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Next year boys, next year

Roar Guru
6th July, 2015
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Hurricanes' Ardie Savea was one of the curfew breakers . (AAP Image/NZN Image/SNPA, Ross Setford)
Roar Guru
6th July, 2015
96
1789 Reads

Our first Super Rugby final was easily the most anticipated match here in Wellington for quite some time, as evidenced by the overwhelming demand for tickets – the initial offering apparently selling out in less than a minute, and temporary seating needing to be installed.

Various reports suggested that 80,000 to 90,000 tickets could have been sold for the match. Considering both sides were from New Zealand and the excitement that one of these two long-suffering franchises were about to break their 20-year duck, it was a feasible estimate.

I managed to get my hands on a ticket but, like many, it was just the one. Certainly did not bother me going stag, I was attending what I hoped would be a history-making event.

It certainly was, just not what I had been personally hoping for.

After possibly one of the longest working weeks one could imagine, including a Friday which was about as productive as the proverbial tits on a bull, the day of the match had finally arrived.

A week full of excitement and prolonged water cooler chatter, debating the expected strategies from both sides, personal plans for the evening, the likely weather forecast, ticket scalping and Ardie Savea’s knee was finally over.

I was dropped off in town a bit before six and proceeded to make my way into the stadium to catch up with all the people I had promised to meet at various intervals around the concourse.

While walking along the elevated platform to the entry gates, a large group of Highlander supporters, maybe 50 odd, were performing a rallying cry down on Aotea Quay.

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The air was dominated with cries of ‘Otaaaaaaago’ which served to get the blood pumping but also made me wonder what the Southland supporters thought of that.

Noisy buggers.

Once inside, I immediately sought out the first drinks stand and waited patiently in the short queue. I had about 20 minutes before I was due to meet anyone and was finding the banter between the opposing sets of fans quite entertaining.

Distracted by a particularly well dressed set of Hurricanes fans, I was suddenly draped in a large Highlander flag and mobbed by a group of southern supporters. A little disconcerting at first, until I realised I knew a couple of them.

Pleasantries were exchanged and I thanked them for losing my place in the line, which they all found quite humorous.

I finally got my drinks (which happened to be free as the till was not working) and made my way to the designated meeting area where I spent the rest of the time leading up to the match shooting the breeze with various supporters from both sides – I even managed to get a selfie with Dan Pryor.

It wasn’t long before it was time to get another round for myself and find my seat. I was seated in among like-minded Hurricanes fans, however the lady next to me looked a little worried about the number of beers I was carrying for myself, and that I was already in a rather happy and vocal mood.

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There was a swirl of yellow flags with a touch of blue across the crowd and the buzz and roar once the teams were on the pitch was spine tingling. I was struggling to stay seated.

Wellington Stadium has copped a fair hammering from many for its empty yellow seats over recent years, but when it’s full and swinging it is hard to beat.

The match itself seemed to fly by, like that bus you are late in catching. An absorbing clash and brilliant spectacle to watch, I was transfixed until the final whistle, bringing sheer jubilation for the Highlanders supporters and abject disappointment for Hurricanes fans.

I sat staring at members of my team, soaking in their looks of devastation and feeling disbelief. Around me, yellow-clad fans were leaving while streaks of blue supporters were jostling their way down through the yellow to be closer to the victory celebrations.

It is difficult for me to describe the abject disappointment I felt at that moment. It was very, I dunno, 2007. I guess deep down I truly believed this would be our moment, but the Highlanders were not to be denied on this occasion. Twenty seasons and counting.

I finally decided it was time to head to the earlier designated pub to meet up with friends, and so joined the mass exodus of yellow leaving the stadium, determined to recalibrate my despondent mood with a number of drinks made by Jim, Jack and Johnnie.

Along the way, I took pity on a group of lost Highlanders supporters and had them follow me. Turns out, it was the best thing I could have done. Their sheer happiness showed how much it meant to them. There was no vitriol or gloating, just commiserations and compliments handed out as we made our way towards the bar.

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If we had to lose, I am glad that it was to these blokes.

Soon after arriving at the bar and processing my first (of too many) ‘J’ drinks, I forgot my misery and engaged in numerous conversations about the game. The Highlanders’ tenacious defence, Elliot Dixon’s ‘try’, the Hurricanes’ missed opportunities and what the future may hold for both sides.

Can they both back up next year with various departures and the Rio Olympics potentially affecting the makeup of the squads? Are Wellington-based teams simply cursed? Is Jamie Joseph the smartest coach in New Zealand rugby right now?

And, of course, will we defend the World Cup?

After numerous bars, a number of ridiculous selfies, repeated slurred murmurings of “next year boys, next year”, and the final curtain call of an empty wallet, it was time for a kebab and a cab.

I can’t remember the exact time I stumbled in the front door but the missus can apparently tell you, to the exact second.

Lying on the couch on Sunday afternoon, with a couple of kids seemingly intent on making my hangover as terrible and long lasting as possible, I couldn’t help but feel gutted for those long-serving Hurricanes players who would never be able to add a Super Rugby trophy to their resumé, while wondering whether we would ever get over the line as a franchise.

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As painful as it was, deep down you had to admire the Highlanders’ win, and watching the news and taking in all the reaction, you could see how much this victory was cherished and what it meant to them and the region.

Congratulations to the Highlanders and their fans, particularly those that made the trip to Wellington and contributed to a fantastic occasion.

I am still proud of my team and their season despite the final loss; after several years of mediocrity, it made for a welcome change. While there are more pressing matters to come on the rugby calendar, I am already looking forward to the next Super Rugby season, four heads and all, and living in hope we can finally get this monkey off our back.

The wrong result, and it just sucks, but it was still a great night.

Next year boys, next year.

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