CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
SOPHIA
We spend the afternoon in Auckland Domain, the city’s oldest park. We’ve found a quiet spot near the duck pond, the trees providing welcome shade as we rest our feet after a morning exploring the Sky Tower and the All Blacks Experience.
“Jack, do you know how to do the haka?” Madison asks suddenly.
He hesitates, aware of my curious gaze. “I learned one in school, yeah. Most Kiwi boys do, especially if they play rugby.”
“Can you show me?” Madison’s eyes are bright with genuine interest.
He considers for a moment before answering.
“I can show you a little bit. But first, I need you to understand something. The haka is not just a war dance or a sports ritual. It’s a taonga, a cultural treasure.
It tells a story, expresses mana—that’s like personal power and pride—and connects to the history of Aotearoa. ”
He stands up, moving to a clear patch of grass. “The one I learned for school rugby was Ka Mate, probably the most famous one. Each movement has meaning—the slapping of hands on thighs to show strength, the wide eyes to show life, the outstretched tongue to show defiance.”
Quietly, with respect, he demonstrates a few of the basic movements and calls, explaining each one’s purpose. It is not a full performance—I understand that would have been inappropriate in this setting—but rather an educational demonstration.
“ That was Ka Mate, the haka the All Blacks have used since the early 1900s. The words are hundreds of years old, originally by Te Rauparaha, a chief of the Ngāti Toa iwi. It was a chant of survival.”
“I didn’t realize…” I trail off. “That it would be that powerful.”
“It’s not just shouting,” Jack says. “It’s telling a story. It’s a declaration. It says: I know who I am. I know where I come from. I’m not afraid of you.”
He glances at Madison, his voice softening. “When we played schoolboy rugby, we had our own haka. All of us learned it. Our coaches made sure we understood the meaning. Not just the words, but the weight of it.”
“You performed that?” Madison asks, eyes big. “Like, actually did a haka?”
Jack nods. “Yeah. Never just for show. Always as a team. Always with respect. Before big games, before facing schools we’d trained all year to beat. It wasn’t just about the match. It was about belonging.”
“Did you ever forget the words?” Madison whispers, awed.
Jack grins. “One time, I mixed up two lines and almost got flattened by a second-row forward who took haka very seriously. Never again.”
She laughs, then grows serious. “Could you show me sometime?”
Jack hesitates.
“I mean, not like, perform it,” Madison says quickly. “I just want to understand.”
“I’d be honored,” Jack says. “We’ll ask Em if she still remembers ours. Might even make Lily join in. But only if we talk about what it means first. You don’t just do the haka. You carry it.”
I reach for his hand, lacing our fingers together. “You really are full of surprises.”
“Wait till you see me in rugby shorts,” he murmurs, earning a quiet snort from Madison.
“I heard that,” she mutters.
◆◆◆
“Emma pulled some strings,” Jack says casually, as if his sister has not just produced what Madison informs me were “literally impossible to get” tickets to the Pacific Four Series opener. “Nothing special.”
“Nothing special?” Madison’s voice rises to a pitch I haven’t heard since she was twelve. “Jack! These are INTERNATIONAL tickets! To the Pacific Four Series opener! For the RIVALRY match! Against AUSTRALIA!”
I can’t help but smile. Our second day in New Zealand, and my daughter has apparently already become a rugby fanatic.
She is wearing a Black Ferns jersey—a gift from Jack earlier in the day—and reciting player statistics with disturbing accuracy.
I shouldn’t have been surprised; she’d spent a good portion of our flight poring over rugby rules on her tablet, using the airliner’s seat-to-seat messaging system to pepper Jack dozens of questions that he’d answered with infinite patience.
“Eden Park,” Jack explains as we approach the imposing structure, New Zealand’s largest and most revered sporting venue. “Hallowed ground for rugby in this country. The All Blacks haven’t lost here since 1994.”
As we find our seats, the stadium is already humming with anticipation, a sea of black jerseys punctuated by the occasional flash of color from visiting fans.
The perfectly manicured pitch glows emerald green under the floodlights, the white boundary lines crisp and precise.
The stadium begins to fill, the distinctive sound of the Kiwi accent rising and falling in excited conversation about line-ups and predictions.
“This is where history happens,” Jack tells Madison, whose eyes widen as she takes in the scale of it all. “Where dreams are made or broken in eighty minutes of play.”
Madison leans forward eagerly, pointing toward the players warming up. “Which one is Thompson? Jack, you said she’s the fastest winger they’ve had in years, right?”
“That’s her,” Jack nods toward a player running drills near the sideline. “And, yep. Probably the best they’ve had in a decade. Faster than most of the men’s team.”
“I read she was scouted when she was only sixteen!” Madison’s enthusiasm is infectious, her eyes bright with excitement. “Do you think she’ll score today?”
“Against the Aussies? Guaranteed.”
The stadium atmosphere is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced—a sea of black and white, coordinated chants already echoing through the stands. Behind us, a group of men in matching Black Ferns scarves are passing around lyric sheets.
“What are they doing?” I ask Jack, nodding toward the group.
He follows my gaze and laughs. “Probably working on a new chant for the Australian captain. Last time she was here, they had a five-verse song about her controversial penalty in the World Cup quarterfinal.”
“You’re joking.”
“Welcome to Kiwi rugby, tāku ipo .” He guides us to our seats, hand at the small of my back. “During my very first All Blacks match, the blokes behind us performed a four-part harmony about the opposing fly-half’s drunk driving charge. To the tune of ‘Clair de Lune.’”
“Jesus,” I laugh. “And I thought SEC football rivalries were intense.”
“Americans chant ‘Defense! Defense!’” Jack mimics in a deep, flat American monotone. “Kiwis compose operettas about your personal failures.”
Madison’s eyes are wide. “That’s hardcore.”
“That’s rugby, love.” Jack grins, then perks up as fans around us surge to their feet. “Here they come!”
The Black Ferns enter to deafening noise. Jack immediately joins in, his accent thickening as he shouts encouragement in what sounds like a mixture of English and Māori. Madison catches on quickly, mimicking his chants with surprising accuracy.
“So when they have the ball, that’s good, right?” I ask, trying to follow the blur of motion on the field.
Jack and Madison exchange an amused glance.
“Yes, Mom, that’s good,” Madison says with the patient tone of someone explaining colors to a toddler.
“Just checking!” I hold up my hands defensively. “I’m learning!”
The intensity builds through the first half. I’ve never been much of a sports fan, but there is something about their shared enthusiasm that is utterly captivating. Jack is explaining something to Madison—hand gestures illustrating some complex play—when a roar goes up from the crowd.
“What happened?” I ask, trying to follow the blur of motion on the field.
“Australia’s down to fourteen players,” Jack explains, excitement edging his voice. “Yellow card for a high tackle on Wilson.”
“Is that good for us?” Madison asks.
“Very good. Watch what happens next.”
“Wait, is that like a power play in hockey?” I ask, searching for any familiar sports reference.
“Exactly!” Jack looks impressed. “One player down for ten minutes.”
“I know some sports things,” I say proudly.
The Black Ferns capitalize immediately. Their offensive line surges forward, passing the ball with lightning precision. The crowd noise builds like a gathering storm.
“There’s Thompson!” Jack yells as a player breaks away. “GO GO GO!”
“GET THERE!” Madison screams beside him, on her feet now.
“GO TEAM!” I shout, caught up in their excitement despite only vaguely understanding what is happening. “DO THE THING!”
The Australian defense converges, but Thompson somehow slips through, ball tucked under her arm.
“She’s going to do it!” Jack’s arm is around my shoulders, pulling me up. “WATCH THIS!”
“What’s she doing?” I ask as Thompson suddenly kicks the ball forward.
“Chip kick!” Madison explains, eyes locked on the field. “Smart move!”
“Chip kick! Yes!” I echo, nodding as if I’d been expecting this all along. “Excellent chip…kicking!”
The ball bounces perfectly as Thompson races toward it. An Australian defender is closing in fast.
“She’s not going to make it,” I say, but Jack is shaking his head.
“Just watch!”
What happens next seems to unfold in slow motion. Thompson reaches the ball at the sideline, but her momentum is carrying her out of bounds. Somehow, impossibly, she plants her left foot and hops—actually hops—along the sideline, kicking the ball with her right foot while airborne.
The ball arcs perfectly into the try zone.
“SHE DID IT!” Jack roars, his voice lost in the thunderous crowd.
“DID YOU SEE THAT?” Madison screams, grabbing my arm. “SHE KICKED ON ONE LEG!”
“OH MY GOD!” I find myself jumping and screaming too, caught up in the electric atmosphere. “THAT WAS AMAZING! IS THAT WORTH POINTS?”
“Five points!” Jack shouts back. “If it’s confirmed!”
The replay appears on the giant screen, and the stadium goes berserk. Thompson hopping on one foot, defying gravity and logic, the ball crossing the line just as she tumbles out of bounds.
“They’re checking if it’s a try,” Jack explains, his voice hoarse. “Her foot might have touched the line—”
“TRY!” The referee’s voice booms over the PA system, and the stadium erupts.
“IT’S GOOD!” Madison jumps up and down. “IT COUNTS!”