Rugby World Cup

We have been in New Zealand nearly a year.  For the past twelve months the focus of the nation and every kiwi in it has been the Rugby World Cup.  This picture, taken last December at Cathedral Square, shows how they anticipated the games right down to the hour and minute.  

Citizens of Christchurch were devastated when their stadium was rendered unsafe by the February earthquake.  This city would no longer be a venue for the games, but their enthusiasm was not shaken.  The All Blacks have been a part of every news broadcast, they star in almost every commercial, and they are revered more than the head of state or the Queen.  In fact, our first introduction to them was on the flight from Auckland to Wellington.  They were the stars of the inflight film which walked passengers through airline safety precautions.  All the kiwi passengers cheered and I asked, “What is an All Black?”  I’m surprised someone didn’t throw a can of fizzy at me.  All of the excitement and buildup is comparable to Salt Lake City during the Olympic games of 2002.  Black flags with a silver fern and signs that say “Go All Blacks” are everywhere you look.

The games started out with a huge parade and opening ceremony.  There were hakas and Maori traditions to welcome the nations of the world.  And then the games began.  I, who am about as uninterested in sports as anyone can possibly be, even watched parts of matches and tried to figure out the rules of the game.  We found ourselves favoring certain players like Piri Weepu and Ma’a Nonu.  The All Blacks kept winning.  They looked great as they marched through Tonga, Japan, France, Canada, Argentina, and Australia to reach the World Cup Final. 

We knew every television set in New Zealand would be tuned in for the game.  I was even planning to watch.  Sure it was on Sunday night, but not until 9:00—the Sabbath technically ends when the sun goes down, doesn’t it?  Twelve months of having our focus directed to this moment in time.  We were on pins and needles.

Then, our new stake president, President Ormsby, got up in sacrament meeting.  How nice that he could be in our ward to make announcements about the coming stake conference. He’s such a nice man and a good leader.  But..wait…he’s saying something else.  “Brothers and sisters, there is an athletic event on tonight.  Remember, we are a peculiar people, and although everyone else in New Zealand will be watching, we do not watch sports events on Sunday.  It is not consistent with keeping the Sabbath Day holy.”  And then he sat down. 

The whole congregation was stunned.  Mouths hung open, shoulders drooped, and countenances lost their glimmer and glow.  There was no way to justify it now.  The stake president had spoken and we would obey.  I can’t say what the members of the other wards in our stake did, but Riccarton ward members did not watch rugby (well the members I know).  I went to bed, read a book, and fell asleep before the match got a good start.  The cheering and honking that took place in the streets at midnight, gave us a clue as to the results.

I read one British commentator who said it was “comfortably the best RWC final we have been treated to”.  The final score: French 7—All Blacks 8.  That is all we know.  Don’t ask us who scored or why the scoring remained so low.  Don’t ask us who was the hero of the game or how the fans reacted to the victory.  Don’t ask us what it felt like to be an All Blacks fan on the eve of such a victory. 

And you know what?  We’re perfectly okay with not knowing.  It’s only a game.