Proud To Be A Kiwi

As New Zealand rugby league is still basking in the warmth of their historic Tri-Nations victory on the weekend, and with the victor's trophy casting a very long shadow over their Australian counterparts, it seems only fitting that I should find myself writing about patriotism and national pride. Only days after it was discovered that Kiwis can not only fly but soar, with years of past heartache on the international scene suddenly seeming worth the joy of broken records, the weather to the East of the Tasman Sea appears a lot more inviting than it did during the previous few weeks.

And the records are many: the first time Australia has been kept scoreless since they lost 18-0 to the Kiwis in Wellington in 1985; the first time Australia has lost a series since they were beaten 2-1 by France in 1978; the first time New Zealand has beaten Australia in a test series since 1953; the equal largest winning margin by New Zealand over Australia in rugby league test history, having previously beaten them 49-25 in Brisbane in 1952.

But it was another record - or, rather, the record holder - that inspired me to write this article. Ruben Wiki extended the record for the most international caps by an individual in rugby league history. His man of the match performance in the Tri-Nations final was his fiftieth in a test career that spans as far back as 1994. He is the quintessential leader of men, wearing his heart on his sleeve and feeling the pain of four million fans for every mistake he or a team member makes. He is always exerting every last bit of energy within his body to push his team towards the opposition try line. He is the first to take control in the team huddle following the team conceding a try, instructing the players on what to do and giving them the motivation to carry out the task with absolute precision.

But more than all of that, he inspires. And it isn't just his fellow team members that he inspires. It is every dedicated New Zealand rugby league fan. His actions and words reveal a man born to be a leader, a maturity and humility not often seen on the sports field in the modern era. In Maoridom, what he possesses is referred to as 'mana' - he commands respect simply by who he is as a person and as a leader. Opposition players respect him, as do those who are fortunate enough to play alongside him. And his passion for his country is what drives him.

In the first brief moments after the final whistle of the shock victory against Australia in the Tri-Nations final, Ruben Wiki was in tears. The man referred to as 'Jake the Muss', in reference to the tough and staunch character played by Temuera Morrison in Once Were Warriors and What Becomes Of The Brokenhearted, couldn't help but shed a tear. And how did he explain his emotional release? He simply said: "History is sweet, mate."

In the eyes of Ruben Wiki, history is sweet because, for at least the next twelve months, the Tri-Nations trophy is safe at the New Zealand Rugby League headquarters. And it was Wiki, Captain Fantastic himself, who lead from the front, inspiring the other Kiwis and simply refusing to take a backward step. His statistics must have been envied by every other player on the field: 196 metres gained with three offloads and no errors from 24 hitups in attack, and 26 tackles with only one missed tackle on defense.

As an onlooker, it seems obvious to me that Ruben Wiki will be sorely missed when he does eventually decide to hang up his boots. His kava drink seems to have lengthened his playing career somewhat, enabling him to make quick recoveries from injuries. The man known as Jake the Muss sets an example for players of both sides every time he steps on the field, and the loss of his leadership will leave a huge void in the Kiwis squad. But that's a concern for the future. For now, the man is on top of the world, and he doesn't look like he'll be slowing down any time soon. And for this awe filled fan, that seems like more than enough to think about for the time being.

Yes, Rubes, history is sweet.

The Day I Became A True League Fanatic

I remember it like it was yesterday. There I was, a skinny twelve-year-old kid dressed in the robes of a choirboy, having practised lip-synching to a German opera singer all week, waiting for my cue. I was standing on the sideline of Ericsson Stadium, positioned at the fifty metre mark, while all hell was breaking loose around me: men and women in army fatigues were running across the field; gunshots were going off everywhere, along with numerous explosions; a couple of soldiers were running around on fire; smoke had flooded the field; and all to the theme of the song War by Edwin Starr. It was the opening ceremony preceding the Warriors' inaugural match, and it was all designed to commemorate the ANZAC nature between New Zealand and Australia. It all seemed very fitting, with a New Zealand-based team joining an Australian competition, and the atmosphere was electric.

All of a sudden, the music stopped. The soldiers fell to the ground as if dead. The crowd watched on in silence. The lights turned to focus on me. And I stepped forward.

Making my solitary journey along the halfway mark of the field, I soon found myself in the very position where each Warriors home game would have the ball kicked off from, and I waited for the next piece of music to begin. It was opera. And it was in German. I had no idea what it meant word for word, but I knew it had something to do with peace and companionship. I lip-synched every word just as I had in the practices of the previous fortnight, ever conscious of doing my part for the ANZAC spirit. I made my way across the field after my song had finished, followed closely by half a dozen ANZAC veterans who had served in World War Two and the Korean War. I was honoured to be fortunate enough to be in the midst of these men - real soldiers; real heroes.

I was quickly guided up to a corporate box to watch the match, courtesy of Warriors management. They had already given me a Warriors jersey before the match, and I quickly found myself looking down on the field as the teams came out onto the field, the home team led by a kapa haka group and making their way through a column of flaming torches. Pacific island drums were played throughout the match as the crowd cheered on their team. But something was missing. Despite the incredible view of the entire field, the television screens that showed a different perspective of the match as it was being played, and the waitresses handing out free drinks, I realised there was an essential ingredient that was noticeably vacant - atmosphere. The majority of the people in that corporate box had paid to be there. It was a different lifestyle to those who were outside in the crisp autumn air. These well-to-do businessmen weren't at the furnace, as it were. They may well have been supporters. They were undoubtedly prepared to dip into their pockets to pay for such a great view, but my biased young mind decided they weren't watching the match with their hearts. Perhaps that was a harsh judgment to make, but it rang true. After all, did they really need a glass of champagne in order to bring their team home? And, as filled with awe as I was with the whole experience, it irked me that I wasn't amongst the masses.

It was then that I resolved, albeit subconsciously, to find a seat in one of the stands and to make it my own. And it was in that very seat that I witnessed the ten year anniversary match against the Broncos earlier this year. The commemorative jerseys were there; the kapa haka group were there; the pacific island drums were there; the flaming torches were there. Only the result was different. And the memories came flooding back. As the Warriors entered the field, the roar of the crowd was deafening, as the next two hours were dedicated to the 'good old days' of 1995. And, with decided ease, the atmosphere had returned. I was not removed from it this time, however. No, I was now a part of it, and my regrets were nonexistent!