Diana Wichtel: Mystified by the national passion

The males in my life are constantly feigning horror at my lack of interest in sport. At least, I think they're feigning, though my partner all but requires CPR when I wander in and inquire how many goals the All Blacks have scored.

I do try to keep up. It doesn't help that, whenever I ask a perfectly reasonable sports question, I'm greeted with "Oh, for goodness' sake", "You cannot be serious!" or a weary "No one can be that stupid".

Take England vs Brazil. A soccer-loving colleague, when asked where he was going to watch it, replied, "In a vault". Another was forced to have her farewell drinks early so everyone could rush off and watch. This, I figured, must be huge. All I said was "Is it the final?" I think the derisive chorus of "Welcome back from Mars, Diana" was a bit harsh.

I've been paying more attention since, if only because sports mania in this country occasionally reaches a critical mass even I can't avoid. There was Holmes dressed as a Korean soccer hero, running at startled Koreans, shouting "Ahn Jung-Hwan!" and demanding they throw soccer balls at his head. Perhaps he hoped the sight of him getting repeatedly hit in the head would help his ratings, though, Lord knows, it didn't work for Bill English.

But, with sport, the more I learn the less I know. It seems a Perugia soccer official has banned Ahn Jung-Hwan, a sometime member, from the club, if not the entire country. Why? He scored a try - er, goal - against Italy in the World Cup quarter-final. Isn't that what he was supposed to do? I would ask my partner to explain only we can't afford the medical bills.

Rugby is no better when it comes to mystifying behaviour. New Zealand beat Italy 64-10. Sounds all right to me. I'll bet they won't be letting any All Blacks into Perugia any time soon.

Yet all I heard was whining about how badly we played. But, I quavered, isn't beating the other team by 54 points good? "Oh, for goodness' sake!" My suggestion that we would really kick ass if there was an Olympic event for poor winners didn't go down well.

We expect a lot from our national team, I was told. Simply crushing the opposition into the ground isn't nearly good enough.

Then the All Blacks played Ireland. The wailing and rending of garments could be heard from one end of the house to the other. We got 15 points. Ireland managed to get 6. The disgrace. But we won, didn't we, I quavered. Fetch the paddles and stand clear.

So when we were offered some corporate hospitality for the second test against Ireland, my partner dragged me along for a little re-education. I would see for myself that the ball was not being kept in hand, we were passing like a bunch of pasta-eating pillocks and there was general lack of something or other in the forward pack.

I'd never been to a night test at Eden Park. I'd scarcely been there at all, though my first flat was in Marlborough St, just a beer can's throw away. In those days, we didn't like rugby players. They had short hair and muscles. For reasons I can no longer recall, we preferred scrawny men with long hair and beads.

There was something oddly thrilling about joining one of the rivulets that soon turned into a raging torrent of people of all ages, colours and states of sobriety heading towards the park, past the buses and boot parties and the opportunists making a buck with exorbitantly priced parking and sausage sizzles.

We got hopelessly lost but arrived in time for a pre-game corporate nosh which featured, in honour of the visitors, cockles and mussels and great steaming dishes of Ireland's revenge for the potato famine, champ.

Outside, the atmosphere was electric and the entertainment eclectic. The climax was a spectacle involving dancers, flaming spears and something that looked like spacecraft - sort of Riverdance meets kapa haka on the set of Survivor, Mars.

The crowd proved harder to please when the game kicked off and our side managed to drop the ball from one end of the field to the other. Hearing 40,000 people groan disgustedly in unison is one of life's experiences.

There was a huge, sarcastic cheer when some butterfingers actually managed to hang on to the ball, and there was a lot of grumbling about the selection. "Come on, Canterbury!" shouted one wag. In rugby, everyone's a critic.

At last, there was a try. "That was all right," muttered my partner through gritted teeth, approval ripped from his flesh as if by red-hot pincers. Later someone did something clever and scored another. "That was all right!" said my partner, visibly brightening. We won 40-8. Everyone, bar a few Irish people, was happy. Well, happier. It wasn't like we beat the Aussies.

Why, I ventured to ask, was it so much better this time? Because we had dominated, declared my partner. We had played as a team, with drive, unleashed a bit of mongrel - I made him stop. He was beginning to scare me.

Still, the experience was stirring, much like I imagine it must have felt to be at the Queen's Jubilee celebrations.

They got a golden carriage full of history and tarnished glamour rolling up the mall. We got a rolling maul full of blood, sweat and faded glory surging up Eden Park.

Like Britain's royalty, the All Blacks aren't quite what they once were. But as we joined the singing, cheerful loyalists heading contentedly home, for once I could almost see the point of it all.