Mike Mitchell had the room next to mine on the second floor of our hostel in Dunedin. He was from Invercargill, about 5' 7" and had lovely red Southland hair. He was a genial chap. Very helpful when I was in a bind with any of the first-year papers we were both enrolled in at the University of Otago. This was 1995. The Rugby World Cup final happened while we were on term break so the disbelief of what happened to a red-hot All Blacks team we were certain would win wasn't truly shared until a week or so later.
The 1999 tournament was different. I lived on Frederick St in what can only be described as a bunker, owned by a man named Cliff who insisted on rolling his lawnmower through our lounge to get to the terrible strip of grass out the back. The memory of that semifinal capitulation of being up 14 and then being overrun like ants through the pantry still lives with me.
Around the corner on Hyde St lived Mike and his flatmates. They took the loss a little harder, as we found out the following afternoon, when we wandered around the corner to see his TV on the street. Mike had been so disgusted at the second-half performance of the All Blacks he picked up the TV (a fine effort for a mid-90s sized TV) and tossed it out his front door. He made the cover of Monday's Otago Daily Times; sitting on said TV, chin on his hand, looking glum. A legendary effort to make the front page of the paper and well before the days of trending, sharing and favouriting.