All Blacks vs Ireland - "a typical old arm-wrestle"

Sweaty steam comes off the backs of the players in the field. It is like a sauna. Breath huffs and puffs and, close-up, the players are almost obscured by the steam coming from their bodies.  Dan Carter kicks another goal.  The night is cold, crisp and clear, although it has been raining for days.  The All Blacks are playing Ireland.  It is expected that the All Blacks will win, so no one takes offence at the Irish taking the first few points.

All my life, there have been All Blacks.  Before television, it was the radio, and the reverence paid to that 80 minutes of commentary was the same as was paid to Sunday religious services.  Those days, commentary was always a little more fulsome than today's television commentary.  Radio didn't like silences, so the voice-over was non-stop.  Nor was Radio able to show the pain etched in the faces of the players, the swollen eye, the cut ear, the anguish of a pulled groin muscle.  It is so visual these days, right down to the spitting, or even peeing, as Jerry Collins did once when he was caught short.  Simply knelt on the ground, pulled aside his shorts and pee'd.  Captured on camera, much to the delight and horror of the crowds.

Always used to be a Sunday afternoon, when I was young, with no noise made in case Dad missed a single word.  Once, when I was in my teens, Dad agreed to take me to watch a live test match between the Springboks and All Blacks at Athletic Park in Wellington.  The Blacks won 3:0, I think.  I only went to see my hero, Dawie de Villiers, play.  Of course from that distance, you couldn't see a thing.  Dad had taken his transistor radio with him as he liked to hear the radio broadcast as he watched.  Live TV.  After that, I wasn't really bothered to watch another match.  Still can't raise any enthusiasm about regional rugby, but I'll watch an international match, simply to hear the anthems and watch the haka.  Which, by the way, isn't nearly as good as the old one which always ended with the team leaping high into the air.  I suppose OSH put a stop to that, just in case someone put his back out.

And so, as we sit through yet another Test match, with only 4 minutes to go, there is a draw on the scoreboard of 19 all.  Irish in fine fettle, All Blacks, not.  I can tell the husband is feeling the All Black pain, as he has his hands gripped tightly together in his lap, and he hasn't yet fallen asleep.

The scrum collapses in a steaming heap as the Blacks desperately try to score the final points.  I don't think it is going to happen, neither do the commentators.  Nor do the managers in their broadcast box, with the body language of hands over faces giving them away.

A drop kick in a last desperate attempt by Dan Carter goes awry; a judgement made by the ref that it was touched in flight, giving us an advantage.  The last minute scrum goes down, the Irish utterly determined not to let the Blacks score, but Carter finds his left foot and kicks a drop goal.  Score 22:19.  Relief all round.  Apart from the pain in the Irish faces.

Interviewed by the commentator, Richie McCaw, with cut, swollen eye, bruised cheek  calls it a "typical old arm-wrestle".  The handsome Irish Captain, despite the two-inch cut down his cheek, manages to speak, but it's hard work.

Another match over.  Some very cold and sore players kneel for a group photograph.

Now, maybe I can get to watch Coro Street...