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Greg Growden
Monday, July 2, 2007
MONDAY MAUL
ON FRIDAY, the Wallabies meandered onto the Melbourne Cricket Ground for their captain's run. As they headed out in their kit, which resembles Wee Willie Winky Wallaby pyjamas, a loud voice screamed out: "Go the All Blacks!"
For seconds these words reverberated around a near-empty stadium.
Then they began playing a game of touch football. Up went the kick-off, and down it went when Stephen Larkham made an almighty fumble.
At the back of the Members' Stand, a large group of New Zealand supporters were on a guided tour of the ground. They saw the Larkham fumble, and ha-ha-ha-ha-haaaad with delight. The players even stopped to work out where the chortling was coming from.
The Wallabies thought they were in friendly territory. Clearly not.
On to game night. Thousands upon thousands, all decked out in black were marching in unison towards the G. One baffled woman, clearly scared that she was about to be mown down by the Black Battalion, waves the white flag of surrender, well, actually a moth-eaten Wallabies scarf, and asks: "Is there actually anyone left in New Zealand?"
"Yeah," one puffed-up South Island farmer, who gave away his origins by having a frayed flannelette shirt bulging out over his blick trackpants bellows, "that Aussie loser who runs the corner dairy in Oamaru is holding up the fort. Everyone else is here. No one wants to miss out on seeing us beat you here, eh."
The Test began. The Wallabies were awarded a penalty. Stirling Mortlock aimed up - and was met with a booming bellow of boos. Where were we? Carisbrook? Eden Park? Jade Stadium? Wasn't this supposed to be a home ground for the Wallabies?
No wonder it took the home team of sorts so long to find their bearings, and a successful invasion of the G by the Black Battalion appeared inevitable.
Something happened at half-time, though. Wallabies coach John Connolly must have relaxed them in the dressing room with some sidesplitting Jackie Gleason Honeymooners skits, because they returned to the field with smiles on their dials and an unexpected skip to their step.
Then came several crucial moments. George Gregan hobbled off. Matt Giteau moved to halfback. Scott Staniforth appeared at inside-centre, and suddenly there was a certain spark to the Wallabies back line. They became faster, slicker. Larkham was under less pressure at five-eighth, and they at last looked like a Test back line with a purpose. And, thankfully, several lumbering Australian forwards had been told to stop clogging up the back line after they had decided to camp there during the first half.
Then one too many cynical "let's unfairly kill the ball" fouls at the breakdown by the All Blacks and Carl Hayman was sheepishly heading to the sin bin. Fifteen players against 14 led to 14 points to the home team of sorts, and suddenly we had a real contest.
Then the fatigue factor hit. The All Blacks, who had been to Durban and back in just over a week suddenly looked so, so tired. The Wallabies sensed it, and decided to wear down the clock with one pick and drive after another. Never had a pick and drive looked so beautiful.
Finally, there was silence. The Wallabies looked at each other in disbelief. And the chant started. That hideous chant every Kiwi dreads will begin each and every four years to turn life into a nightmare.
As their team's intellectual, Anton Oliver, so aptly put it on the day of the game: "If New Zealand were to lose a game, the economy goes skyrocketing down. It is a serious thing, but … hey, it is only sport, at the end of the day."
Not in New Zealand.
As the Black Battalion gloomily headed off into the Melbourne black, all they could hear was, "Choke, choke, choke, choke …"
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