Hong Kong Ham

I remember watching the Hong Kong Sevens as a young lad, usually up late at night to see New Zealand in the final — likely against Fiji — marvelling at the futuristic-looking grandstands that seemed to disappear into the sky. The atmosphere caught on camera looked terrific, with 40,000 people dancing, hollering, all dressed up, and (though I didn’t recognise it at the time) joyously drunk.

It would have seemed ridiculous to suggest to me at the time that I’d one day be part of that action. So foreign and exotic seemed Hong Kong that I probably would have thought it more likely that I would one day actually play for the All Blacks. (Come to think of it, that was a bona fide childhood fantasy of mine; one that I would play out within the confines of my bedroom, where my imagination would run its wildest, and where I would bounce a small, foam rugby ball off the walls and score tries on my bed, all the while providing a commentary that sung my glorious praises, especially because, at 14 years old — the age I projected I would make the team — I was demonstrably the youngest All Black ever.)

So this weekend was kind of special for me, even if my love for rugby as something of a religion has faded. I went to the Sevens to enjoy the spectacle, get embroiled in the heady atmosphere, and get joyously drunk. That New Zealand won — they really were in a class of their own — helped sweeten the deal, but it wasn’t the be-all and end-all. Thanks to a press pass, I could roam freely and enjoyed the hospitality of a corporate box, as well as the hard-to-get-into-but-regrettable-when-you-do South Stand, in its fully, murky and beer-soaked glory.

Still, it might be a once-off. All that drinking takes a lot of effort. And Monday morning hangovers aren’t that much fun.