I’m a cricket tragic from way back. I survived the early ′90s at Eden Park, getting snapper frames to the back of the head mid-Mexican wave, partied my way through the 2000s to numb the pain, and have absolutely revelled in the finals fever of this current era, largely because it keeps happening!
Unfortunately, my personal fan form has been catastrophic. What is now widely known in ACC circles as the Grim Lane Curse began properly in 2007 in the West Indies.
New Zealand were flying. We stormed into the semi-finals against a Sri Lankan side that, at the time, looked very beatable. Cue myself and a few London‑based mates getting dangerously ahead of ourselves. India and England were out, flights to Barbados (where the final was being played) were cheap, and confidence was irresponsibly high.
We did what any sensible New Zealand cricket fans would do: booked flights, accommodation and tickets for the World Cup final before the semi-final had been played.
We lost. We then watched Australia beat Sri Lanka in the dark. Fantastic holiday. Not the desired outcome. Some would say we cursed it by booking early, similar to putting traffic management plans in place for a victory parade a week out. Either way, we returned to London, drank snakebites and aggressively expanded our waistlines.
Fast-forward to 2015. Melbourne. After commentating the entire World Cup for the Alternative Commentary Collective, we decided, like all elite broadcast teams to attend the final in person. Slightly unorthodox, but it felt right.
A dejected Daniel Vettori walks off the podium past the World Cup. Photo / Photosport
It was not right.
We all know the result. The following morning, I staggered out of my hotel and immediately walked into Brad Haddin and the rest of the Australian team parading the trophy through the streets on the backs of utes. I vomited into a flower pot as they passed. That may have also been influenced by us absolutely disgracing ourselves at the official New Zealand Cricket after‑party. I have vague memories of small savouries being thrown, one connecting with a senior board member. Anyway. Different blog.
Surely that was it, I thought. One lifetime opportunity squandered. Then came 2019.
The two‑day semi against India. A final at Lord’s against England. This was cinema. Flights booked. Accommodation booked. Tickets sorted. The same cursed crew from Barbados and the MCG reunited. Redemption was right there.
And then it wasn’t.
A dejected New Zealand captain Kane Williamson after the 2019 final. Photo / Photosport
Once again, waking up in London to morning TV hosts interviewing deeply hungover England players as they carried on celebrating and headed off to 10 Downing Street. We sat in Green Park with a box of Fosters, staring into the middle distance, trying not to think about the 36‑hour journey home.
By now, the curse was undeniable and that’s before we even mention I was also in Cardiff for the All Blacks’ infamous 2007 Rugby World Cup quarter-final loss to France. I am, objectively, a sporting biohazard.
Which brings me to now.
Ahmedabad. Home of the Narendra Modi Stadium. The biggest sporting arena on earth. 130,000 people. A New Zealand final. And me once again turning up like a medieval plague doctor.
This has to end eventually. A win against India, at home, in front of a nation of 1.4 billion people would absolutely do it. That would cleanse everything. I could return to New Zealand with the curse lifted, another world title in the cabinet, and possibly still be married.
If we get pipped, though, I may simply stay. Surely there’s a market in India for some immature animal-facts-based alternative commentary. I’ve already got the wardrobe.