Ka Mate Ka Mate! Ka Ora Ka Ora!

The culmination of great exaggerations, creative additions and a cool, confident interview landed me a sweet gig bartending at Wellington's Westpac Stadium. My first night was the All Black's rugby match. The arena was entirely sold out, the alcohol induced enthusiasm had the city abuzz all morning, Lambton Quay looked like the Queen's funeral procession. The All Blacks had switched on the breakers and set the city alight. I was a sloppy combination of anxiety and fear. No one has ever paid me to pour them a beer. I have no idea how to make a Manhattan. I couldn't begin to tell you the difference between a Syrah and a Shiraz. Dressed in All Black I bravely faced the onslaught.

Before the match begins, the entire team takes the field to perform the Maori war dance Haka. Ka mate, ka mate! Their eyes widen in anger and their faces twist and distort into frightening masks. In unison, their enormous legs crash down to the earth. They prepare for the imminent battle. Tongues flare amidst bellows. Ā, upane, ka upane, whiti te ra! Hands fiercely descend upon mammoth thighs and chests obliterating the space in between.

I was told to hold the wine with the label facing outwards but it wouldn't have been read anyway since the weight of the bottle did nothing to lessen the shaking of my hands. The crowd impatiently flashed V.I.P. Cards to accompany their sixteen drink orders. Nostrils flared and eyes bulged as they leaned in closer, speaking loudly and methodically. Hordes of angry faces staring me down.

The Maori are a warrior tribe. The All Black's are corporate-sponsored warriors. They fight their battles in evenly split halves under stadium lights. Their weapons are hands and arms and legs and torsos. It's war played for an audience but the carnage is real. The fans are desperate for blood. I am armed with nothing but a smile against the encroaching, ravenous masses. The war is on. Ka ora! Ka ora!