Wynne Gray: Overwhelmed by the Welsh spirit

It was not the Grand Slam tourists, but close enough for those of us on OE in 1980 and brought up on a diet of All Black rugby.

We were all members of the club who had woken in the early hours to hear the crackly radio (or was that wireless) commentaries of overseas All Black tests before televised broadcasts started in the early 70s.

The first television footage beamed into New Zealand was the All Blacks test against Wales in Cardiff in 1972, the victory which preceded the controversial decision to send try-scoring prop Keith Murdoch home.

We had watched the satellite-fed black and white pictures, with the landline commentary from Bill McLaren arriving a fraction before the pictures.

Coverage of the All Blacks' march to a Grand Slam triumph in 1978 had been absorbed through the newspapers and television.

But this was a chance to soak up the atmosphere and watch the All Blacks play overseas at one of the most famous rugby arenas in the world.

The All Blacks were coming to engage Wales during their centenary season so it was time to make a pilgrimage west from London. Tickets were acquired, train journeys booked while Scruff, who was based in Cardiff, had looked after the accommodation.

Six All Blacks, and nine of the Welsh who had played two years before, were back for the test to celebrate 100 years of Welsh rugby.

Graham Mourie, Stu Wilson, Bill Osborne, Dave Loveridge, Bruce Robertson, Andy Haden - we were talking serious All Blacks here.

And although the incomparable JPR Williams was no longer Welsh captain, he still wore the number 15 jersey. Alongside him were men such as Graham Price, Derek Quinnell, Steve Fenwick and Terry Holmes and a team who believed they could reverse the nation's losing record against the All Blacks, which had stood for decades.

Many years later, I would make regular contact with Eddie Butler, who came on as a replacement Welsh loose forward in that 1980 test and later became a rugby writer for the Guardian.

Of more interest then was the play of the new All Black first five-eighths, Nicky Allen.

He was known to some of us travelling across to Cardiff. He was a gifted player, very left-sided but with the game and vision that was not too dissimilar to Daniel Carter.

Allen had been picked from Counties as a replacement that year for the injured Wayne Smith in Australia.

Now he was heading our way. He had a fine test and scored a controversial try as the All Blacks won 23-3.

Allen later played for the Harlequins club with several flatmates before his career was blighted by a knee injury. During his convalescence, we saw plenty of Allen, but he was growing increasingly frustrated with his rehab.

Eventually Allen shifted to Australia, where he died in 1984 after suffering a serious head injury in a collision during a game in Wollongong.

However, in 1980 he wore the No 10 jersey as he ran out on to the renamed National Stadium, which we identified as Cardiff Arms Park.

We had gathered in the lower stands, a cluster of Kiwi support, surrounded by the red-shirted Welsh and certainly drowned out by them. That clamour and patriotism had hit us when we arrived by train in the centre of Cardiff.

The centre of the city, Queen St and the surrounding roads and lanes leading to the stadium were heaving with raucous optimism. For old times' and Murdoch's sake we found the Angel Hotel and were staggered by its proximity to the park.

We succumbed to the local liquor advertising, which implored: "Use Your Brains, Drink Ours" in reference to the local beer.

We were further overwhelmed by the spirit and singing inside the ground.

It was stupendous and each time you return, it amazes.

Bruce Robertson led the All Blacks out - it was his 100th game in the national jersey - as the banter stopped and the singing erupted.

Mourie scored the first try when he surged into the clear and continued untouched as Wilson's decoy scissors run stopped the Welsh defence.

The All Blacks turned up the intensity after the break for an impressive victory, one we were sure would sour our hosts. Had we been winners but strangers camped in the middle of a rugby crowd in New Zealand, we would have worn some fearful abuse. We looked at each other. We did not need to enunciate our concerns, wondering what was about to befall us at the final whistle.

The Welsh could not have been more gracious. They turned or leaned over to congratulate us as if we, rather than our countrymen, had worn black that day. That memory will not dissipate.

Nor the way we were allowed to clamber over the advertising walls after the match to head for the area on the ground where Bob Deans had scored all those years before.

Invitations came to join the Welsh in the local boozers where we felt comfortable with the Brains or Guinness but inadequate when we were urged to respond to the locals' singing.

Those situations have been repeated many times since. Little changes. The All Blacks continue to defeat the Welsh, but New Zealanders cannot match them for their fanatical but propitious support.