Dialogue: The players couldn't wait for home-time, neither could I

By KATE BELGRAVE

I decided to get in my millennial visit to a live rugby match on Friday, and so trotted off to dear old Wellington's infamous, glittering, rising-from-the-sea cake-tin to watch the mighty (work with me here) Hurricanes deal to the supposedly beleaguered Stormers.

As you no doubt know (I didn't, but that is because I am still fairly new to the Super 12 scene), our South African friends had, somehow, managed to have an even more forgettable season thus far than the local heroes, the 'Canes.

It was perhaps not surprising, then, that the thousands of local season-ticket holders and commentators who descended on the stadium felt there was reason to hope.

"I read that the Stormers are really, really bad," four or five local punters excitedly informed me as they built themselves up, again, for a big home contest.

I was about to start feeling desperately sorry for these despairing, straw-clutching souls, but remembered (which is quite unusual for me) that I was the last person to talk.

I am not a rugby fan but I am a cricket one and that, with the rather spectacular time-lapse since the Black Caps' last festival of achievement, is probably not a sign of superiority.

Anyway, I thought the game I saw inside that fabulous, crowded stadium was absolutely appalling. It wasn't the fact that the Hurricanes lost that was so rotten.

It was the fact that both sides were apparently struggling to motivate themselves. The Hurricanes, in particular, dropped the ball every time they collected it, fell over for the hell of it, gave away an entirely avoidable runaway try, pootled along behind the runaway before giving up, and so on.

You probably don't need me to tell you the rest. You'll doubtless have read, and much enjoyed, the match reports yourself and you'll definitely have a much better handle on the technical details than I do.

The technical problems weren't really the issue for spectators, though. The issue was the lacklustre feel of the thing - the feeling that most of the guys down on the field were just hanging around and maybe getting a bit of exercise in while they waited for their cheques to clear.

The crowd picked this fairly early on - "only 70/60/40 minutes before home-time, Jonah," some wag behind us yelled out as he counted down.

"Could be time for one of us to streak," a girl said in the latrine block at half-time. "I think we're boring them."

It was hard not to agree. Everything about the scene, from Tana Umaga's silly hair to Lomu's pointedly languid indifference, smacked from all directions of an entertainment that is now so utterly about appearance, and a few bored, oversold individuals, that it is barely worth describing as a team pursuit.

And although that hardly affects me personally - it was, after all, the first, and perhaps last, footy match I've been to since Bernie Fraser retired, when I was either an infant or perhaps just about to be born - I was kind of annoyed on behalf of the genuine fans.

They had made an extraordinary effort, as had whoever built that fabulous stadium. Thirty thousand people turned up for that match. They poured off the trains from the Hutt and the Wairarapa, and in from the centre of Wellington.

People do come for miles, too. The guy who sits next to my parents' season seats comes for every game, all the way from Levin.

We joined them on the concrete ramps that lead from the railway station to the stadium, and bent with them as they started tacking into the southerly gale. Everyone was painted up in Hurricanes' colours and belting out the Hurricanes' one-word theme song without a hint of scepticism or irony.

Down on the field, some poor schmuck in a yellow suit and a big plastic mask (our row did a bit of speculation that it was Phillida Bunkle or Marian Hobbs) had found himself employment as team mascot and was jumping around before the crowd, stirring it to even greater excitement.

There was no doubt that the fans were absolutely committed to the game. Perhaps that's why it was upsetting to hear the fans voice doubts about the team's commitment to them. I don't know.

Does this happen a lot? Is there always that negative undercurrent at games? Do most fans feel vaguely insulted by players of the professional game?