It doesn't happen often, but when it does it gives sport and people an emotion to cherish.
Which brings me to Peter Mooney.
In preparing a story about the Rugby World Cup last week I called Peter, in his role co-ordinating local cup requirements. He told me how when huge events such as this descend on a country ... where so many teams, diverse and at various stages of the game's evolution are placed in the spotlight, it is impossible not to get smitten. Like the football world cup, he said. You start watching a minnow or two playing each other or a powerhouse such as Spain, and you just keep watching.
I wasn't sure about that ... but while watching Romania playing Scotland I began to nod when I thought about what Peter had said.
This was not a game on my "must see" list - yet there I was, seven minutes into the second half on my third can of (not the sponsor's product) and clapping in admiration as the Romanians pushed their hearts and souls to the limit.
Ditto when Ireland struck the US. I had to see it. It would mean nothing in the event's final wash but I was hooked.
Peter's right. You just want to watch ... and your spirit somehow affixes itself to the wonderful underdog.
Not everyone though. There's the usual talk that many people have left town, or the country for that matter, to avoid the rugby circus.
Maybe if you're young and there's always the prospect of seeing another, if and when it again comes our way.
But it's been 24 years since the cup and its colour and its terrific volunteer enthusiasm and great travelling supporters have been to this land. It's not a frequent occasion, put it that way.
I am 57 now. All things being fair and traditional in terms of hosts, it's likely to be another 24 years before it returns. I'll be ... mmmm.
So I'm soaking it up, because I'm still young enough at heart to get feisty about the game, and fit enough of body to get down to the supermarket at halftime if the supplies run low (and I'm not talking cheese and crackers here).
I'm glad I'm not alone. Did you hear anything during the opening ceremony and the All Blacks' opening stoush with the terrific Tongans? No, neither did I. Not a car came past. There was no sound anywhere. It was all inside front rooms where TV sets held sway.
An hour before that telecast began I was driving down Harold Holt Ave over in Pirimai and saw a great sight.
Two ladies, silver of hair and with many seasons having passed in their lives, dressed in black and silver and bearing silver fern flags. Not to mention what appeared to be a couple of bottles of something fine.
There was obviously a World Cup evening happening ... probably at the house where the big All Blacks' flag was flying. Mind you, there were about five such flags in close proximity.
And even earlier I drove past the kids outside Onekawa School. They were all in black and white and had flags of all nations flying. Every face was grinning and urging the passing parade to toot their support. I held the horn down and pumped the old fist.
Those 8 and 10-year-olds will be in their 30s the next time we hold the big party again.
I'll be ... mmmm.
When you see a wildfire of enthusiasm like that, which spreads through all ages, any cynicism you may harbour about the commercial rat-race, and prices, and saturation coverage, just sort of dissolves away.
Look at the faces at the grounds. Look at the joy.
People watching from overseas are seeing modest but straight from the rugby heart grounds here. That image of the great mountain over Taranaki way, then of the US flag flying on that most sombre, yet uplifting day, was magic. So was seeing people happy to put a rain hat on as a shower swept over. Don't need a roof.
And isn't great to watch games during the daytime!
Come on Japan. Come on Romania. Come on Russia.
Bugger, what've I done with the bottle opener?
Roger Moroney is an award-winning journalist for Hawke's Bay Today and observer of the slightly off-centre.
