I once almost killed a Canterbury rugby supporter.
It was 1994, I was about 16 and went on a roadie with a whole group of footy mates to Christchurch to watch Otago challenge the Cantabs for the Ranfurly Shield. Clad in blue and gold boiler suits and hard-hats with Speight's stickers plastered all over them, we made our way to Lancaster Park, revelling in that unique atmosphere that can only be found amid throngs of people all marching expectantly to a sporting event.
Those with a passing acquaintance of rugby history will recognise the occasion -- the infamous David Latta penalty in the dying minutes of the game that gifted Canterbury the match. Of all the heartache and close calls suffered by Otago rugby fans over the years -- this is the one that hurts the most.
After being urinated on, having various items of debris hurled our way and abused in a manner that would make a sailor blush, we decided to head for the hills as the last cruel rites were being administered, once the noble cause was lost. That proved to be more difficult than it should have been as we were punched, kicked and spat on as we jostled our way through the terrace crowd in an effort to get to the nearest exit.
We spied an exit in the form of a concrete staircase and made as swift a beeline for it as circumstances would allow. But one final hurdle awaited us as we inched closer to the clearing -- on a landing above the stairs was a group of particularly nasty Cantabs who took full advantage of the high ground and reigned down hellfire and brimstone on the hapless Otago boys -- everything from full beer cans, to food and bodily excretions were hatefully hurled in our direction.
