All black

Saturday was a beautiful day; Sunday was dark, with driving winds and rain. It was a day the whole country rose early to watch the All Blacks play in the quarter finals of the Rugby world cup. They were playing France in Cardiff and were favoured to win that game—and the whole tournament. This is the best All Blacks team in memory, and people have been talking to me about the chances to take an international title for the whole time I’ve been here. Our neighbours left their kids with a babysitter for three weeks to fly to France to watch from the quarter-finals on. Our real estate agent said that we had to schedule our auction date carefully because a house would never sell on a week that the All Blacks lost. There is a sign on the church I pass on my way to work that says, “Jesus loves the All Blacks.” This is a big deal.

K, who is TVless (like ourselves) found a house with a TV, and invited Michael to watch the game, 7am start to the pre-game stuff, 8am Haka and game beginning. Michael rolled out of bed into the dreadful weather, and he was off. When the kids woke up, they wanted to see the game too, so, house primping be damned; we trudged up the street too, through wind that made me hold Aidan's hand tightly, just in case it was possible for him to blow away. At rugby central, we found the mood excited but relaxed. K had brought along a visiting French fellow, who was morose about his chances in true Gaelic style. “Zey do not deserve to win,” he told us, “because the All Blacks are zee better team, no?” The 13-3 score just after half time seemed to bear out his opinion. Aidan chattered away about how much he knew about rugby and if anyone had any questions they should ask him (sometimes I wonder how to generate a self-esteem problem in my kids). The French fellow talked politely about how much he has loved his 10 months in New Zealand, although, alas, his masters in medieval history is useless here (in a country without one). He tried to swear very quietly under his breath in French as his team made a mistake, and when they scored a try (what a touchdown is called in rugby), he jumped up and yelled with delight and then quickly sat down and apologised to the rest of us for his happiness. In that second half, though, he had much call for apologising, as the French slowly dominated the All Blacks and eventually pulled off the impossible—a win against the tournament favourites. In the stands the French fans donned wigs of blue white and red, and stunned Kiwis (who had spent 36 hours in a plane to watch their team lose) wept openly.

There are any number of things that are outside the US context about this. And feeling the loss of a team I’ve never seen in person, as they played a game I don’t understand, turned out to be incredibly powerful for me. In the US, we do not have a national game. In the south it’s football (high school and college). In parts of the country it’s baseball. For some folks it’s basketball. But there’s nothing that pulls us together as a country. In the US, we do not play international sports much (women’s soccer is an odd exception to this rule). The country does not line up all together against another country on the sporting arena. Even in the Olympics, it is the metal count rather than any particular sport that we find most interesting as a country. We want the most overall medals, the most golds, rather than really wanting to win the decathlon or the ice dancing.

But maybe more than anything, in the US we don’t have the experience of being the small guys, the Davids on a field of Goliaths (Michael would say that a major exception to that was in the 1980 Olympic men’s hockey game where we beat the Soviet Union). If the US isn’t good at something sporting, it’s mostly because we’re not that interested, as a country, in the thing (like hockey). There are enough people and enough dollars for us to be competitive in just about anything the country really wants to support.

New Zealand is a tiny country in both land mass and population (smaller in population than land mass). We are far away from everyplace else. We are a funky, niche country, better known for our beauty, our sheep, and the hoped-for hobbit sighting than for any major political or educational achievements (although all sorts of wonderful things were started here—the first country to give women the vote, innovative educational system, nuclear free country, etc.). Rugby gets us on the international stage. Rugby gets us the attention of larger and more powerful countries. Rugby is something the whole country will get up early on a Sunday morning in order to watch.

And now, the rugby world cup leaves a bitter taste. The All Blacks posters which plaster buses and billboards in Wellington are reminders of what isn’t to be. The team flies back home today, worried about the reception they’ll get at the airport. Apparently New Zealand fans can be rabidly supportive and, when disappointed, can be rabidly mean. On the radio this morning, some official rugby spokesman talked, with joy in his voice, about the very few truly nasty letters he’s gotten about the All Blacks compared to the supportive and loving letters that have come. The news commentator concluded, “The outpouring of support following Sunday’s loss shows that our country has matured as a sport-loving nation.”

What is it like to pin your hopes on just one thing and find those hopes dashed? What does it mean for a chance that comes only once in four years to be suddenly and inexplicably gone? Individual athletes, sports teams, and even regions of the US have been asking this question for all of US sporting history. Here I am finding how a whole country makes sense of those questions. In the US, we band together as a nation to recover from terrorist attacks and go to war. In New Zealand, we band together to support giant men with thighs the size of my whole body as they crash into one another in a violent ballet. The differences between these countries continue to unfold in endless layers. Come home safely, All Blacks. New Zealand has matured as a sport-loving nation.

(You can read about their arrival home and see whether NZ has matured here.)