines for the food (although, as always the food was the biggest let-down).

The best part was the lack of munters. I saw one guy being escorted out at the end of the day (while we were watching the cricket) and one other guy was asked to leave Paul Croucher's tasting session. And even as we left the crowd was better behaved than most rugby crowds.

Congratulations to Andrew for another great event, and the sunshine didn't even ruin it.

Mike's full gallery is here.