Jim Hopkins: Surprise ticket to a better place

Wacky costumes were popular with fans from both sides for the Rugby World Cup final. Photo / Dean Purcell

One minute, I was sitting there, trying to think of clever things to write, the next I was being asked a completely unexpected question. "Would you like to go to the game?" What? "Would you like to go to the game. I've got some tickets. Would you like one?" Yes! Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!!!!

Sir, you are a gentleman (and he is, in every sense). That's unbelievably generous. Of course I'd love to go to the game. You'd have to be dead not to. And, even then, you'd get yourself dug up if it meant you could be there.

And that's how somebody who, three days earlier, hadn't even planned to be in Auckland last Sunday found himself on the train, heading for Eden Park. The carriage was packed.

People were laughing and joking and singing. "Hey, he-ey, baybee OOOOHH! AHHHH! I wanna knowwo-wo-wo-wo if you'll be my girl." That's about as far as we got. No one could remember the rest of the words. So we did the chorus over and over and some of us were still singing as we got off the train.

Being a World Cup novice, I was surprised there weren't any black ties or posh frocks. I'd perversely assumed that folk would dust off their glad rags and glam up for an occasion like this. But despite having paid the thick end of $7 million for a ticket, most people looked like they'd just popped out to Bunnings to buy a concrete mixer.

Heading through the turnstiles, I notice some of us have opted for costumes. There's a great big hairy fairy in blonde wig and tutu (black, of course), ladies with sheep on their heads and a man in a cow suit with a big udder covering his groin. Plus plenty of flags worn as capes and four jubilant French bloques wandering round in matching blue shirts, each bearing an optimistic message.

They walk, shoulder to shoulder, chanting the slogan ... "We came ... we won ... and we ... went home. We came ... We won ... and we ... went home." True believers indulge this heresy. A few All Black fans pose for photos. The rest of us simply smile and think Tui thoughts.

The stand is packed. Vince, whose seat is next to mine, first played rugby when he was 5, didn't stop till he was 36 and, in between, represented two unions (Manawatu and Thames Valley) and two universities. He was a back, he says. Which position? "Oh, all of them," Vince replies. Me too, I tell him. Often in the one game. It was the specs, I say. Couldn't see the ball. So they just moved me out of harm's way. Till I switched to hockey in Standard Four. Vince nods sympathetically.

Two Aussies arrive in yellow. "We're supporting you now," they say. "You'd better not let us down." An English telly star files in. Everyone recognises him but no one can remember his name. He smiles and chats to people he doesn't know.

On the park, the players are warming up. Aaron Cruden practises kicks. (Later, when Stephen Donald runs on to replace him, someone yells out, "Where's your whitebait net?") Graham Henry walks around, hands behind his back, like the Duke of Edinburgh. I remember we were at school together, in the same class for a year if memory serves, and I suddenly recall the All Blacks coach as he was in those faraway days, in grey shirt and shorts, with his socks pulled up, 'cos that was compulsory. He was in the First XV back then, I was in the debating team. 'Nuff said.

When the teams run out, there's a roar, loud and elemental, primal and true. It's a war cry, tribal, old as ourselves, fierce as our urge to win.

The rest you know. Because you saw it too. When the French scored, one of the Aussies turned around and said, "Don't worry. You'll still win." And we did. Just. Although, when Craig Joubert gave them a penalty in the 64th minute, I absolutely couldn't watch. I went to the loo instead, figuring the noise would tell me if the kick went over.

We all hug at the end of the game. Sir Brian Lochore walks out with young Seth Murray and the cup. He puts his arm around the little boy's shoulder as they leave. That's exactly as it should be. Hayley Westenra sings Now is the Hour, haunting, poignant, while two little girls who've just skipped on to the park scoop up handfuls of tinsel and throw it in the air. And that's as it should be too.

Back on the train, the cheering's exultant. This must have been what VE Day was like. A French lady is talking to her friend. "Vous etes triste?" I ask, hoping to bridge the language gap. "No. No," she replies. "It's okay. You played a good match."

"So did you," I say. Because it was true.

Later, walking home, I'm still smiling. Nothing's changed. The street's the same. So are the shops. The traffic lights still switch to red. But everything feels better.