YOU CAN’T please everybody. Half an hour after Ireland’s win against Australia, as supporters finally wrenched themselves away from Eden Park and on to Auckland streets thronged with delirious Irish, a trio of Australian supporters walked through the crowd.
“One thousand dollars for three tickets,” one grumbled loudly. “What a bloody waste.”
Of course, that depended on your perspective. For those watching the game through green-tinted glasses – hilariously out-sized, shamrock-shaped glasses – it had been wonderful, joyous and a bargain at any price.
It was a special occasion to have witnessed, and it was one that the supporters could claim a piece of.
“You’d swear we were in Dublin with that crowd,” captain Brian O’Driscoll said afterwards, because, as the Irish team ground out a victory on the pitch, the Irish supporters had the vocal battle won when the first “Olé Olé” broke out three minutes in.
For every Irish supporter standing tall, arms outspread, face painted and torso buried in layers of green, there was an Australian sitting quietly. During the course of the entire match, there was just one chant of “Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, Oi, Oi, Oi!” The Irish joined in that too.
The hours before the match had already delivered something out of the ordinary, and promised something truly great. Fans from both sides had travelled with a clear determination to be more ridiculously patriotic than the supporter next to them.
Bald men had their heads painted, Australians in kangaroo costumes leaned on bar counters and Irish hats came in two sizes: tall and taller. The standouts were several Irish guys walking around in ludicrous tricolour Lycra bodysuits. Ireland needed to win for their dignity alone.
On the roads around the stadium, the Irish were the dominant force – and the popular choice for Kiwi drivers who honked their support. On a street leading to the stadium, several houses hosted Irish parties. Outside one, a dozen kids, with music blasting, did a cute, improvised Riverdance routine. Their crazed jigging earned them a large audience and quite a few dollars. Inside the ground, it became clear why the Irish had the run of the streets – the Aussies were already here, patient and expectant.
By kick-off, at least 20,000 of the 60,000 crowd must have been Irish who had travelled from home, Australia and all over New Zealand. They easily matched the Australian numbers, but had one significant advantage: there were few neutral supporters at this game. For a match featuring their nearest rival, many New Zealanders sported green.
The game wasn’t always easy to watch, but with an 8:30pm kick-off the several hours of pre-match drinking turned out to be quite useful for steadying the nerves. The noise hardly let up. Scrums were greeted like tries; kicks like victories.
At 15-6 up, but not yet safe, several minutes of defence of our own line was the necessary purgatory Irish rugby followers have grown to expect.
Then, with only a couple of minutes left, Tommy Bowe broke the siege and sprinted the length of the field. As he began to fade and wobble like a spinning plate, the Irish roar couldn’t quite get him to the line. But it was the moment when exhortation finally turned into celebration.
It was suddenly worth every cent of the €200 ticket; every month of the horrendous credit card bill to come; every minute of the leg-cramping 30-hour journey from Ireland to New Zealand.
And, for a night anyway, it made up for every match over 24 years of World Cup disappointments, heartache, near-misses, heavy defeats, and getting beaten repeatedly by the Australians.
Eden Park may be the beginning of something special for this Irish rugby team, but it was certainly a paradise for those Irish who were there.