The Wallabies really do make it hard to love them sometimes.
I was at Accor Stadium on Saturday afternoon to watch Australia take on New Zealand in the second Bledisloe Cup Test. The All Blacks had already secured the trophy after winning in Auckland the previous weekend, but I was still hoping the Wallabies might give them something to worry about.
I’d been watching lacrosse earlier in the day, and the timing worked out unusually well. The games finished on schedule, I caught the light rail back to Central and jumped straight onto a train to Olympic Park.
I arrived about ninety minutes before the main game, which was just as well because this was something of a rugby festival.
There were four international matches on the programme. The Wallaroos had played Scotland earlier, followed by Australia’s men’s sevens against Fiji and the women’s sevens against New Zealand.
I caught the end of the men’s sevens and stayed for the women’s match. Quite a few spectators had arrived early, although Accor Stadium is enormous. A few thousand people can look rather lonely in a place that size.
My seat was almost exactly on halfway, but very high up, about seven or eight rows from the back of the upper stand.
That was deliberate. I’d bought my ticket months earlier and wanted to sit on halfway, even if it meant going higher for something affordable.
From that height, the players looked like little toys, barely a centimetre tall. But I loved the view.
I could see gaps opening in defensive lines, overlaps developing and players scrambling to cover breaks. After a long kick, it was fascinating watching how long some players took to get back into the action. Even someone weaving between defenders or avoiding a tackle was surprisingly easy to follow.
It was a very different perspective from sitting close to the field, and one I was glad I’d chosen.
Looking down also reminded me of my previous visit to Accor Stadium, just a week earlier for Monster Jam.
The playing surface hadn’t entirely recovered its usual appearance. Large rectangular patches were visible across the field, with noticeable differences in the colour and coverage of the grass. It didn’t look unplayable, but it certainly looked like the stadium had hosted something rather different from rugby.
As the main game approached, the stands continued filling. There was plenty of Australian gold, but also a considerable amount of New Zealand black.
What interested me was how often the colours were mixed. Groups arriving together weren’t necessarily supporting the same team. Around my seat, though, it was almost entirely Wallabies supporters, with the nearest little group of New Zealanders about four rows in front.
Everyone stood for both national anthems, with the crowd singing particularly loudly during Australia’s. We sat again for the haka, which received enormous applause.
Then it was time for the rugby.
Australia started reasonably well, but New Zealand soon took control.
The All Blacks scored.
And scored again.
And again.
Three tries in roughly twenty minutes, and the atmosphere around me had changed.
People were shaking their heads, looking down and sighing. The noise dropped as the possibility of an Australian victory began to disappear.
I wasn’t much different.
I’d started the match sitting on the edge of my seat, cheering Australia on. Gradually, I found myself sitting further back, sighing rather more often and occasionally yelling, “Why?” when another promising passage of play ended in a mistake.
Australia could play some good rugby. They created opportunities and broke through the New Zealand defence, but too often something went wrong. A dropped ball, a missed tackle or lost possession would bring another promising move to an end.
Meanwhile, New Zealand seemed to find gaps almost at will. They repeatedly broke tackles, leaving Australian defenders racing across to cover.
One try was almost absurdly simple. The All Blacks won a scrum, and Wallace Sititi took the ball from the back and went over the line.
Watching that happen against the team you’re supporting is painful.
By halftime, New Zealand led 36–7.
I joked with the woman sitting beside me that Australia could still make a comeback. I’d seen stranger things happen in sport.
Neither of us sounded particularly convinced.
New Zealand scored again within minutes of the restart.
So much for that.
The score was becoming embarrassing, but the rugby remained entertaining. Australia continued attacking, particularly during the final twenty minutes when they kept the ball alive and produced some excellent broken-field running.
Players from both teams returned kicks and made breaks down the wings, weaving through defenders and turning what looked like ordinary passages of play into something far more interesting.
There were moments when I found myself applauding New Zealand players despite wanting Australia to win. Their ability to break through the defensive line, and the speed with which they took advantage, was impressive.
I wasn’t alone. The All Blacks supporters were making themselves heard, but plenty of Australians were appreciating the rugby too. I didn’t hear any booing throughout the afternoon, although there was the occasional complaint about a refereeing decision.
At one point, the crowd managed to get a Mexican wave going. It took a couple of attempts, but eventually it travelled around the stadium several times.
Then the rugby reclaimed everyone’s attention.
New Zealand came close to scoring but were held up over the Australian try line. From the resulting drop-out, the Wallabies ran almost the entire length of the field, with Filipo Daugunu finishing the move with a try.
The official attendance was 73,399, and the stadium could still make an enormous amount of noise. Whenever Australia threatened, people were back cheering, only to settle down again when another opportunity disappeared.
The stadium announcer tried several times to lift the Australian crowd, with mixed results. It was difficult to manufacture enthusiasm when so many people had already accepted the likely outcome.
I was beginning to have another problem.
The more I watched New Zealand, the harder it became not to admire them.
I joked with the woman beside me that I was almost ready to take off my Wallabies gear and put on something black.
The funny thing was, I could have. I had a black jacket in my bag and a black Sydney Kings cap. A quick change and I could have blended in with the All Blacks supporters.
I stayed in Australian colours, although the thought of buying some New Zealand merchandise did briefly cross my mind.
The match finished 43–21. I remained in my seat after the final whistle, letting the crowd thin out before tackling the steep stairs. With my knee, there was no point joining the rush for the exits.
Perhaps I should keep that black jacket handy.