From the capital to Horowhenua Kapiti, we’ve earned this

The title is so sweet because of all the suffering.

My story is a dime a dozen among Hurricanes’ fans.

Both sides of my family emerged from Wellington before moving up the coast so in essence I never had a choice. My sense, given their chequered history, is the Canes are a team you are born to support, rather than gravitate towards.

Unlike every other Kiwi team there has, after all, been no bandwagon to jump on. Quite the opposite; a number of troops have deflected along the long-suffering road to much-craved success.

For me it began with extended family ventures to Athletic Park and the intimidating Millard Stand, a viewpoint that on reflection seems well ahead of its earthquake proofing time ... or maybe the way it swayed in the stiff southerly was never entirely safe.

When Athletic Park was eventually bowled, mum had a seat made for dad using the wood from that stand for their 25th wedding anniversary.

I guess you could say rugby and, by extension, the Hurricanes were almost part of my genes.

It makes sense, then, that as soon as we were old enough to drive my best mate and I bought season tickets to the Hurricanes and Wellington Lions for our fifth and sixth form years (now called year 11 and 12).

The first year (2003) they kicked on and made the semi finals, sucking us in for more.

Friday or Saturday nights involved driving from Foxton to Paraparaumu to catch a train to the big smoke; a three hour round trip to every match.

Real fruit ice creams and Pizza Hutt all you can eat - leave the crusts and don’t drink fizzy drinks in order to shovel more in - were frequent stops. On one occasion after a loss, we arrived back to find the cheap car window smashed in and the stereo stolen from the train station. Fair to say, even at that exuberant age, the drive home was a sombre one.

Another instance after an NPC match against Otago, extreme flooding in the surrounding Wellington region was so bad we were stuck in capital for the night.

There were, of course, many memorable moments during our season ticket era. Umaga, Cullen, Lomu all provided golden touches; the standing ovation for Cullen’s final provincial game vividly sticks out.

We watched Piri Weepu, Ma’a Nonu and Conrad Smith’s obvious talent emerge, David Howell shine at times in the driver’s seat of in a Rolls-Royce backline; Brent Ward and Riki Flutey play cameo roles and Roy Kinikinilau come and go.

Up-front Rodney So’oialo, the

I guess you could say the Hurricanes were almost part of my genes.

late Jerry Collins and Chris Masoe formed the bruise brothers looseforward trio but, unfairly or not, the tight-five were always viewed as the weak point.

Sadly, there was never any breakthrough glory. Only empty promises.

‘‘Expect the unexpected’’ formed the slogan. The Hurricanes more than lived up to the ironic inconsistency the public relations department failed to spot in that catch cry.

Five semis and three finals - one played in the thickest of Christchurch fog - later, finally there is reason to celebrate. Finally there is relief. Those people, you know who you are, that took pleasure from the Canes’ pain can be no more. Not even some of the players will realise quite what this means to an oppressed fan base.

Andrew Mulligan, John Campbell and Martin Devlin may be the public face of campaigns lost. Many others have suffered in comparable silence, though.

This long-awaited maiden triumph will be savoured from the capital to Horowhenua Kapiti, Manawatu, Wairarapa Bush, Whanganui, East Coast, Poverty Bay, and Taranaki. Yes, even the Naki. The business side of your rugby may be aligned with Chiefs. But for most it remains Canes country. How could it not with favourite son Beauden Barrett being star of the show?

As a journalist the guiding principal in reportage is objectivity. Loyalties and emotions are set aside when covering a match, incident or team. That will continue to be the case.

But, on this occasion, I downed tools and turned back the clock to be a punter for the night.

And after 21 years, we have our moment. About time, too.