If You Want To Be A Record Breaker...

 

Springboks 35 All Blacks 7.

25th August 2023

 

There are very few occasions I’ve attended an event that has bothered the history books. Back in my teenage years, I went to see the Manic Street Preachers play the London Astoria at the very end of The Holy Bible tour. A nose-bleedingly loud set ended with the band destroying their instruments. I couldn’t hear properly for a week after. And with most historical events, you don’t know you’ve been part of something bigger until after the fact. The gig itself went down in rock and roll folklore as being the last gig ever played by Richard James Edwards, before he disappeared the following February (I still think about that gig a lot).

Sporting wise, attending A Major Event hasn’t been something I’ve managed too often, usually only managing to be at minor footnotes in history: the first Full Members Cup final, which was also my first ever football match – a nine-goal cup final at Wembley (yes, football was pretty much downhill from there). When my wife and I lived in Kennington, one Sunday we calmed a hangover by taking some snacks and drinks to the Oval to recover in front of Surrey v Kent. Our bacon sandwiches didn’t enable us to appreciate the first time in County Championship history that a team had provided four separate centurions in the same day. A few Champions League games, some matches in the Women’s European Championships last year, a couple of London Senior Cup finals.

Rugby has provided most of my Big Games. Harlequins are the team of choice in our family. I’ve sat and watched them get relegated, crumbling at home to Sale Sharks, Jeremy Staunton’s long-range late penalty drifting wide to condemn Quins to a season pummeling semi-professional clubs. One of rugby’s most infamous games, Harlequins versus Leinster in 2009 (or Bloodgate as it became known to the world) was arguably one of my most enjoyable experiences as a sporting fan, eventually stumbling out of a bar in Waterloo at 3am wearing someone else’s Leinster top. In the ultimate redemption arc, watching the villain of that day, Tom Williams, score the opening try in Quins first ever Premiership victory three years later will live long, as will Nick Easter’s celebratory speech back at The Stoop later that evening.

So, being in attendance for New Zealand Rugby’s Biggest Defeat feels like an event worth noting down in history. Even more so as, up until recently, the All Blacks have been responsible for crushing Irish dreams more than any other nation. Not that we are alone in that, but up until the historic victory in Chicago in 2016, Ireland’s near misses and tales of woe had stretched back 111 years, a fact that seems strange given Ireland’s more recent form, including a first ever series victory down south in 2022. Sure, this isn’t the All Blacks greatest vintage, but it’s still the All Blacks, producers of great players, no matter how good the collective is.

I’ve seen the All Blacks previously. My wife is from New Zealand. When we first started dating, I went very route-one with my choice of nights out. Why, I thought, she’s from New Zealand so she must like rugby (I was correct). Pleased with myself, I got tickets for her to see the All Blacks in Cardiff, a classic match in which Wales fell short by a single point, following confusion over the timekeeping. The next occasion was also quite a match, as a Manu Tuilagi inspired England ran rampant over the All Blacks at Twickenham, in the early honeymoon period of Stuart Lancaster’s reign. The final viewing of the Haka live took place in Cardiff again, this time with Georgia the opponents, at the 2015 Rugby World Cup (a tournament that saw the end of Lancaster’s England era).

For my wife’s birthday this year, again bereft of ideas, I dipped back into the box marked “obvious nights out” and got tickets for the match between the country of birth and the current World Champions. The prices had changed considerably since 2004, but this was close to a sell-out at headquarters. The vast diaspora of Kiwis and South Africans, especially those who reside in or close to South-west London, gleefully used the chance to watch their representatives from home perform at this most English of venues, The Home of Rugby. A stadium normally filled with bellowed public-school strains of “Swing Low” now vibed differently, accents from Durban and Dunedin mixing merrily. As an Irishman, I could claim neutrality to a degree, though my little quips about it being nice to watch Tier Two rugby nations play resulted in a dead arm, provided by my wife’s nifty jab.

I’ve never really decided in my head where in a stadium it’s best to watch rugby from to appreciate the game. From the sidelines, as you’d view from television, offers up the whole pitch, and allows an accurate perspective on the depth of a clearing kick that you don’t get behind the posts. Our view though, up in the top tier, and just underneath the incoming London Heathrow aircraft, gave a perfect glimpse of the attacking running lines from the Springboks. And it was almost exclusively the Springboks, as they sliced through the All Blacks. The tone was set early on with referee Matt Carley sending Scott Barrett to the naughty step for a ten-minute chance to think about what he’d done, the only remarkable thing being that they should arguably have had a player gone inside the first five minutes. Sam Cane followed shortly afterwards, and the penalty count against New Zealand spiraled beyond the number you would expect to concede over eighty minutes inside quarter of an hour.

Some belligerent defence and sloppy handling meant that it was twenty minutes before the floodgates were beaten open, totemic captain Kolisi picking a short line and powering over, his roar of celebration heard throughout the stadium. Even when offered a chance to reduce the arrears via a penalty near the posts, Richie Mo’Unga rattled the woodwork, and there was no comeback from that point. That it took until five minutes before half-time for the lead to be extended was more due to Springbok negligence than anything their black-clad opponents contributed. Indeed, it was from a New Zealand attack that the lead increased, with the youngest of the Barrett clan, Jordie, popping an off-load into the grateful mitts of Arendse who scampered under the uprights. Before half-time, Scott Barrett decided flying shoulder-first into a breakdown would be a clever thing to do, connecting with Malcolm Marx, giving Matt Carley the easiest of yellow-card decisions, and sending Scott down the tunnel a few minutes ahead of his teammates. There was still time for the All Blacks to remember that they were the All Blacks and score a sumptuous try through the noticeable impressive Telea, only for the TMO to ruin the fun, spotting a knock-on in the buildup.

The second half continued in the same fashion, Marx getting on the scoresheet following a nicely worked line-out move, the metronomic Libbok dissecting the posts with the conversion. A lovely multi side-stepping finish from Moodie was also ruled out by the TMO, but despite a Springbok sinbinning for Du Toit to temporarily even up the numbers, the All Blacks could do nothing to stem the partly self-inflicted tide. The lead grew with forward rugby in its simplest form – a catch and drive from another line-out, and the big guys rumbled towards the try-line, Mbonambi the player to get the pats on the back for scoring. South Africa eventually declared on thirty-five points, Kwagga Smith doing the mare minimum to beat his marker near the try line to touch down, Libbok completing his perfect evening from the tee with the conversion. There was time to the All Blacks to trouble the scoreboard operator, replacement scrum-half Roigard deciding that he might as well do everything himself, shrugging off one tackler, and carrying another one over the line with him to adding nothing more than a digit to the scoreline.

For her part, my wife decided that laughter was the best way to deal with the trauma, applauding the South African tries and giggling at the New Zealand slapstick on show. When we lived in the area, we used to dissect the game on the way back home, going over various aspects. Generally, I bow to my wife’s rugby knowledge – she played the game for nearly a decade, whilst I managed to injure myself playing touch rugby. So, I didn’t know what to say to her about the game that wasn’t stating the obvious: that the All Blacks were a mess. Having gotten themselves back into a good run of form following the series defeat to Ireland last year, all the good work had been spectacularly undone in rainy south London over eighty minutes to a potential dance partner down in France next month.

I do feel I probably owe my wife another birthday present now…