Saturday, August 26th. A cool breeze whistled through Forsyth Barr Stadium, carrying the jeers of Otago and Southland fans. It was a day few could predict, but all would remember; it was the day of the streaker. The streaker who lived.
Long before this fateful day, nine young men set out to do the impossible. Video footage shows them huddling, plotting, and then hopping the barrier. Surely there would be strength in numbers - but not today. The nine pitch invaders were immediately seized upon by security, and only a paltry few made it more than ten metres onto the field. The audience heaved a collective sigh, mourning what could only be the end of streaking culture. After all, if none of the nine succeeded, how could a lone wolf ever hope to make through?
And then, like a phoenix from the ashes, came August 26th. A single man hopped the barrier, dodged security, and cleared no less than three fences before hurtling down an exit corridor to freedom. He had done the impossible: he had streaked and lived to tell the tale. He had captivated the hearts and minds of the Zoo. And we simply had to know more. Who was this mystery man? What were his secrets? And most importantly: would he strike again?
We didn’t know where to start and quickly found ourselves hitting dead end after dead end, slamming headlong into obstacles as if they were P4G security guards. At a point of despair, the case grew cold. That is, until we managed to make contact with Jerry*: a member of the very security team that our mystery man eluded.
Meeting in an abandoned alleyway under the cover of darkness, Jerry whispered details only ever mentioned in the tombs of the Forsyth Barr. A secret ally of the streaking community, he said, “I can see the appeal, it gets your name out there.”
Having signalled his commitment to the cult of streaking, Jerry gave Critic Te Ārohi the inside scoop on recent security measures: “The team gets briefed on strategy before matches… and you have to be qualified to be in a position where you could tackle someone.” And it sounds like the tacklers are quite keen. Jerry told us that “you’re going to get tackled by someone who wants to take you down… the vibe at briefings is if you get them, do whatever you can.” In his mind, with all the risks weighed up, “At the end of the day it is quite a brave thing.”
Things began to get serious as Jerry began to divulge his tips for the successful attempt: “You need to move with the security and then streak when the game’s stopped for something like a penalty decision.” He began glancing from left to right, as if to check if someone was listening. At his most skittish, Critic Te Ārohi asked the biggest question, point blank: “Who is the streaker that managed to evade security that fateful stag day?” Jerry’s eyes grew wide. Somewhere, the wind whistled with extra mysteriousness. Whispering, he muttered two words under his breath: “UniCol….breatha…” And then he fled into the darkness.
We had a lead.
Taking to the streets, Critic Te Ārohi met up with three UniCol beezies who offered insider info on the identity of this mystery man. They were willing to give us what we needed: a name. The name.
Thursday, September 7th. We had a name, we knew his game, and now all we needed now was to reel him in – hook, line and streaker. After a back and forth on Facebook, we agreed to meet in a dark corner of Ubar on pint night before realising that was way too stupid and public, so we opted to meet in the safe enclosure of the Critic Te Ārohi office. Jacked up on adrenaline and fear that the streaker would bolt (with no one capable of catching him), we prepared to sit down with the mythic figure to ask for his why.
And then, as if by magic, there he was. Shaking with relief and a sense of awe, we shook hands with the man who made Forsyth Barr his playground during the most successful Otago streak of all time. His name was James* – or whatever you’d like it to be, because obviously we’re not telling you.
“[It] all started at the Highlanders vs Hurricanes,” said James. He was in the stands, considering making his run. The peer pressure was mounting, the jeers were coming, but the field wasn’t looking likely. It was a day that ended in despair. James sighed, “I let a lot of people down.”
Not one to be beaten by a moment, James and a committed group of mates began planning the “logistics” of a streak which was to go down in the history books. But no amount of planning could prepare him for the isolation of being on the field, where he mused that it was “like going into the unknown.” And failure was simply not an option. We asked him if he had considered the consequences, and with truly legendary spirit he replied: “In that moment, it didn’t matter. Because I knew I was going to be the first person to get out, uncaught.” James waited to strike, saw his moment, and the rest is history.
Summarising his story, James told us, “I think the message you can take away from my story is that you can get away unscathed. There’s no better feeling, to be honest, [than] when you’re on that field and hear the roar of the crowd. It’s outrageous.”
And with that he was gone, streaking off into the distance, never to be seen again. Our hunt was over, yet a curious sense of dissatisfaction settled over Critic Te Ārohi’s team of leading journalists. Hearing James’ brave story made us realise that his kind was a dying breed.
Over the years, streaking has stumbled in its old age, increasingly finding itself persecuted as an example of moral injustice by both citizens and bureaucrats. Then, streaking’s darkest day finally came. On the 9th of July, just after James’ incredible feat, the nation’s darling (and greatest enemy) Sam Cane kicked an Argentinian streaker to the ground, effectively cementing the low status of the once beloved art.
Arguably only George Crump did it better in 1804, when he managed to wrangle his streaking exploits into a successful political career as a US congressman. If his story is anything to go by, James could be destined for a place in parliament by the end of the election cycle.
Catch him if you can.
*Names changed.