Rugby World Cup Road Trip: It's all a numbers game

Matt Johnson enjoys the sprawling metropolis of Eketahuna. Photo / Supplied

Opinion

This week, Matt Johnson's World Cup ramble took him from a stock market tumble to the peace of a journey home - where the main news was the cat's new blanket.

Markets had taken a tumble. The Dow Jones was down three million points. Worse still, Dow Jones, a pensioner in Iwitahi, had left his freezer door open and accidentally defrosted all his chicken nuggets.

The rugby continued, the only investment necessary an emotional one. Kiwis cried "Spin it!" South Africans cried "Spread it!" Namibians cried for their mums.

By the time we reached Napier from the Waikato, $70 billion had been wiped off world stock markets. This was enough to buy every man, woman and child in the Kea Kaha campervan an adidas jersey. Thankfully I was by myself, so could afford the shorts as well. They were pretty snug. An NZRU legal representative stopped me in the street: my All Black wedgie was in breach of trademark regulations.

On the forecourts and in the pie shops, people fretted about who we were playing next.

When you were a kid, just getting into a pool was a pretty big deal. Yet as adults, that wasn't enough any more. Now you had to know who was coming over into your pool from another pool. If they started to pee in it, this could drastically decrease your chances of moving on to the latter stages of the competition.

Waipawa. Woodville. We were approaching the end of the North Island. Drivers waved from dashboards; bogans tail-gated. Billboards with little arrows warned of a low fire risk. Alliterated street-names whizzed past: Domain Drive. Racecourse Rd. The timeless poetry of small towns.

Wellington waited. Perched into the wind like a punch-drunk seagull. Several Australians refused to go inside. A Sydney Morning Herald poll had revealed that 64 per cent of them felt threatened by NZ fans; 19 per cent felt exhilarated; 16 per cent felt okay; 1 per cent said he had felt threatened, then exhilarated, then okay - then had passed out.

A disclaimer underneath the poll said it may not be scientifically accurate. This was because both the Australians who'd participated had been given Chinese burns by Kiwis until they got the answers right.

But the only number New Zealand cared about this weekend was 100. The only numeros the French mentioned were 1999 and 2007. All the crunching would be done on the field.

As I pulled up to my family home, Dad moved his car to make space. Had to move the other two cars he'd stolen, too.

Things had changed a lot. Business (the cat) had a new blanket. Jim Hickey (the weather forecaster) had lost more hair.

Dad asked when was I going to get a job. I said I already had a job, driving a Kea campervan across the country for the Herald on Sunday.

Dad said a proper job. One where you ended up living in a house, like normal people.

Neighbours popped around. Fretted about who we might be playing next. Suggested we throw the game; take the easy path. Climb into the kiddies' pool. No one in the alliterated street could picture it.

Coming home was the emotional equivalent of trying to untangle your iPod earphones. It had taken far too long.

But we had to keep moving. At the Interislander helpdesk, Jucinda informed me there was a low fire risk out on the Cook Strait. How long was my vehicle? 6.8m.

They could get it across for around $70 billion. Or an All Black jersey. I only had one. That's cool, she said. They would take turns wearing it.

* Follow Matt across New Zealand at his RWC Road Trip blog or on twitter @KeaKaharoadtrip.