True blue sell-out

The phone rings. “Hi, it’s Trish here, from the production company, you must be Jamie?” That’s right. “Are you still OK to come in and be part of this Super Rugby ad tomorrow?“ Yes, of course. “Great, see you at midday, and can you please bring all your Blues gear with you? Thanks heaps!” Wait a minute – Blues gear? But she hangs up before I can get that last bit in.

A friend from Wellington had hit me up a week previously asking if I wanted an afternoon’s work being an extra on a rugby ad. He said I’d be perfect. I’m struggling to make ends meet so I said yes. I would’ve said yes even if I’d known it was for the Blues, to be honest. Now I sit here, contemplating the fact that I’ve just agreed to be on a promo for a team I don’t support. In fact, a team I used to loathe with a pathological hatred.

Being from Wellington, I have always supported the Hurricanes. It hasn’t always been easy, but that’s a different story. I hated Auckland when I was a kid, in the same way that country folk do. It was big, flash and their rugby teams were just too damn good. They’d always beat us, it took until the year 2000 until I witnessed a Wellington victory over them.

So I walk to the production company with all those memories of the Blues beating the Hurricanes swirling around in my head. As well as the fact that I know I will have to put on a Blues jersey and maybe get my face painted. 

It’s a hot day. I wander into the shed where they are filming. I’m greeted by a group of guys in Blues regalia sitting around a table. So how did you guys get roped into this? Oh we all answered the post on Facebook. Said with pride. Where’s your gears bro? I couldn’t find them. No probs bro, I’ve got five jerseys here.

 I can’t think of anything to really explain myself, so I lie. I lost a bet.

The man with all the jerseys is Joel, he rummages through and displays every version of the Blues jersey from the last five years. Next to him is Chad, who is busy telling everyone about the custom mask he made especially for this season because he doesn’t like face-paint. There is Martin, a smaller guy with a banner he’d got especially digitally printed. It says ‘Better Never Stops’, the catchphrase of Blues coach Sir John Kirwan. Dave has a giant drum that he brings to games and bashes whenever they score. There are 10 of us in total and I strike up a conversation with Steve, a friendly young guy with dreams of being  a personal trainer.

Steve and I chat for a while but he can tell there’s something up with me. They keep referring to the Blues as ‘us’, keep making comments about how the season will turn around soon and they’ll win the title. It’s obvious I don’t share their sentiments, especially around the ability of their coach and a few key players.

It’s getting uncomfortable so I come clean. I’m a Hurricanes fan. Have been my whole life. Well, what are you doing here? I can’t think of anything to really explain myself, so I lie. I lost a bet. The table almost lifts off the ground with laughter. Joel quickly stashes four of the jerseys and chucks me the one he thinks is most appropriate. It belongs to his girlfriend. They keep laughing but soon the conversation goes back to the Blues' chances that weekend.

Chad keeps talking about how he only ever sits in the same seat at Eden Park. Martin shows off his signed jersey so Joel talks about all the signatures he’s got as well. They debate about whether a true fan uses MySky or not. It’s at this point I realise this isn’t just a group of supporters, they are the sort of ‘superfans’ that TV crews will cut to whenever a try is scored because they know they’ll get an enthusiastic reaction. These are the Mt. Smart Jokers, the Cheeseheads, the Ultras.  

It is beginning to feel a little uncomfortable because I'm seeing how people used to see me. With every upbeat remark from Chad about how the Blues are just unlucky, every detailed description Joel makes about the jerseys and every careful glance Martin takes at his banner to make sure it wasn’t getting creased, I could see myself. But I can also never see myself doing this for the Hurricanes anymore. I’m too cynical, have seen too much and have grown out of it.

The production crew buzzes around us to make sure we all knew what we are doing. Trish, who talked to me on the phone is pleased I have found a jersey to wear, although I haven’t put in on yet. A lady in a black NZRU polo shirt walks in. She introduces herself in a broad Canadian accent as being from the marketing department. She thanks us all for coming and says that this ad campaign is really important because it will get people coming back to watch rugby live, which the NZRU is very big on.

I mutter something under my breath about making it cheaper and having the kick-offs in the afternoon. Steve sniggers but she doesn’t hear me. She asks us who has been to the most Blues games this year. There is a pause so pregnant it’ll probably have triplets. Joel finally says there’s only been one. She asks if we are all going to watch them this weekend. The first pause’s doubly pregnant cousin arrives. Joel finally says the Blues are playing in South Africa this weekend. She chuckles nervously, expecting everyone else to join in. Blank stares. 

The Blues who are scheduled to be in the ad arrive. We are lucky, because of injuries we have got some All Blacks. Jerome Kaino, Ma’a Nonu and Francis Sail’i come in and introduce themselves. Chad and Dave are on first name terms with them already. I ask Ma’a a question about Wellington, he doesn’t answer. I assume that’s because behind his mirrored sunglasses he’s already fallen asleep. Francis cannot stop laughing at something on his phone.

 I’m hoping the facepaint might distort my appearance but I see myself in a reflection and it’s definitely me.

I put the jersey on and it’s about three sizes too small and barely fits over my head. That’s not the painful part though. I can feel the logo against my chest. We shoot the first scene. I am right in the middle of the shot next to big Dave and his drum. I know there is no way anyone watching won’t be able to see me. The players do an admirable job of reciting some hammy dialogue, they’ve done this before. On the 12^th take they decide to goof off and intentionally ruin it. This is a cue to the director that it’s time to move on. He gets the hint.

Trish comes in and does a little eeny-meeny-miney-mo that lands on me. Sadly it’s not who she wants to go on a date with afterwards, rather who is going to get their face painted. The other guys cheer and laugh. She doesn’t get it. Pretty soon I’m wearing the colours I despised on my face. To rub salt into the wound I’m front and centre in the next shot too.

We have to walk out of a door like it’s a changing room while the players clap and encourage us. I am first out. I’m hoping the facepaint might distort my appearance but I see myself in a reflection and it’s definitely me.

My role in the shoot is over. The make-up lady gives me some lotion and directs me to the bathroom. I wash it off quickly. The lotion is thick and congeals all over my face. I look in the mirror and get the feeling that this is what women who have just done their first porn scene feel like. Probably look like, too.

I give Joel back his girlfriend’s jersey and get a pat on the back from all the other superfans. I tell them I will see them when the Hurricanes come to town which unleashes a string of good-natured abuse. I can’t blame them, the Hurricanes have been awful so far. It’s that sort of enthusiasm for their team that brought them here today and I respect that. I feel a little remorseful that I lost that years ago.

I find Trish. She thanks me for being a good sport. I ask her do I need to fill anything out for payment. She checks her notes and says don’t worry, she’s got my address. We’ll be mailing it out to you soon. Oh, what exactly is that?

A Blues season pass.

Awesome.