If you check Wikipedia, you’ll see that the All Blacks had won eight of the previous twelve Tri Nations Cups (and if you blur your eyes, Australia’s flag starts to look like New Zealand’s, which gives the Kiwis a couple more wins). So it should have come as little surprise that the All Blacks came into 2008 as odds-on favorites yet again.
With South Africa’s hopes quickly going the way of the Tasmanian Tiger, Australia ended up hosting New Zealand in last month’s final. Attempting not to singe my stir fry, I flipped the television on just as the players began their pre-game jog. I watched the behemoths striding and secretly wondered if my Pilates would ever get me to look like that. (Nope.)
And then, as I took my first bite of burned noodles, the crowd got silent. Across from the checkered All Blacks, the Wallabies lined up, not dissimilar to an old-school firing range. And something strange, something eerie, something blood-curdling began.
The haka.
It’s as if the All Blacks were held by Lucifer’s highly choreographed minions, bulging their eyes, sharpening their teeth, and turning these He-Men into terrors of the night.
As I sat in a dread-driven stupor, I found extremities going cold and my organs beginning to shut down. How did the indigenous people explain the terror of European guns? How could the Japanese express their horror of Godzilla? How will you tell your kids about Paris Hilton? There are places where English comes up short. Embarrassingly, as I’m an English major, this was one such instance.
Needless to say, the Wallabies rolled over quicker than a 1998 Ford Explorer. With tries falling, scrums writhing, and muscles that seemed ready to burst, New Zealand ran roughshod over the poor Australian blokes, easily capturing the Tri Nations Cup for the ninth time in 13 years.
Ever since I witnessed this rugby drubbing, away from the safety of a loving family or supportive newspaper staff, I haven’t been able to shake the feeling that the All Blacks are out there, roaming, sacking, and pillaging the Australian landscape.
And there’s nothing I, nor anyone else, can do about it.
So, who wants my Wallabies jacket?
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