Frank Greenall
AWHILE back I was talked into attending a live Super Rugby game -- the Hurricanes against the Blues at Wellington's Cake Tin.
The last time I watched a game live at this level was about 10 years ago.
I was soon reminded why.
Entering the stadium, with its tiered squadrons of yellow plastic seats glaring under the gazillion gigawatts of incandescent night lighting, was like induction into a parallel universe.
Starship Cake Tin, brazenly going where a lot of stadia worldwide have been going.
There was so much going on, a shy retiring type such as myself was feeling a bit blown away by TMSO -- too much sensory overload.
The PA sound system was cranking away at a decibel level that was the audio equivalent of the ferocious floodlighting.
A maniacal announcer was talking about everything under the sun. There was this event coming up, and that event coming up, which we all had to be sure not to miss.
There were the sponsors and legions of others who'd ever bought so much as a Hurricanes poster to profusely thank.
There was reference to Uncle Tom Cobley and all.
The giant screens were frenetically flashing with promos, replays, re-replays, sponsors' products and messages to the faithful following.
Not to mention the cameo appearances of lucky members of the audience who could then erupt into a delirium of demented waving when picked out by the camera.
Oh yes, and then there was the game itself. We'd almost forgotten about it.
Mr announcer maniacally introduces the two protagonists.
A dozen supercharged gas jets belch fire and brimstone as the teams burst on to the inner sanctum.
There are more 500-decibel musical fanfares alternated with the bellowing recorded mantra of the official Hurricanes chant.
Finally, there's kick-off.
But something strange is going on here. We can plainly see men in jerseys running around on the paddock doing rugby-type things, but it's as if they're doing all this in a hermetically sealed fishbowl.
While play is in motion, maniacal announcer and his raucous sound effects thankfully give it a brief rest, but the ambient sound of all the other extra-curricular activities is enough to drown out the natural sound effects of the game itself.
No shouted lineout calls. No thwack of body impacting on body. No exhortations to pass the bloody ball, with attendant curses.
From the field itself, all an eerie silence as the mute players ply their trade.
But, God forbid, let there be so much as a nanosecond's pause in the flow of the game and the mega-decibel sound system erupts again with deafening snatches from some flogged-to-death classic hit.
The game itself just seems to be a bit player in the surrounding circus.
Close by we had a Mum and her two kids.
Mom and the kids spent most of the game looking at the big screen -- not for a better view of the action on the field, but living in hope that the almighty camera would grant them the big screen close-up.
A bit further along, a bevy of yahoos were passing the time purchasing mini-donuts at astronomical prices mainly for use as mini-missiles to launch at their immediate neighbours.
To my right, a punter was organising a mortgage on his house to buy a punnet of chips.
Half-time unleashed more hoopla with odd obstacle races for some cause or other, spot prizes for gyrating punters karaoke dancing to the resurgent mega-decibel soundtrack, and I'm certain at some point I saw Donald Trump in a mankini burst on to the field and start doing the watusi.
I've even forgotten who won.
At game's close, nursing post-traumatic stress syndrome, we barely made it to the nearest bar for appropriate succour.
Needless to say, for this week's final, my butt won't be warming a Cake Tin plastic seat.