Twenty-four years ago I remember watching the first-ever World Cup Final. The All Blacks won, as it was their God-given right to do so. I was twelve, and all was right in the world.
Rugby and me go way back. There's a photo of me aged 3, on Athletic Park (the legendary Wellington rugby ground), wearing little corduroy overalls and grinning at the camera. I remember seeing more than one game from high up in the Millard Stand, usually in a howling southerly. If we weren't at the park, we'd be warm and dry at home, watching the game on a Saturday afternoon with a roast cooking in the oven. Dad used to play at number 8 for club and university rugby, even when he was doing his PhD in North Carolina, and when I was 16, I wore his old Auckland Uni rugby jersey until it fell apart.
Twelve years ago I went to the final test match at the park, France-New Zealand. I cheered as the All Blacks demolished Les Bleus 54-7. Later that year, I got up one morning and asked Dad "How much did we beat them by?" I thought he was joking when he said we lost. Four years ago I walked into a bar in Paris and declared "Now you're going to see some real rugby". And we all know how that turned out.
This year, coming home for the World Cup was a no-brainer. Finally hosting this party in New Zealand has been even more fun than I expected. The crowds, the costumes, and the atmosphere - so many people caught up in something which has nothing to do with politics, suffering, war, or climate change. Sport has ultimate drama, the highs, the lows, the groin strains - but as we have learnt from bitter experience, if our team loses, the world does not stop turning. We just pick ourselves up from our hangovers and go to work the next day.
On Tuesday, Dad and I went to the National Portrait Gallery on the waterfront to see a photo exhibition of rugby players who had just come off the field. These were all club players, so real grassroots level. They were battered and bloodied, with the thousand-yard stare of a soldier who has just made it out of the trenches. My favourite was no 77: First Five Eighth for Southbridge, one cap, in June 2009. It was Dan Carter's first game of rugby after he got back from Perpignan. He hadn't been called back into the All Blacks yet, and fancied a game, so he pulled on his local club jersey. He looks normal in the photo, a bit grubby and hair ruffled, not the airbrushed and sponsored pretty boy we have gotten used to. Even in the professional era, the love of the game is the overriding thing.
I came home expecting to see some good rugby and enjoy the atmosphere. The pool games were fun, especially watching the try-fest against Canada. But history has taught me to be cautious. Dan Carter's injury made me nervous, and so it was inspirational stuff to see the team come back from the loss of a key player and hold firm against Argentina. I will never forget
Piri Weepu in particular rising to the occasion and slotting kick after kick over those posts. The look of disgust on his face at his only missed kick said it all - this team has set high standards for themselves. During the Australia game, the Israel Dagg - Ma'a Nonu try eased my worry slightly, but I clung to my squishy rugby ball for 80 tense minutes and only relaxed once the final whistle blew.
And now, we wait. Some people are saying that the final on Sunday night is as good as won. But we all know how unpredictable the French can be - and I've been burnt before, so I'm in an agony of anticipation. When I came home, I didn't dare to think the All Blacks would make it this far. Seeing the depth of talent in the squad, the passion in every single game and the way that they have bounced back from adversity to reach the final has made this trip even better than I was hoping. A win on Sunday night would be the icing on the cake.
Good luck boys - you've already done us proud.
