Test Match

Test Match

Pete and kiddos before the All Blacks' game, Eden Park, Auckland

“All Blacks! All Blacks! All Blacks!” the crowd in the nosebleed section, where we’re sitting, thunders the cheer: “All Blacks! All Blacks! All Blacks!” The Boyfriend, Pete, quips, “You think they’d come up with a better chant.”

I’m sitting in Eden Park Stadium in Auckland with Pete to my right, Fiona and Finley to my left. I’ve just painted the kids’ faces – half black, half white. Fiona wears a souvenir black beanie sponsored by a cell phone company. It says, “Backing Blacks” and “Telecom.” She looks especially grown-up tonight, with her adult-sized teeth and long, chestnut-colored hair cascading from beneath her hat.

Pete got discount tickets to the rugby game (they call it a “test match,” which I don’t get, because “test” sounds more like a scrimmage than a game among international rivals) between New Zealand’s All Blacks and Australia’s Wallabies.  The Boyfriend texted to ask whether the kids would like to see the game. My knee-jerk response: “Yes, sounds great!” A more measured, deliberate reaction might have gone something like this: “What time’s the game? Kickoff’s 7:35? Well, that’s gonna be a stretch for the kids. It’s their bed time, and they’ll get bored and whinge. Maybe we try to get away ourselves.”

Thanks to Pete’s well-intentioned offer and my jerky knee, The Boyfriend and I load up two kids and about two weeks’ worth of stuff – clothing, parkas, hats, gloves, scarves (figuring we’d freeze at the stadium -we didn't) plus a computer, cords, adapters, snacks, breakfast food, beer (Radler, for him), wine and apple cider (red and hard, for me) and more snacks. You can’t have too many snacks when traveling with two small children whose Pavlovian response to any form of transport is, “I’m HON-gry!”

One movie and six “Are we there yet? It’s taking too lonnngg”’s later, we arrive in Auckland. Just for fun, Pete exits on the correct street 17 kilometers too soon, then runs a red arrow turn light (he was concentrating on the GPS, which told him “Turn right” but didn’t say stop for the light. How dare she). We arrive, slightly jangled, at the 70’s-style motel I booked online. It has three beds, a kitchenette and a bathroom with separate taps for cold water and scalding water. Most importantly, a working bar heater hangs on a wall. You don’t take heat for granted in New Zealand – at least, I don’t. For about $100 U.S., the room is perfectly adequate.

We have several hours before the March of the Lemmings to the stadium, so we decide to wander the shopping area at Newmarket, just 10 minutes’ walk from the motel. That’s when my cherubs (mostly Finley) start acting like - well - like themselves. Finn tromps in garden beds, pockets garbage and lags behind to “muck around.” Fiona mostly sticks to our sides. Finley throws a tantrum at a kids’ clothing shop called Pumpkin Patch after I tell him under no circumstance will I buy him a pair of sneakers two sizes too big, even if they are on sale. I yank Finn from the store like they used to yank rotten performers from stage on 70’s TV during “The Gong Show.” Give that boy the hook.

 I abort the shopping mission . Pete and I drag the mules back to the motel. I started to wonder if Pete regrets traveling with the kids, or even regrets hooking up with someone attached to two American small fries. He’s good-looking and charming – surely, he could find himself a more uncomplicated 30-something. This is not an invitation, mind you, just an observation.

We regroup at the motel, which involves adult beverages for the grown-ups and chocolate-frosted banana cake plus the last 30 minutes of a Harry Potter movie for the kids. Better. We catch a bus to the stadium and arrive two hours and 30 minutes ahead of kick-off. I started flashing back to Sydney, where the kids and I (upon advice of “officials,” who said secure a patch of grass or sidewalk half a day before New Year’s Eve fireworks) arrived about seven hours before a single explosion. Seven hours is a whole lot of rolling around on the grass, coloring, people-watching and doing nothing. In reality, we could’ve rocked up an hour before the 9 p.m. family fireworks and snagged a space. 

Early makes me nervous. Early means I could've checked a few more boxes on the to-do list. I’m much more comfortable with Early’s sister, On Time, or her black sheep cousin, Five Minutes Late. Five and I are pretty tight.

After climbing about seven flights of silver stairs to the (temporary, erected for the upcoming World Cup) stands at the West end of the stadium, I scan the empty venue and say, “All right, then. We know where to watch the game. Let’s go walk around.” We navigate the crowd like wayward salmon swimming upstream. Rugby fans zig towards the stadium, while we zag away. Anything to avoid 2.5 extra hours of butt-sitting with two small fries. Maybe we could eat dinner at one of the cute little café’s a couple blocks from the stadium. “How long’s the wait for a table?” I ask. “Nothing’s available until after the rugby,” replies a server. Plan B: Buy piping hot steak pies for the kids from a street vendor. Fiona and Finley pluck at the flaky crust before sinking their faces into savory filling.

Eating steak pies before the game

 Meanwhile, I walk half a block and place an order at King Kebabs, where I wait 20 minutes while Farzid (according to the health certificate on the wall) single-handedly takes orders, grills meat and assembles pita wraps for dozens of customers. The first time I ask him for tap water, he shakes his head and says, “No water.” He reminds me of the Soup Nazi on Seinfeld: “No soup for you!” Farzid later relents, telling me to fill my bottle from the sink behind his grill (“Sorry, just have no time,” he explains). I was too scared to ask for what the menu board offered: “Your choice of 3 sauces”). F squirts the same two sauces on each kebab no matter the filling – lamb, chicken, veggie. You get what you get. I study the faux chandelier (adorned with silver plastic dangles, instead of glass) and terra cotta-colored walls while I wait. If you’re gonna run a kebab joint, make it classy, San Diego. (props to the movie, “Anchorman”).

We wriggle back to Eden Park amongst fellow fans and stilt walkers. Now, we’re talking. Carnival time. I ask Pete to take the kids to our seats while I buy drinks. 15 minutes later, I scan the stands for my threesome, who aren’t there. I take a seat and wait, thinking maybe they’ve gone to the toilets; or maybe the kids wanted to run around; or maybe I don’t know this Pete character as well as I thought, and he’s abducted my children. Or maybe, just maybe… hang on… maybe I’m SITTING IN THE WRONG SEAT. I look at my ticket, which says “Section 756.” I’m in the right seat, but could I have chosen the wrong section? I descend two dozens stairs to ask an usher. She points to her left and says, “Over there.” 10 minutes of befuddlement, brought to me by Me.

I rejoin my tribe and hunker down in a chair that features the same amount of leg and elbow room as an airplane seat. I scarf  my chicken pita before painting the kids’ faces. Fiona sits like a stone afterwards, not smiling, “I can’t move my face, or I’ll ruin it!” she says. Finley smiles and cheers and waves an All Blacks flag. We stand for the national anthems of Australia and New Zealand. I attempt to sing NZ’s anthem with the crowd, twice: Once in Maori, and the second time, in English:

E Ihowā Atua,

O ngā iwi mātou rā

Āta whakarangona;

Me aroha noa

God of Nations at Thy feet,

In the bonds of love we meet,

Hear our voices we entreat,

God defend our free land.

The crowd pronounces the “wh” as an “f” during the Maori lyrics, even though Pakeha (non-Maori) often pronounce place names like Whakatane and Whangamata as “wh.” Good on them, I think.

The song gives me chills. I look around, wondering if the CIA will swoop in to catch an American singing another country’s anthem. I feel slightly sneaky.  A record crowd of 55,000 go nuts when the All Blacks take the field. The AB’s face their opponent, the Wallabies, and perform a special haka (Maori war dance). I can see the players’ expressions on the big screen TV. Their eyes bulge. They look fearsome. The pre-show pageantry is my favorite part of the game, especially since I don’t understand rugby (hell, I barely understand the rules of any team sport, except maybe basketball, which I played in high school). Pete tries to explain action on the field, where a pile of grown men wearing no helmets, black jerseys (NZ) and yellow jerseys (Aus) mass like a swarm of muscular bees. “That’s called a scrum,” says Pete. “Both sides are trying to gain possession of the ball.” I say, “Uh-huh.”  The bunch reminds me of my TV reporter days in Illinois’ state capitol, where a gaggle of journos would crowd around a single politician, ducking and thrusting microphones. We called this a “gang bang.”

Later, Pete explains one of the All Blacks, Dan Carter, has just “dropped a goal” Pete says, “So instead of running the ball, Carter kicked it between the posts to score. It’s kind of a cheeky goal.” I acknowledge my new-found understanding of rugby by saying, “Uh-huh.” Kiwi kids know heaps more about rugby than I ever will (and I’m okay with that, really). The boy behind me, who looks about Finley’s age, has been delivering polite commentary the entire game. “The All Blacks are playing really well tonight, eh, Dad?” and “Dan Carter’s wearing white shoes. He should wear all black, eh, Dad?” Eh, Dad? Every kid should have a dad with whom to watch Rugby. Or football. Or whatever.

Watching videos under the blanket during rugby

Meanwhile, Finley has pulled a blanket over his head to watch videos on my iPod. He flips his cover just long enough to whinge, “It’s too loud! I can’t hear the movie.” I tell him he can live without sound. I return my attention to the game, where I provide Pete two barely-informed comparisons between American football and rugby:

-Football players wear helmets. Rugby [professional] players do not.

-Rugby consists of two, 40-minute halves. Rarely do they stop the clock. Football consists of 8, 50-minute octagons. The clock stops every 2 seconds for injuries, team huddles, commercial breaks and for players to scratch their junk (I made up those last few bits. You knew that, though).

By the last 20 minutes of the game, Finley emerges from under the blanket to ask, “How much longer? It’s taking too lonnggg!” He sits silently for a few seconds after that, eyes half-closed. We stay until the game's end. NZ has won the Bledisloe Cup, walloping the Wallabies, 30-14. After one very full day that started with an 8:30 a.m. soccer game at The Mount, included a three-hour drive, a city walk and a major sporting event, The Boyfriend has learned something about traveling with small children. I learned something about rugby, and about Pete. He’s patient. He’s kind. He’s a good teacher. Pete turns to me from his stadium seat and says, “It’s all a trial run, isn’t it?”

Yes. Trial run. Test match. Both.

On the bus after the game