Jack Tame: I'll still be a super proud Kiwi whether the Black Caps win or lose

New Zealand Black Caps bowler Trent Boult during the semi-final match against South Africa, at the ICC Cricket World Cup. Photo / Brett Phibbs

Opinion

Grandma was on the floor with that smiling-but-slightly-bewildered expression. And still wearing the Santa hat.

"S**t!" cried Robbie, an old mate from Christchurch, who ended up in New York as well. "Sorry ... "

The Christmas photograph of the Tame family lay in a splintered picture frame on the floor of my Harlem apartment. Regardless, Robbie and me thrust on with our twisting celebrations, squirming bodies and thrusting fists. Who cares? It's 6am and the Black Caps are in the final.

I've tried to justify to American friends why we stayed up all night. A childhood of playing, I explained. Fandom I've never outgrown, taking me from tests in Christchurch to Australia, the Caribbean and Lords. Memories of my Aussie granddad walking me to Don Bradman's house as a kid, and of seeing the greatest batsman ever watering his flower bed.

They struggle to understand.

In the US, cricket is a pocket sport. Pockets of people love it and go to admirable lengths to follow their teams, but most couldn't pick a cover drive from Chris Gayle's du-rag.

Generally, of course, it's a migrant thing. People who have come to live in the States from the subcontinent or West Indies often light up when they meet a New Zealander keen to talk leather on willow.

More than once I've enjoyed a discounted cab ride from a friendly Bangladeshi driver most impressed that his passenger apparently attended the same high school as Stephen Fleming. To know and enjoy cricket in America is like being a member of a secret little club.

The cup isn't on TV here. You have to buy the US$100 internet package. It's good, though, and the reliable 4G networks mean you can watch games and replays on your phone while waiting for your whites at the laundromat.

The problem is that games go late. A New Zealand day-night match is a 9pm start on the US east coast, and a match in Australia is even worse.

At least Kiwis in the UK only have to get up a few hours early and have thousands of fellow expats doing the same. When no pubs in town are showing the game live and the only option is the floor of a Harlem apartment, the true cricket tragics separate from the pack.

The first third decided they couldn't watch any of the game, it was just too late and work was just too busy. The second third came and saw the first 30 overs and left around midnight.

The remaining third ate three pints of icecream and a mega box of garlicky bagel chips and slowly slumped into the foetal-postured zombie zone. The rain break was tough.

Fate turns on the smallest margins: rain/shine; the instinctive timing of a swing. How many hundreds or thousands of us shrieked, yelped and hugged people we'd normally only handshake?

How many, far from home, ignored the morning sun and the startled neighbours? In some extreme cases of celebrations, how many of us shrugged as large family photos came smashing off apartment walls?

When Grant Elliott tonked that six, it rewarded more than a long night's faith. It rewarded more than the sacrifice of a day's productivity, much more than the cost of the internet package.

It doesn't matter if the Black Caps win or lose today for they've already rewarded each of us who calls himself or herself a Kiwi, and each of us who has always loved the game.

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