If it's not rugby and the All Blacks aren't winning by 17 points with 11 minutes to go, you'll be hard-pressed to hear a New Zealand crowd using their epithelium vocal folds to support their team. You risk being impaled with an umbrella or doused in mince and cheese pie entrails if you dare to stand up and deploy your larynx. You'll hear this a lot: "Get down, shut up!" or "Siddown mate, I'm trying to watch the blardy game!"
Most candlelight vigils have more yelling than a footy game in New Zealand where the home side loses, or doesn't win by as much as everyone hoped. We're just not very good supporters. We're too self-conscious. We often turn up to witness a victory rather than out of a genuine love for the game. We emerge from our antipodean tortoise-shells when the result is in the bag, but rarely before.
It's contrary to the way most crowds around the world back their sports teams - augmenting the team's efforts, good or bad, with raucous and unconditional support. The Barmy Army self-badges itself as the unofficial 12th man of the England cricket team (and presumably Wales too), and its constituents have mastered the dark art of gallows humour. Always looking on the bright side of life.
But in New Zealand, Yellow Fever aside, we're more interested in winning. And if we can't win then we'll try to start a Mexican wave. Sixteen times on average.
It all needs to change at the Concrete Garden of Eden on Saturday. If ever there was a time for jingoistic patriotism - and Lord knows Channel Nine has victimised us with this for 30 years - it is in two sleeps' time when the Canary Gold fruit fly smugglers* swagger into Sandringham.
An edifice, not a ground, New Zealand's finest suburban sporting stadium must become an intimidating fortress for the Black Caps. Only the fans can provide this: sporting atmospheres are created by crowd energy and passion, not administrators and marketing people.
That means we should be chanting about David Warner's occupation (banker), Michael Clarke's dressing room code (chicks before mates), or assessing Mitchell Johnson's aesthetics (boltface).
That means we should be soaking up the game and lifting our men in black (and a suspicious amount of blue) when we see something important happen: a maiden over, a laser-like throw, a jaffa, a textbook leave outside off stump, a palpitation-inducing bouncer, a cheeky single, a desperate fielder's boundary chase for white leather, a bone-crunching boundary, or a sporting gesture.
There was plenty of this good stuff on show and appreciated in Wellington against England, while the game lasted anyway. The difference at the Cake Tin was that we were witnessing an annihilation, an obliteration, as one of the most one-sided cricketing contests ever imagined became a reality before our eyes wide open (No20 in the list of biggest hidings in terms of balls remaining).
It would be delicious but foolhardy to expect the same against Darren Lehmann's charges.
We can only hope the music men behind the play buttons of the face-melting sound system at Eden Park let the crowd find its voice, and don't let their egos and cliched musical interludes get in the way of 40,000 fans appreciating the contest.
Therese Walsh and her band of merry fish-heads have pulled off a master stroke on the scheduling front in making Australia travel to our home garden. The Australians must have had their arms twisted - or been intoxicated by their own magnificence - back when the Black Caps were rubbish and the thought of a transtasman foray was much more enticing.
Tempering this is our recent record at Eden Park, though: in nine completed ODI matches since February 2008, we've won but two, tied a thriller against Ravindra Jadeja and lost six to five different teams.
The upshot is that Kiwi supporters must don their beige and brown and teal and grey and black, then deploy their vocal cords to help our team take advantage of a home game in which victory will be a delectable entree to the business end of the tournament.
*No, not budgie smugglers
Paul Ford (@beigebrigade) is a co-founder of the Beige Brigade and one-seventh of the irreverent Alternative Commentary Collective. His larynx is known to resonate.