by Dom Harvey
Our team were playing well. We were unbeaten in our pool matches, including the game against France, where we beat them by 20 points. And we managed to do all this without our not-so-secret weapon, Dan Carter, who was taken out of the tournament with a groin injury, sending the nation into a mini-depression. The groin that had given a country so much pleasure was now bringing us utter despair. Add to this the unsettling TV images of our other star player, Captain Richie McCaw, limping through training sessions with a nasty foot injury.
Yet, despite these setbacks, the team still had an air of self-belief, as if winning this tournament was part of their destiny. In the quarterfinals they played Argentina and won well. In the semifinals they met Australia and gave us one of the most intense All Black games ever. So convincing and ferocious was their performance, nobody was in any doubt that after twenty-four years the William Webb Ellis trophy would again, finally, be all ours (insert menacing Dr Evil laugh here).
Now the final was here and the only thing standing between the All Blacks and the record books was a fairly average French side, a side we had beaten a month earlier, a side who were lucky to be in the final after a pretty shitty semifinal against Wales the previous weekend, a side who had a public falling-out with their coach and spent much of the week of the final sightseeing and fine dining instead of worrying about silly old rugby.
Naturally, the TAB had the All Blacks as red-hot favourites. Even though the French are known for their unpredictability and their love of dirty play, it was hard to see how they could stop this Black machine. I was going to prove just how much faith I had in our national team by having the bet of a lifetime.
If I lost, I would be an idiot. If I won, I would still be an idiot . . . but an idiot with a substantial amount of money.
I’ve never really been a gambler—I’m too much of a tight-arse. I love money. And, like most people, the money I love the most is the stuff that I can get my hands on without actually having to do any work. I also hate losing. This combination makes me a miserable gambler.
On the rare occasions I go to the races, my strategy is to pick the horse that is paying the most money and put $1 for a place on it. My little brother will kill me when he reads this. He is all about studying the form guide and making what he considers to be ‘educated investments’. But with my method, the whole day’s gambling can be done with one blue Kate Sheppard, allowing me to enjoy myself and participate without parting with a substantial amount of money.
Is this method effective? Well, no, not usually, if I am being perfectly honest. But one of these extreme long shots did come in. Once. It was at the Boxing Day races at Awapuni in Palmerston North. I was there with some mates who took their betting very seriously. They treated it as a science and would spend the morning reading the Best Bets form guide, studying the horses’ form and taking notes. Their conversation in the back of the maxi taxi on the way to the track sounded like a foreign language to me, as they bantered about quinellas, firm tracks, boxed trifectas and scratchings.
So there we were, race 4, and I chucked a dollar down for a place on the horse that would yield me the greatest return. My friends laughed. Oh, how they laughed. According to their extensive research this horse was so old and slow it would have been faster if the jockey got on all fours, put the saddle on his back and carried the horse round the track. One of my friends even informed me that this horse would finish dead last, right behind Daylight. I looked in the race guide to read up on Daylight. It turns out Daylight is not the name of another slow horse—this is simply the go-to joke for all horsey people when they talk about a horse that finishes in last place a long way behind all the other horses. Good joke, horsey people, good joke!
Somehow, this horse I had a gold coin on found his accelerator on that day and he finished in second place, winning me $87 from my $1 investment. The huge win and the bragging rights I got over my mates made me decide to quit while I was ahead. So I retired a champion and have not bet on a horse that is likely to lose ever since.
I have dabbled in other sports betting but because I’m so frugal it’s not really worth the effort. My last win was when I bet on the All Blacks to beat Fiji in a test match a few years back. The Blacks were paying $1.04 to beat Fiji by more than eighteen points. Of course, the All Blacks won convincingly and so did I.
I went back into the TAB to collect my original investment of $10 and my 40 cent profit. I’m pretty sure the fuel for my two trips to the TAB would have been worth more than the winnings.
But on the day of the Rugby World Cup final that was all about to change. Using my credit card, I put $1000 into an old online TAB account in my wife’s name. For some, this sum may not be that big a deal. But for a tight-arse like me, it was monumental. It seemed like utter stupidity and went against everything I believe in. This single bet would be more than I had ever gambled in my entire life—even if you took all my previous bets and Lotto tickets and added them up.
When you bet on a rugby game there are hundreds of different ways you can give your money to the TAB. They make it very easy to lose. As their slogan goes: ‘You know the odds, now give us your money.’ I checked out the various odds and betting options on offer, but decided not to place a bet until just before kick-off.
My gut instinct was just to have this big bet on the All Blacks to win head-to-head. That was paying $1.09, meaning for every dollar you bet you will get your own dollar back plus nine cents of the TAB’s money—if your prediction is accurate. So I would risk $1000 of my own money for the chance to get $90 back. It seemed like a big risk for a little reward so I ruled that one out and went for something a bit more daring, something that gave me the opportunity to make some decent cash. I will tell you exactly what that option was and whether or not I was successful at the end of this chapter.
The day had already been tense. The entire country had a strange feeling of nervous excitement about it. We knew the All Blacks would probably win the Rugby World Cup for the first time in twenty-four years. But we also knew the French team had a bad habit of knocking us out of this very tournament, so no one was allowing themselves to pop the corks on the French champagne until we had actually done the business and made the French toast.
Before the game I got to have my photo taken with the All Blacks coach.
The atmosphere around Auckland that day was electric. Most people were dressed in black. There were a few very vocal French supporters walking the streets but there was no mistaking which team had the home advantage! Depending on who you spoke to, the game was either going to be real close or a real thrashing by the All Blacks. But nobody was backing the French.
It was 6 pm when we left home and started the three-kilometre walk to Eden Park for the kick-off three hours later. We stopped at a bar on the way for a nerve-calming beer and spoke to some others who were also attempting to relax prior to kick-off.
We bumped into Robbie Magasiva, the famous New Zealand actor and a man who looks like he should have been an All Black. He seemed convinced the game was a done deal—the All Blacks were going to be too strong for France and would win by 30 points. It’s funny, maybe it was the sheer size of Robbie or maybe it was the absolute belief he had in what he was saying, but I was with him all the way. By the time I finished my pint I, too, was convinced the only outcome would be an emphatic demolition job by Graham Henry’s men in black.
By 7.30 pm we had made it to Eden Park and our category C seats for this (hopefully) historic game. These tickets cost us a fortune—$767 dollars each. But with a successful bet at the TAB I could recoup some of that money. Like Richie McCaw had been saying to the media all week—losing was simply not an option.
Next to us were a couple of men who worked together. One of them was a South African who picked it to be a real close game. He said the French had played badly right through the tournament and were due for a blinder. But, in his opinion, even if the French played the game of their lives the All Blacks would still be too good for them.
/> His mate was an Englishman with a big voice and thick accent who was convinced it would be a walkover.
Honestly, this guy was so adamant it was as if he had already seen the game played in his mind. ‘The All Blacks will win by 25 points. End of story!’ he announced. But he was actually just beginning. ‘The first twenty minutes will be all about defence. The French are going to come out on fire. The All Blacks will get some points on the board from a try or penalties. Then the French will be rattled and forced to play risky rugby to catch up. And in the second half the All Blacks will just run away with it. You mark my words.’
But there is a big difference between telling a stranger in the seat next to you what the score is going to be and actually putting your money where your mouth is. I had my own ideas about the likely outcome and was ready to make the bet of my life.
It was now just half an hour before the game was due to kick off and I was probably as nervous as the players as I placed the bet on my iPhone. I did it very discreetly. My wife knew about it but I didn’t want to tell anyone in the seats around us—mainly from fear of looking like the world’s biggest tool if I lost the whole lot. But also I didn’t want to be swayed by anyone else’s opinions.
The option I selected was paying $3.25. Meaning if my prediction was correct, I would collect $3250 in just over two hours’ time. Touch wood.
While it caused me immense pain to put my $1000 on the line, other Kiwis had no such trouble. In total $3.5 million worth of bets were placed on this game, including one losing bet of $50,000 made by someone who was convinced the first points would come from a New Zealand penalty kick.
Fifteen minutes into the game the first points of the match were scored. It was a try by Tony Woodcock. Great news for all New Zealanders . . . apart from the bloke who’d just lost his $50,000. My new English mate leaned forward in his seat. ‘See, didn’t I tell ya this was going to happen? You mark my words?’
Yes. He had told me. No, I was not marking his words. I didn’t pay over $700 to sit at Eden Park and mark a stranger’s words. This is the problem when you buy the cheapest tickets possible—you find yourself seated next to other people who have also got the cheap seats! Although in fairness, these were almost certainly the most expensive cheap seats you’ll ever get your bum on.
After that things slowed down. Piri Weepu missed the conversion attempt. Then, before the first half ended, he missed another two penalty attempts. It could have been 13–0 to the All Blacks; instead they ran under the stands at half-time leading 5–0. The air in the stadium was humming. The excitement, belief and confidence were still there but nerves were creeping in. Thankfully, annoying old Johnny English next to me was no longer asking anyone to mark his words. I still felt confident about my $1000 bet. But at this point in time I was actually more nervous about the All Blacks losing the World Cup than me losing my money.
The second half was horrible to watch, horrible. I cannot think of a better word to describe it. It was just so intense.
Piri Weepu was relieved of his goal-kicking duties in the second half and Stephen Donald was given that unenviable task.
Stephen Donald. Nickname: Beaver. Possibly the most hated man in New Zealand rugby after a poor performance against Australia a year earlier that cost us the game. He was not even in consideration for the World Cup squad but got the call-up to be the backup for Aaron Cruden. Actually, Aaron Cruden wasn’t even in consideration for the World Cup squad either, but he was drafted into the team after Dan Carter’s replacement, Colin Slade, got injured.
Cruden was supposed to be in Los Angeles when the World Cup final was being played. He and his girlfriend had booked a trip to Disneyland, which had to be postponed. And an out-of-shape Stephen Donald was actually drinking beer and whitebaiting with friends on the Waikato River when he got a phone call which he must have assumed was one of his mates winding him up.
‘Hello? Stephen? Graham Henry here. We need you to come and join the squad in Auckland.’
It was so unexpected I’m surprised Beaver didn’t tell the person claiming to be the All Blacks coach to piss off before hanging up and going back to the fishing.
Sports talkback went crazy with outraged rugby fans when it was announced Donald was back in the squad. Poor bloke. Imagine getting that sort of hate for nothing more than playing one bad game of footy.
So there he was. Stephen Donald, in a jersey so tight and small that his midriff was exposed. He had put on a bit of weight over winter, since he wasn’t expecting to get the call-up, and the jersey size the All Blacks management had on file for him was no longer the size he required.
He had a shot at goal in the forty-sixth minute, not an easy kick, either.
He struck it and the ball sailed over. Just. 8–0 to our All Blacks.
The most hated man in New Zealand rugby. The bloke who’d had 60,000 people at Eden Park nervously groaning when he came on had redeemed himself. He had gone from zero to hero with the kick of his life. We had a comfortable buffer. France would need to do more than just convert a try. The game was still ours to lose.
Then, only a minute after Stephen Donald’s three-pointer, France scored and converted. 8–7 to the All Blacks. Fuck!
You could hear it being murmured around the seats: ‘This cannot be happening!’ It felt like a movie we had all seen before . . . and none of us enjoyed it much the last time!
I wonder if any 111 calls were made by rugby fans suffering anxiety attacks. How sixty-five-year-old Graham Henry watched his team play without one of those oxygen hoses strapped beneath his nose is beyond me. The coach’s box that he, Wayne Smith and Steve Hansen were sitting in must have smelt of a nasty combination of perspiration and the wee of elderly men. France had a sniff of victory now and began to play that way they only ever seem to play once every four years during knockout matches in World Cups. But the All Blacks were not going to pull their pants down this time.
Both teams played with all the grit, passion and determination that you could hope for in a final. Around Eden Park, thousands of people who had jumped through hoops to get these tickets—registered online, gone into ballots, then paid huge sums of money—had now resorted to watching the game through cracks in their fingers as they covered their faces with their hands.
In our area, a few rows back, one fan stood on his seat during a stoppage in play and made a speech to everyone within earshot. It was the sort of speech you’d expect from a coach at half-time. This spectator wanted more noise from us—this was the time our team needed us the most and we had to show them that we still believed in them. His speech went for all of twenty seconds before someone behind him said what we were all thinking: ‘Shut the fuck up!’ That caused a ripple of laughter, which was a nice way to briefly break the tension.
After the try to France the score remained unchanged for the remainder of the game. All thirty-three minutes. The French were playing the game of their lives, but so were the All Blacks. All the beer talk about thrashings we’d heard prior to kick-off had vanished. My new English mate who had broken down the game into twenty-minute blocks was silenced. No longer was anyone concerned with killing the French or beating them by x amount of points. Now the nation just wanted a win. It was irrelevant just how ugly that win was.
Then, with time up on the clock, France conceded a penalty and Andy Ellis kicked the ball out. We had won. Every single person in Eden Park jumped to their feet. Strangers hugged, danced, high-fived and kissed. Yes, it is ‘just a game’. But it is our game and this was our moment. We were all New Zealanders and we had all just shared something very special. It had been twenty-four years since the All Blacks had won the very first Rugby World Cup but finally the engraver would be putting us on there for only the second time.
After most big events, people race out, trying to beat the crowds—but not on this day. Not one person. The game had been played and the last forty minutes had been about as difficult to watch as a sex tape starring your mum and dad. Now we had won, the n
asty bit was over, and everybody just wanted to enjoy the moment, basking in the success of our team.
The captain and coach spoke. Hayley Westenra sang a depressing song, not that it mattered. Nothing was going to bring the mood of this crowd down. Fireworks went off. Confetti covered the field. And I forgot all about that bet of mine.
Much like the French, I just about got my hands on the William Webb Ellis trophy.
We left the ground and slowly walked out onto the streets of the Auckland suburb of Kingsland. Kiwis still hugged and sang, brought together by the lowest scoring game in the history of Rugby World Cup finals.
After walking for fifteen minutes we managed to flag down a taxi. Away from the noise and euphoria of the crowd of strangers and with a moment to myself I had a chance to reflect on what had just taken place.
The All Blacks had won by a point.
This meant my slip of paper that had been worth $1000 when I purchased it was now worth . . .
ABSOLUTELY NOTHING! I had put a grand on the All Blacks to win by between 21 and 30 points. Boy, I could not have been more wrong. What an idiot! I really did believe they would win by that much, though. So did Robbie Magasiva and the loud English bloke. My focus was on just how much I stood to win, not how much I was going to lose. But I suppose that’s the trap that gamblers fall into, looking at the reward rather than risk.
Yes, I lost my money. An embarrassingly large amount, too—enough to sponsor one of those dollar-a-day African kids for almost three years.
There are two experiences I will gladly never repeat in my lifetime:
1. betting a large sum of money
2. sitting next to a chatty Pom during a major sporting event.
I actually cannot decide which one of these two things was more painful. Might have to call it a draw . . . don’t bet on it, though.