Hurricanes and weddings don't mix

Friday 7 March should’ve been an exciting day for me – the first home game of the year at the Caketin against the Brumbies, beaten finalists from the year before.

I should’ve been thinking about what time to get to the game, getting the kids organised with face paint and flags and where to park.

Instead I was organised to attend a dreaded ‘function’ which, in this particular case, is a witches conference more commonly referred to as a ‘wedding’.

Why did I deserve this? I don’t know these people from a bar of soap; one of the wife’s work colleagues was getting married.

Why did I have to go?

I racked my limited mind to find a reason not to attend: I travel a lot for work and want to spend time with the kids, the back fence needs fixing, don’t want to put the pets in a kennel, the Hurricanes need me, I tried and I tried.

All of my efforts were greeted with utter contempt and a sound lecture on what I translated to be the importance of my wife’s social life.

Even her strange dog, a curious mixture of New York rat and a miniature sheep, would treat me with disdain.

I even prayed for the flu, which I duly received, though the timing was a wee bit off – it struck two weeks prior to the event.

Short of exposing myself to several strands of E. coli I resigned myself to my fate. I would miss the first home game of the season.

We arrived at our hotel with an early check-in just after midday, carrying more gear than an entire rugby squad. The wedding was at two o’clock and apparently we were running late – my fault, as I was reliably informed.

The lady went to get ready; I headed for the mini bar.

My wife emerged from the bathroom, war paint on and hair twisted to ridiculous extremes.

“How do I look?” she asked.

“Beautiful,” was my response. In truth I was thinking how the money to acquire her new dress and shoes would have been better spent on the kids and me going to the game tonight.

A taxi was acquired and we made our way to the church. I decided to dip my toe in the water to ascertain the mood.

“Do I really need to wear this tie?”

I was immediately sanctioned and informed of my pedigree. The water turned out to be ice cold. The taxi driver was laughing.

Arriving at the church, we immediately attached ourselves to one of several groups mingling outside waiting for proceedings to kick off.

Fortunately I found a like-minded Hurricanes fan and we immediately immersed ourselves in conversation regarding our team’s prospects for that evening.

“Who would organise their wedding when there is sport on?” I ventured. I was informed that the Groom was a Crusaders fan and a back. Typical Crusty.

Alas, our conversation was cut short and we were ushered into the church. It was fair to say that the aisle widths and pews were not made with consideration of a person of my dimensions. I have experienced more space packing down in the front row.

I eventually took my seat and found myself staring at the stained glass windows. Will we cut out the unforced errors? How big will the crowd be?

My thoughts were abruptly cut short with a short sharp elbow to the ribs informing me the ceremony had commenced.

With the ceremony completed, the bridal party had departed to take their photos and we made our way across the road to the reception area.

To my left I spotted a pub – a quick glance to my right to Hurricanes fan confirmed he had seen it too. A knowing look was exchanged. Perhaps there was hope for us after all.

The afternoon dragged on. How long do a few bloody photos take? I was reminded of my wedding and to be patient.

There was no sport on at my wedding I thought to myself. I smiled, nodded and went to the bar.

A few bourbon and dries had improved my mood remarkably and myself and Hurricanes fan decided to join in a game of cricket with a group of children attending the wedding.

It was quite pleasant smacking sixes off a 10-year-old in the afternoon. I even managed to convert a young Blues fan on the way of the Hurricanes by explaining the error of his ways.

I knew I had him when he admitted his favourite player was Cory Jane. Another soul saved from purgatory.

A large chill ran down my spine and I looked over from mid-off to Hurricanes fan, who had felt it too. We turned to see our wives looking at us with disgruntled looks at our now dishevelled appearance.

We excused ourselves from the match and proceeded to the restrooms to replace ties and improve our appearance, joking over who was in the most trouble and plotting our eventual escape to the pub to watch the game.

Finally, the bridal party had arrived and we made our way into the ballroom. We found ourselves at the back at table 15 – Cullen’s number.

We took our seats and my attention was immediately grabbed by the number of wine bottles placed at its centre. I reached for the closest bottle of red.

Dinner was served and consumed. The gentleman beside me turned out to be an architect whom did not like sport.

When would this hell end? I snuck a look at my watch – 7:20pm.

My pulse raced – maybe I could still watch the game!

I snuck a look at Hurricanes fan at table 13 (Conrad’s number) and could see he was of like mind.

My wife, however, was one step ahead of both of us.

“Looking forward to the speeches?” she asked, or, more likely, reminded me.

“Yes dear,” I replied and reached for the bottle of red.

The speeches seemed to last for an eternity. I tried to pull out my phone and check out the score on The Roar‘s live blog and was immediately scolded like a small child on time out.

I was at my wits end. It was eight o’clock, so I could still make the second half. I caught Hurricanes fan’s eye and gave him the nod.

I excused myself, citing the need for the facilities under the raised eyebrows from my wife.

I raced outside, making a beeline for the pub, the remembered I hadn’t rang the kids.

I quickly dialled their grandparents’ number and was promptly told off by my five-year-old daughter for ringing so late. I was not able to speak to my son, who was over at the neighbours playing Skylanders instead of watching the game.

Finally the conversation was over and I raced into the pub and straight to the bar and ordered a bourbon and dry, double.

The bartender happened to be a Highlanders fan.

“Your boys aren’t doing too good mate,” he said.

“They are rubbish,” the gent standing at the bar next to me offered.

Turns out he was a Chiefs fan, who proceeded to inform me why my team is not very good and why his team is the best.

Highlanders fan rolled his eyes and moved off down the bar. I resisted the urge to tell him to go away quickly, wished him a good night and retreated to an empty leaner to take in the second half where I am joined by Hurricane fan who had managed to orchestrate his own escape.

The sweet nectar of freedom was to be short lived as. With the return of the teams to the field, our wives burst through the entrance like police dogs searching for escaped convicts.

Spotting us, they made their way towards us like a tornado ripping through a small rural town. We braced for the impending impact of the approaching storm.

A slight pause opened up during our castration and I saw my opportunity.

“Did you remember to call the kids?” I innocently enquired.

The look of guilt swept over her face had confirmed she had not. Turnover is good and I have the ball. I press home my advantage: “Don’t worry, I passed on your love to them.”

My wife’s grim demeanour softened and she sighed. “You had better get Hurricanes wife and I a drink then I suppose.”

At the bar, I realise the Reds and Cheetahs are on next – I was keen to see what the Cheetahs are up too as we play them next Saturday.

Wait, next Saturday rings a bell for some reason. I whip out my phone and check my calendar.

Saturday 15 March. Engagement Party.