Lions faithful lose their voice

Despite guests from Prince William to Auckland Mayor Dick Hubbard, despite the 15,000 Lions fans, the 200-strong media scrum, the litres of beer in plastic cups skilfully manoeuvred up the steps at Eden Park by men who've done this scores of times before, it was a desultory end to the six-week Lions tour.

The night started brilliantly with ear-splitting whistles and shouts. The pre-match show was spectacular. Tim Beveridge led a spirited version of the national anthem. And amazingly, given the excitement, the crowd managed their "moment" of silence in remembrance of those who had died or suffered in last week's London bomb blasts. Then someone yelled and the mood was broken.

The first half, with the sin-binning of All Black skipper Tana Umaga, and two tries in 10 minutes, was electrifying. While Lions supporters roared and chanted, the All Black fans in their black plastic sacks yelled back. "U, U, Umaga, U..U..Umaga, U..U..Umaga! And they had plenty of reason.

But then it all slowed down to the kind of stop-start, grinding rugby that near-killed the game in the 80s. And when Sitiveni Sivivatu's thrilling run from halfway to dive over the line was disallowed, the fire went out of this amazing crowd, this sea of red that rimmed the entire bottom half of the northern stands.

The visiting journalists, hardened by decades of touring with teams like this, and thoroughly disheartened by the Lions' performance, are generous. Former sportsmen turned sports writers, many have been stunned with the beauty of Karekare and Kaikoura, and drunk themselves cheerful at Guinness and Steinlager media parties. Most of all they're happy their laptops connected, the media buses went on time and their pocket transistors fed through the match commentaries.

BBC radio rugby correspondent Ian Robertson, who played for Scotland in 1968-1970, talks about the joys of his job. The BBC flies its journalists business class on trips of over 11 hours and sponsors routinely offer them rounds of golf and jet boat rides. As for the work, "The BBC's not meant to be opinionated but in sport, as in politics, they tend to let us have our head," says Robertson in that molten, BBC voice.

As they pack into the media centre after the game, to hear the coaches and captains and get their last interviews before settling down to write stories for the other side of the world, the comments are caustic:

Graham Henry, the only man I've seen who can smile when his mouth curves downwards, gets the first question: "Graham, I've just heard Sir Clive say in hindsight he would've brought a bigger squad, what do you think of that?"

Henry: "I assume that's in jest."

"No."

"I can't comment on that."

Continues the journalist in an undertone: "It's going to get to a point where it's cheaper to bring the whole of New Zealand to the match. Why do you think they're developing the double-decker Airbus?"

Many won't finish filing stories until 2am, others are scheduled to leave for the flight home at 7am. Stephen Jones, the famously opinionated chief sports writer for the Sunday Times of London, growls about lack of access to players. "When we came in 1983 there were 20 journalists. Now there are about 200."

Lions media handler Alastair Campbell, who flew back to London halfway through the tour, lurked in the "mixed zone" where you could conduct mini interviews with selected players - and Campbell himself. Although plainly unhappy with the Lions' performance, he did the job he was brought along for - to erect a buffer between the media and the players and coaches.

But did he kill the spirit of the tour in the process?

Certainly veteran photographer Peter Bush is unhappy: "The most forgettable of all tours".