Two teams, one final, and a slightly pathetic 45-year grudge
Friday, 19 June 2026
Kevin Norquay is a senior writer for The Post and the Sunday Star-Times.
OPINION: Cowshed, not Cake Tin. Chiefs, not Canes. Otherwise, Wellington until I die.
On Saturday, my two worlds collide for the first time in a Super Rugby final, when the Hurricanes play the Chiefs.
I hope the Chiefs win, and the Canes lose with admirable dignity. They are, after all, my two rugby franchise children.
Born in Ngāruawāhia and raised in Te Kauwhata, Wellington has nonetheless been my home for 46 years.
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It gave me a wonderful wife, a series of jobs, several earthquakes, and two spectacular snowfalls.
There are no plans to leave the screeching kākā, whistling winds, coffee machines, or winding roads with their council-installed “water features”.
I love the capital’s secret paths and streams, the now-and-then tranquil harbour, even the malfunctioning sewage outlet is not to be sniffed at.
But in matters rugby, I remain a stoic Chiefs-Waikato fan. Saturday belongs to them. It is all I have left of my spiritual, cow-poo-sodden home province.
And Wellingtonians: my lack of loyalty to the Canes is all your fault.
If I now get angry and type heavy-handedly, you must excuse me. I need to vent.
A year after I arrived in Wellington in 1979, I took up residence in a flat that could have doubled as a commercial freezer.
From that icy base I watched Arthur Stone score a famous intercept try to win the Ranfurly Shield for Waikato.
Waikato, a second-division side, beat Auckland 7-3 (and we can all agree that was great, right?), with Stone sealing it with about 20 minutes left.
It remains an iconic moment in Waikato rugby history. Even now, I am weeping slightly just writing this, with Stone’s flowing mane etched into my memory.
But then came 1981.
Wellington milked us 22-4 to take the Shield. All Blacks Stu Wilson and Bernie Fraser crossed the line, and Waikato prop Paul Koteka was sent off on his 25th birthday.
Because it was a Wednesday, I had taken the day off work to watch red, yellow and black heartbreak. It was moo-tifying.
In terms of self-righteous sporting rage, only the Australian underarm incident has topped that game.
But with the cricket, I was among friends - all of us similarly outraged. We held a collective festival of fury. With that Shield game, I was trapped deep in enemy territory with no signs of reinforcement. I was ribbed, ragged, and rucked over.
That very day, I vowed NEVER to support Wellington, or any side representing the region against a cow-country combo.
And I never have: I’m nearing 50 years of deeply ingrained, slightly pathetic grudge holding. (Though if the Canes are playing anyone else, I’m happily wearing yellow and black.)
I’m worried about the final. The Chiefs have been wonderful, but we all know the old adage: you can’t beat Wellington on a good day.
Whether that phrase also applies to the Hurricanes remains to be seen. Let’s see which way the wind blows. May it bring a whiff of cow dung.