A Fan’s Guide to Winning the Shield

Most important of all, don’t get too hopeful in the lead-up to a shield game. At work, keep a low profile. Don’t even remember that the game is happening till last thing Friday afternoon. Tell yourself that you might switch the radio on at about four o’clock – but only if you remember. Plan to do other things.

The best way to win the shield is to keep your emotions firmly in check. The day before the game, you bump into a mate. He doesn’t like Auckland either. What are the chances? He catches your eye and smiles. It’s all in the smile: Taranaki / Northland / Bay of Plenty doesn’t have a hope. Twenty-four hours later you’re getting into the shower at Lyndhurst Park after being cleaned out by Poneke, and a teammate murmurs, “Taranaki’s won the shield.” They what? “Taranaki’s won the shield.” You think he’s joking, but he’s not. Back at the clubrooms on the big screen Dean Magon’s just going over for his third try in the TV One replay, and then the news leads with a toothless Andy Slater holding the blessed shield high like Ray Sutherland before him.

That’s how it happened in 1996 when Taranaki claimed the shield from Auckland for the first time in more than 30 years. And so the ‘Fabulous Fortnight’ began and kids in haybarns all around the mountain got to touch the Log o’ Wood and dream.

True fans know that it’s especially bad form to get your hopes up before a Bay of Plenty challenge for the shield. In eighteen attempts they’ve come up short every time, sometimes in heartbreaking circumstances. Any keen student of the game will tell you the sad tale: the week before Taranaki’s win in ’96, the Bay led Auckland 29-8 with fifteen minutes to go. In the tragic final act of the game, Matt Carrington kicked the goal for Auckland that took them to a chilling 30-29 win. With the Bay, you mustn’t begin hoping till full-time’s up and the ref’s blown the whistle.

Armed with this knowledge – or heritage, perhaps – I planned to get along to Eden Park for last month’s shield match, but definitely not in anticipation of a Bay of Plenty win. I like rugby, I told myself. It’ll be worth it for that reason alone. I’ll take along a couple of Korean English-language students, I reasoned. They need an introduction to New Zealand culture. They might learn some vocab, even. It’ll be good to get out of the house, I theorised. Nothing worse than nothing to do on a Sunday afternoon and thinking about Monday already. So I planned to go to the game.

We ended up getting there a bit early. I parked close to the ground at a friend’s place, and there were no queues at the ticket booth. This was a good sign, but I didn’t let myself consciously think so. Inside the ground we found a place behind the posts on the terraces and sprawled across the seats in the rows above and below. I pointed out the huge inflated Ranfurly Shield to “Joe” and “Simon” and tried to convey something of the history it represented, but failed. They nodded and made affirming noises but their eyes communicated non-comprehension. Dave from work turned up five minutes before kick-off. It was pleasant.

Then the game began. Nothing unusual. Auckland won some ball, looked dangerous passing, soon scored a try and backed it up with a penalty. 8-0 and everything going as planned. Then the Bay produced a counter-attack that ended in a try up the far-end. Jackson converted. So they’re not going to lie down, I thought. Good. At least it’ll be a game for 60 minutes. Auckland scored again through Dave Gibson. Jackson kicked a couple of penalties and then crossed for the Bay. 20-15 to the Bay at half-time. Nothing to raise hopes over, I reminded myself, but the score was definitely the right-way round at the break.

The second-half began and soon enough Auckland was over for a try. A glance up at the big screen confirmed that Isa Nacewa had successfully chased and grounded a punted ball just inches inside the dead ball line. A penalty soon after made it 25-20 Auckland with twenty minutes left to play. Fair enough, I thought. The Bay’s tried hard and done well. Nothing to be ashamed of here. And it was at this moment of resignation that the game entered the dream zone that rare games conjure. A penalty awarded to Auckland in front of the posts was reversed after intervention from a touch judge. A concerted period of Bay pressure was thwarted only by dropped passes, but the penalty count mounting against Auckland suggested the blue and whites were stretched. Jackson goaled to bring the difference back to two.

Then, with eight minutes to go, Kevin Senio fed Glenn Jackson from a ruck or lineout and only then, only at that moment did it suddenly dawn what Jackson was going to do. He was going to drop for goal. The notion was so audiacious, so clearly held with the intention of actually winning this game that it hadn’t occurred to me until the moment Jackson received the ball that that was what he’d do. Maybe the Auckland players had felt the same way. Because Jackson didn’t only have the ball, he also had time. And the droppie he propelled from just left of the posts sailed high and sweet and… and through. In the terraces we stood and raised our arms in a spontaneous bid to reach the ball. Referee Kelvin Deaker followed the flight of the ball with eyes and legs and raised his arm ramrod straight to signal the goal. With eight minutes to go, the Bay was up 26-25.

I must admit that – in spite of all my training – I began to hope at this moment, with eight full minutes still to play. The folly of it.  With the Bay back near the Auckland line and a lineout forming, the Bay fans on the terraces wondered what to say. There was no premeditated chant. Just “Go the Bay!” echoed by numerous lone voices. “Come on the Bay!” Then with five minutes to go, the Bay backs have numbers left. A loopie skipout finds Anthony Tahana with just enough space to slam the ball onto the turf inside the corner flag. Hope is approaching belief. The ref calls for a TV replay, but the big screen tells the story. Tahana has scored.

Jackson now is lining up a conversion from the touchline. This is vital. If he kicks it, Auckland has lost. If he misses, they might still come back. He approaches. He kicks. The ball makes a line for the posts, sneaks towards the bar like a high jumper. The touch judges face each other to make sure that he just saw what I just saw: the ball went over the posts. The Bay is winning by eight with four minutes left. Belief approaches certainty.

Auckland didn’t pull it back.. We all know that now. With time up on the clock they kicked a penalty to scoop an NPC bonus point, but who cared? As the touch judges raised their flags, fifteen men in blue and gold raised their fists. You could see they didn’t know what to do with those bodies of theirs –  elation bound in fifteen hulking frames not used to dancing. One man cried, the Herald reported the next day. Another trekked across to the ASB stand to embrace his mates. A fan walked across the park to be near his heroes. The team did a lap with the shield, Bay hands finally clasping the prize that had eluded their rugby tipuna for 84 years.

The overcast Auckland afternoon that had spat rain halfway through the second half held off. I walked out of the east stand with my Korean mates and tried to convey to them what they had witnessed. They simply asked that I drop them off on Queen Street.