A reply from "Kendra" to Dave Shireley's dispatch.

If you are reading this, you are probably a faithful Sin Bin follower, if such a thing exists. Maybe you've already read my story. Dave Shireley really does know how to spin a yarn, and I guess I gave him a lot to work with. Now, in true, red-blooded American fashion, I am going to tell my side of the story. Don't worry, it's much shorter than Dave's. It doesn't include so much rugby mumbo-jumbo, mainly because I don't remember any of the rugby.

In order to begin, we need to go back to three days before the match, at a friendly New Zealand establishment called The Mill. It's a discount liquor store, and it's the burgeoning alcoholic's dream. I see 1.25-liter bottles of strong cider—8.5 percent by volume—for $10 (Kiwi bucks, at that). I think, "Well, hell yeah, I'll just stock up now. So I bought a bottle, and store it under my dorm bed in anticipation of the game. I'll admit, it was a test of my integrity to not crack it open in the days preceding the game. But I managed, and when game day finally rolled around, I was all too ready to enjoy my beverage. The only problem was that I had checked out of the backpackers that morning, so I had nowhere to drink, and I couldn't exactly bring the bottle to the match. A friendly new German acquaintance solved this problem with the suggestion that we open it right then and there, regardless of the time (it was 11 a.m.). Having just met two decidedly friendly and welcoming American journalists (Dave and Chris), who had given me their number and offered me not only a place to stay that night, but a companion for my early morning ride to the airport, I saw no harm. So, with the promise that he would support the Eagles at that night's game, the German and I shared my bottle of cider. Keep in mind that, unlike in the States, the beverages down here come with a brilliant count of how many "standard" drinks they contain. This is useful when trying to recall how much you've had to drink. This one said eight. Not bad, we'd each had four drinks. And it was just after noon. We thought, this is a good, slow start to the day. Until a group of Aussies strutted through the door, apparent friends of my German. I directed them to the nearest store from to purchase beer, and in return for my kindness, they offer to replenish my cider supply. How can a girl deny free booze? I accept, and 10 minutes later, the German and I are sharing our second bottle of the day.

On a whim, I decide to grab some free lunch from the Amora, the existence of which had been brought to my attention by those aforementioned lovely Americans. Fueled by eight standard drinks, and the prospect of free food, I march my way across town to find my two new friends chowing down on whatever delicious array of food the Amora had out that day. To my dismay, the only thing left for me was a bit of rice, but hey, at least what little I had could soak up the profound amount of alcohol already in my system. No harm done. Shortly afterward, I made my way to a grocery store for yet another bottle of cider, this time to share with another German (what's with all the Germans in Wellington?) whom I'd met in the street.

At around 4 p.m. (this is a very rough estimate), I make my way back to the backpackers, where the bar had opened, and was readily charging $10 for a pint of cider. I accepted willingly, and proceeded to make friends at the bar. A man approached me wearing a t-shirt filled with goals, and I helped him fulfill one—kiss an American girl—then decided I needed to buy him a drink. At some point, we all decided that it was time to make our way to the stadium. Once we got there, we all parted ways, but not before buying my dad a $50 t-shirt to commemorate the evening.

This is where my story jumps a bit, because for the life of me, I cannot remember what happened next. Even intensive hypnotic therapy wouldn't be able to drag it out of me. It's as if this part of my life just didn't happen. But, as I'm sure the Wellington constabulary would have you believe, something definitely did happen.

The part after, which I do remember, is as unglamorous as it is entertaining.

The next thing I know, I've broken a styrofoam cup in two and am wiping vomit from the floor of ... I realize I don't exactly know where I am. Upon finishing my all-important clean-up job, I get up and look around. There's a cement bench, a big, heavy-looking door, and a window. I figure my best bet is to look out the window, and to my surprise, the other side is bustling with activity—men and women wearing reflective neon jackets and dark blue hats. I realize (very slowly) that this is not a normal room, and that those people outside the window aren't normal people. They are cops. Ah shit. I'd figured this would probably happen at least once in my life. Standing there, looking out the window, I realize that my socks are wet (standing in your own vomit will do that to a good pair of cotton socks), and my feet are freezing. I begin to knock on the window, so that I may request a clean pair of socks. I also find that I have an insatiable need for water. And then the worst part—I'm missing the game! My knocking, which had started out as an innocent request for water and new socks, becomes incessant pounding. I motion that I need water, some new socks, and would they please bring me a TV?

After an unknown amount of time (during which I see one of my new German friends also getting carted away), and after continued pounding on the window, an officer finally comes into the room, and elation sweeps over me. I'm finally going to get my clean socks. But alas, I was again mistaken. Looking to earn some brownie points, I showed the officer how I'd cleaned up my vomit. He instructed me to collect my shoes, and then he took me to another room, this one without a window. No more pounding, no more motioning to indifferent cops. After a while, and a serious thought given to peeing in the corner of the room (half out of spite, half out of need), the door opens once more, and this time on the other side stands my hero—Chris Benz of Deadspin. Relieved to have been released, and in complete fear of being taken back into custody, I clung close to Chris (sorry, Chris), and we made our way out of the stadium. Informing Australian Center and try-scorer Rob Horne on the way of my unfortunate night (for those of you who did not watch the game, Horne fractured his cheekbone during the game and probably had more to worry about than my vomit-soaked socks).

I don't remember much after this. I have a vague recollection of attempting to get into the pressers, walking quite a distance, a confusion regarding the locker in which my backpack was stowed, walking considerably farther, and finally arriving at a crowded bar. The rest is pretty fuzzy. My last thoughts on the this night are as follows: I can't believe I missed the game, I can't believe I got thrown in the drunk tank, and GO THE EAGLES! Oh, and special and eternal thanks to my boys Chris and Dave for helping me out of such a (literally) sticky yet beautiful situation. The ciders that you (unjustly) stole from me will never be enough payment for saving me.

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