Watching sports will always be best with a crowd. But there’s something magic about getting up in the middle of the night to watch the finals alone on the couch.

What are your greatest memories as a sports fan? The moments where a second felt like a lifetime, and you’ll never forget where you were. 

I was sitting on the floor of a crowded Dunedin flat during the 2015 men’s Cricket World Cup semifinal when Grant Elliot clobbered the winning six into cow corner. Not knowing what else to do, we ran out onto the street and howled – joined by half a dozen other flats doing the same thing. 

I was in JJ Murphy’s Irish Pub when Ayesha Leti-I’iga tumbled over the line to put the Black Ferns ahead in the 2022 women’s Rugby World Cup final. The packed room erupted; a moment that was elevated not just by glory and the brilliant try, but the fact that an Irish pub full of old codgers were on their feet for the women’s game. 

I was at Wellington Regional Stadium in 2023 when Jacqui Hand dialled in the perfect header against the Philippines to tie the game and see New Zealand through knockout round for the first time in a Football World Cup. After 70 minutes of almosts, nearlys, and what-ifs, it was an instant rapture of pure elation shared by 30,000 delirious fans – only for it to come crashing down to earth after being declared offside. The result didn’t stand, but the moment will last forever. 

Sport is a collective experience. It’s elevated by being part of group. But there’s a deeper, subtler magic in sport that only shines through in those quiet moments in the middle of the night, when you’re the only one awake in the house. Yesterday morning, I wrestled myself out of a warm bed, fumbled on some fat pants, and tiptoed down an infuriatingly creaky staircase to watch Finn Butcher compete in the kayak cross final. I’d never watched kayak cross before, but it has joined the echelon of my great sporting memories. 

Watching sports alone at 4am is a personal experience. Leaning forward on the couch. Listening intently to the commentators. Pulling for the Kiwis on screen from some deep place within you. It’s just you, and the athlete on screen. But even though you’re alone, you know there are thousands of other people around the country are doing exactly what you’re doing. If a drone zoomed out on the nation it would be a galaxy of TVs glaring quietly in the blanket night.

The 4am watch is a familiar feeling for the New Zealand sports fan. Thanks to our time zone, most international sport doesn’t neatly align with our schedule. Our European and American counterparts don’t know our struggle. They are spoiled by comparison, with their sports that almost always happen at a civilised hour in the evening. 

It fits our national identity in a way. The 4am viewer is quiet, staunch, hopeful. By deeply tensing all your muscles, you silently will that strength to the athlete on screen in some warmer, brighter place. It’s understated, not exuberant. It’s not the hooting and hollering of Americans or the triumphant, delusional regionalism of the Brits, but there is pride there. New Zealand’s patriotism is deeply held, but often not outwardly shown. Good on ya mate, kia kaha, God’s own country and all that. 

When that kind of fandom crosses over to live All Blacks tests, it translates as a boring, stoic crowd that doesn’t know how to have fun. But in the darkness of the early morning, it’s perfect.

Pulling yourself out of bed in the middle of a deep sleep is a sacrifice in the name of sports. Bracing the early morning winter cold. Straining your eyes open. Knowing full well that you’re going to suffer at work from the disrupted sleep. Sometimes, it won’t work out. You’ll crawl back into bed disappointed, grumbling that you wasted your time and ruined your day. But when those golden moments hit, the small sacrifice you made makes the feeling so much more intense. Anything can happen in live sports, which makes greatness all the better. If you don’t expose yourself to the lows, you’ll never experience the pure, incomparable highs. 

Nothing I or anyone else watching at home did made a difference to Finn Butcher’s flawless run. But I’m so glad I was there to watch it live, alongside the thousands of strangers who also sacrificed their sleep. When Butcher launched off the ramp and crossed the first rapid ahead of British world number one Joseph Clarke, we dared to hope. His roll was so quick the TV camera didn’t even catch it. He was shooting off ahead, as Clarke got tied up on the first upstream gate. But there was still so much race to go, on a course where so much could go wrong. The German Noah Hegge bore down on Butcher with gritted teeth.

There was just one final upstream gate to go. Everything seemed too perfect, surely it couldn’t last. But with a subtle flourish and a whack of his paddle, Butcher spun his way around like a ballerina, added even more time to his lead, and crossed the line in first place, pumping both arms to the sky. 

The people who woke up (or stayed up) to see that moment live will always have that memory. An individual moment, but a collective experience. When you have the opportunity to get up in the middle of the night for a chance to witness greatness, take it. Sure, you can wake up at a reasonable time and watch the highlights. But it won’t be the same. You weren’t there at 4am.