Fifa Women’s World Cup: The reign of Spain

I sit on the small grey seat with four male sports journalists and a guy from the TAB, and I watch the stadium build into something that will soon resemble a controlled frenzy. Theatmosphere fizzes like a can of cheap rosé, shaken just before opening. The air is heavy with expectation, and not even the smell of fried food fried far too long can achieve cut-through.

I turn to the TAB guy: How do you pick a side when your team is not playing? What are the deciding factors, beyond feelings? I don’t want guidance. I’ve already decided. But why? When two teams are world class, what makes us choose? The betting man looks at me, then looks away as if in contemplation, but it could be boredom. Finally, he says, “I have no idea. Who are you backing?” Spain, I say, because I have a feeling. One of the others says, “I’m going Sweden one-nil.” But why? “Well, Spain will not get past that keeper.” He has a feeling that he can qualify, being a sports journalist. I have a feeling, based on a feeling, that he is wrong but he’s just bought me another whiskey RTD and I don’t say anything.

The keeper for Sweden is a weapon. She’s Bosnian, the only one with dark hair in a sea of blond ponytails that, en masse, in full flight, look like the dancing flames of cigarette lighters held by swaying fans at a rock concert. Cyndi Lauper sings Girls Just Wanna Have Fun. These women, supreme athletes, just wanna win, and I have a feeling it will be Spain.

I look out at the crowd and to the corporate boxes on the other side — unlit cavities closer to the stars than we are, but lonely and empty — and to the pitch, which is the colour of midori. Why aren’t the boxes full? I ask the TAB guy. “I dunno,” he says. “They’re expensive. But you can bet they will be for the All Blacks.”

In the last few minutes of the first half, I stand next to a man with the Swedish flag painted on his face, and when I grin and say good luck, he grins, turns the other cheek and there’s Spain. Oh, I see, you love them all. He signs “nil all.” I cannot sign but he reads the horror on my face. Hell no, I cannot deal with that. We stand there as the crowds surge towards the bar for more beer, RTDs and fries. In the second half, my daughter texts: “How’s the game?” Nil all. My son texts from another colour-coded seat out there in the football universe and says: “I hope it stays 0-0 - I wanna see pens.”

Just in front and right behind me are Japanese fans. Parents, small kids, teenagers. One in our party says he lost heavily betting on Japan. He really wanted them to win, which I’m betting was based on a feeling.

“I love how they stay here,” he says. What do you mean? I ask. “Well, it’s not like us. When the All Blacks lose, we can’t deal with it and we leave. We wouldn’t stay to see the other teams.”

I have a feeling women’s sport is changing that. But what will happen when Fifa has gone? He’s worried, he says that once the Fifa party is over, the Ferns will go back to playing in fields with no crowds.

The last time I was at Eden Park the Black Ferns beat England to win the Women’s Rugby World Cup. Before it started, my friend looked at me intensely and said, “Look, even if we don’t win, they have already won.” She was preparing herself, and me, to cope with our feelings if we didn’t.

In those last 10 minutes, Spain’s number 18 — Salma Paralluelo — is spectacular. I’m nearly hoarse from sustained ovation. “Get amongst it,” says the woman next to me who’s lost her bank card but couldn’t care less. We leap to our feet. The men are all heading to Britomart to carry on. I take my red lipstick and my feelings home.