Football fever

BY LANE NICHOLS

I sang, I cheered, I went hoarse with shouting and hugged strange men like we were newlywed lovers.

In my own little way, I played my part in helping the All Whites overcome the mighty Bahrainis.

I swilled warm Tui and danced in the stand. I felt sick with angst as Sayed Mohamed Adnan lined up the ill-fated penalty kick that would have sealed our fate.

But he missed - thanks to the now hallowed goal keep gloves of our man Mark Paston (I love you by the way mate).

Then me and my fellow 35,000 brothers and sisters went mental with a dizzying euphoria till now not yet experienced in this country, except maybe glimpsed by young people on their OEs in the great football stadiums of England, Italy or Spain.

And it has been a long time between drinks.

I can still remember dragging myself from bed in the wee small hours of morning as a 9-year-old in 1982.

My eyes groggy with sleep and my head swimming with a child's dreams, I didn't then appreciate the magnitude of our tiny nation making the finals of the world's biggest and most beloved sporting spectacle.

But I do now.

With one deft kiss from the forehead of Rory Fallon, the boys in white have nailed a historic spot in next year's soccer World Cup and sparked a contagious football fever that will sweep the country and boost the beautiful game's profile here like never before.

For those lost souls who are regular readers of this blog, you will recall I am a devoted team member of the Mighty Salmon - an aging bunch of division nine battlers who turn out each Saturday wearing Wellington United shirts in the hope of reliving the unrealised sporting dreams of their lost youths.

Though a nasty groin strain put me out of most of last season (it's much better now by the way) football is a religion that is never far from my heart.

So armed with tickets to Westpac Stadium and several pints of Monteiths original under our belts, me and three buddies strode to the park and took our seats as the national anthems rang out on Saturday night.

Two fat poms seated in front of us provided ample atmosphere, leading the crowd in rousing football chants.

All had a familiar pattern, centring around fast handclapping and punctuated with cries of "All Whites" by thousands of croaky voiced fans.

I screamed unrepeatable expletives at the ref - who was obviously on the oil-rich nation of 600,000-odd Bahrainis' payroll - then apologised to a very young boy seated next to me and instructed him that such language was only appropriate at a football match.

He nodded seriously like he understood.

When at last the fulltime whistle blew, the white out crowd erupted and the delirium of the All White's achievement started to hit home.

As we spilled from the stadium concourse and emptied ourselves on to the city streets, Wellington was transformed in a way I've never seen it.

Strangers hugged one another and smiled. Cars tooted and fans waved out windows. Spontaneous football chants rang out into the windy Wellington night air.

Thousands were united - drunk on a nail-biting one-goal win.

It's just a game, I guess. But it's the beautiful game. And what else can bring so many people together in collective happiness?

So come on boys. Give 'em hell in South Africa!

- © Fairfax NZ News