Super 14: The end of good taste

My mate and I took our kids to the Blues versus Stormers game at Eden Park on Saturday, taking advantage of the early evening kick-off to see some live action.

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The rugby itself was very exciting. The new laws improved the spectacle by making play flow, and both teams were desperate for wins so the contest was brutal for the full eighty minutes.

By the time Ben Atiga landed his dramatic final minute penalty to separate the sides and give the Blues a 17-14 win, we were all exhausted from the adrenaline of an emotional roller coaster ride.

But there were many things wrong with the experience, all to do with bad marketing. I wonder how many fans have been turned off by such things to the point where they no longer bother to attend live games.

Since we were travelling to the ground by train and didn’t expect to make it home until the children’s bed-time, we planned reluctantly to get dinner at the ground … we were prepared to suffer the salty dough and butcher’s offal fried in heavy grease that passes for food in urban New Zealand, but saw no reason to subject ourselves to warm Coca-Cola or bottled water at four dollars a litre, these being the liquid options, and our normal objections to such dismal fare notwithstanding.

So (along with a blanket in case the weather turned ugly) we packed a bag with drinks.

This was a big mistake. I can’t remember when the Nazi party took over security operations at New Zealand’s rugby grounds, but every stand entrance was a blockade where patrons were having their bags turned inside out and (amongst other indignities) being forced to peel the labels off their bottles.

I thought asking why would be reasonable, but the mood immediately turned ugly and threatening when I did.

Security personnel worldwide these days take their jobs way too seriously. It’s not just at New Zealand’s rugby grounds.

But as for Why in this instance, I already knew. Those sponsors paying for signage inside the ground had some bad businessmen inside the rugby administration over a barrel and could demand all sorts of exclusivity clauses. It was the same reason our co-hosting rights for the World Cup in 2003 were scuttled.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if we’d finally gotten inside the stand and seen tastefully presented signage, but when we did it was a visual cacophony of garish orange-on-blue, black-on-yellow and green-on-red everywhere, all higgledy-piggledy and badly assembled.

Every flag and goalpost pad was sponsored, and the pitch itself was emblazoned with logos angled especially for cameras.

If the transition to professionalism had been managed properly, the main brand inside the ground would be that of the home team. All the sponsors’ merchandise would include the home team’s logo, not the other way around. Value would not have been eroded.

It looked like a junk mail circular for a bowling alley in Las Vegas, and I felt very sad for the passing of the old ways. All the austerity was gone.

Remember brass bands, marching girls and curtain-raisers, anyone? Not anymore. Once some fat, navel-and-eyebrow-pierced girls in hooker costumes had waggled their tails at the wide-eyed children and an idiot had screamed ‘Make Some Noise’ fifty times at the crowd, hoping to exhort more than a distracted whoop of support for some motorcross riders, the rugby finally began.

One of the children not used to the live theatre was caught out by the sudden drop in volume and, thinking there was some kind of pre-match lull, actually missed kick-off.

But that still wasn’t the end of the distractions. Every time there was an injury break, the ground announcer (who obviously learned deejaying for a live crowd in a Kowloon City karaoke bar) would spin his idea of a classic hit. Okay, his first choice wasn’t bad - Queen’s We Will Rock You is undoubtedly one of the world’s top ten stadium tunes.

But the next three injuries were punctuated by Brown Girl In The Ring, the theme from Happy Days, and something called Roots Woman that I didn’t recognise.

It was incongruous, idiotic and as a New Zealander slightly embarrassing. Luckily the only foreign fans were South Africans, where Pat Benatar and Bon Jovi have just hit big.

I’ll say one thing FOR Eden Park. Travelling by train was a real pleasure. If work ever actually starts on the stadium upgrade (it hasn’t yet… tick tock, tick tock) they must further encourage patrons to avail themselves of this the only viable public transport option to and from the ground.

The weekend had begun in front of the television as usual, watching the Crusaders slip around in the Waratahs’ spilled guts. It was close to begin with, 6-0 to the Crusaders at half-time and 7-6 to the Waratahs shortly afterwards, but then the home side bothered to engage forward gear and flattened the Australian obstacle in front of them.

Four tries and a steadily increasing dominance at set piece and the breakdown later, the traditional imbalance was restored. Everything about the Crusaders’ 34-7 performance smacked of patience and composure. Even the bonus point try was scored in the final minute.

The Waratahs had enjoyed a week off beforehand, a week which they’d obviously spent contemplating a far more glorious result. They seemed inordinately distressed afterwards by the occasional penalty having gone against them, but don’t be fooled… this is an old Australian trick when playing overseas.

Are the Waratahs just playing ‘dumb’?

Because the channels back home are dominated by weird local sports and only one newspaper regularly pays for its reporter to attend road games, they think they can get away with making a stink about the referees after losses and never admitting to their own faults.

But this was against a legendary outfit, the leanest, meanest machine in rugby. The best thing to do after playing and losing to the Crusaders in Christchurch is to shrug and move on, so it was surprising to hear the normally savvy Waratahs complain so loudly. Perhaps after such a hiding they think the secret to staying in this competition mentally is in remaining defiant. Fair enough.

The Highlanders lost 28-36 to the Force, the other smart Australian team, in Queenstown on Saturday afternoon. They probably should have won (again) but they’ve caught the losing habit and managed to fritter away a lead through defensive indiscipline, silly penalties and intercept passes.

The Chiefs beat the Bulls 43-27 in Hamilton, keeping their faint hopes alive. It’s not too late for them to mount a late charge, but every game from now on will be crucial and any more losses will put them in a must-win situation. It’s not just the points that go begging whenever winnable games slip from the grasp, it’s the fatal erosion of confidence in your own abilities at vital junctures.

That’s why this win was one they needed so very badly. The Chiefs have been watching the demise of the Bulls as closely as anyone, and being the first team to allow them a road victory would have been profoundly humiliating. Instead they created six tries and finished the sixth round with some much needed momentum.

The Bulls, meanwhile, are probably going to finish 2008 with the worst record of any defending champion. If taking only Victor Matfield and Bryan Habana out of the side that won the 2007 final makes them into easybeats, something is very, very wrong in Pretoria.

In other games, the Brumbies beat the Cheetahs 29-23 in Canberra and the Lions drew 24-all with the Reds in Johannesburg. The Sharks and Hurricanes had byes.

I’m not going to stop taking the kids to games. Security aside, this essay is meant as testimony to Auckland’s crass, headlong corporate culture in particular and not New Zealand’s in general. Waikato Stadium is nowhere near as badly corrupted as Eden Park, Westpac Stadium in the capital still has a touch of magic, and you can’t rub shoulders with the rabid fans in Christchurch without actually acquiring a surface film of red-and-black paint flakes.

When I return to Eden Park I will remember to pre-peel my drinks and prepare for sensory bombardment. I just have a nagging fear that it’s going to get worse before it gets better and there will be new unpleasant surprises sprung on us each time we venture there.

It’s already only a bloody-minded stubbornness that keeps me going now, along with an iron gut and a willingness to empty the coffers in exchange for a few tiny, uncomfortable plastic seats. Let’s hope the other grounds aren’t going to go the same way quite so quickly.

And television, by the way, will not be the winner in this battle, it will ultimately lose right alongside everyone else if people stop attending grounds.

Sport is competing with a rising flood of bad taste on television. It’s obvious that television programmers already take advantage of people’s small screen addictions by pushing whatever cheap guff is available - degenerates and assorted other craven, selling their souls for any fleeting measure of fame. And the fast dollar driving standards down will turn a population’s brains to mush in the historical blink of an eye.

While a few too many logos and desperate sales clauses at sports fields are still a long way removed from Brett Michael and Flava Flav swapping diseases with hoochies on primetime, the connection is there no matter how tenuous.

Sport can promote itself without cheapening itself.

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