Page 85 of Under Southern Stars
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 ofhands 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.
“Thatwas 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 Ngati 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?”
