On August 31, Southland won the Ranfurly Shield for the first time since 2011. Photo / Photosport
Last weekend, I witnessed one of my favourite sporting events: a small provincial rugby union toppling one of the giants.
Southland were David, Waikato were Goliath.
And this time, the slingshot was not loaded with a stone but with a humble Southland cheese roll, maybe even washed down with a Speight’s.
The Stags went up to Hamilton and took the Ranfurly Shield off Waikato.
Waikato, with their returning All Blacks, their big stadium and their proud rugby history, were expected to hold firm.
They were the heavyweights, the big dogs, the team with the resources.
Southland? Well, they probably packed a couple of chilly bins full of cheese rolls and a thermos of Milo, or perhaps whatever the sponsor had handy.
But that is the beauty of the Shield.
Every now and then, rugby tosses up one of those fairy-tale moments, and suddenly the little guys from down south are the ones holding the prize above their heads, punching above their collective scrum weight.
The game itself, I will be honest, I am not the one to dissect; I was only watching with one eye.
What I can tell you is what happens next – and that is always my favourite part.
Because once the whistle has blown and the scoreboard is locked in, the story shifts from the field to the people.
And the people turned up.
They turned up at Invercargill Airport in their thousands, crowding into the arrivals area like it was a rock concert.
There were kids on shoulders waving flags too big for them, old blokes with eyes shining, mums holding babies with earmuffs bigger than their heads.
Everywhere you looked were maroon jerseys, gold scarves and hands raised to the sky like proud stag antlers.
If you were there and did not feel a lump in your throat, you must be made of Tiwai Point aluminium.
The media were on hand too, ready to capture the moment and ask that all-important Shield question: “Who slept with the Shield last night?”
The answer, as always, came from a coy captain with a grin and a simple: “Me.”
From there, it spilled into the streets and was taken to schools, offices and a few players’ bedrooms.
That is where the Shield really comes alive.
I grew up in Waikato, and I still remember standing on the side of Victoria St as trucks rumbled past, trays full of kids waving like mad and tossing lollies into the crowd, no hi-vis or safety rails in sight.
Most of the lollies would miss their target, bouncing into the gutter where we would scoop them up, dust them off and eat them without a second thought. The three-second rule applied to lollies, after all.
There was always someone dressed in a slightly terrifying cow costume charging up the road while cowbells clanged around you like some sort of rural heavy-metal concert.
Face paint wasn’t yet a thing, so we would raid the shed and slap old house paint on our cheeks to show our provincial colours.
That is what I hope Invercargill got to see.
Maybe not cows and cowbells, but the Southland version.
Tractors leading the way, utes packed with grinning players, kids sprinting alongside waving Stags flags, someone inevitably dressed as a giant stag.
Every pub with its doors open, every bakery sold out of cheese rolls before 10am, streets jammed with people leaning on car bonnets, neighbours who barely nod in the supermarket now swapping stories in the middle of Esk Street.
That is the Shield.
It turns humble builders and farmers into superheroes, Clark Kents into Supermen, if only for a weekend.
And here is the thing, it is never just about rugby. It is about what it says to the people watching.
That little places, often forgotten, can take on the big boys and win.
That togetherness beats resources. That belief and a bit of mongrel can topple what looks untouchable.
Those Southland players will go back to being builders, carpenters, farmers.
They will be on the tools again or driving stock trucks or pouring concrete.
But they will always have that day, that Shield, that memory of standing on a ute holding the Log o’ Wood while the whole province lost its collective mind. That stays with you forever.
Of course, by the time you are reading this, Canterbury might already have done what Canterbury always seems to do and quietly tucked the Shield back into their trophy cabinet.
That is the nature of the beast, fleeting and fickle and at times a little cruel.
But for Canterbury, it is different.
For Southland, winning the Shield is like finding treasure in the paddock.
For Canterbury, it is more like finding a fiver down the back of the couch.
Nice to have, sure, but no one is ringing the neighbours about it.
So here is to Southland.
To the cheese rolls, the tractors, the parades and the dust in the eye.
To the reminder that sometimes Davids do win.
And when they do, it is not just a game of rugby.
It is a story worth telling again and again.
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