At Taupo, we all arrived at the ground in T-shirts, awash in sunblock, and armed with umbrellas to keep out the massive onslaught of hostile UVs. It was unspeakably hot when the gates opened in the full glare of the midday sun.
Ten thousand mad dogs and a few Englishmen made a headlong dash for positions in the shade, most of which were located under TVNZ's Outside Broadcast unit vehicles, affording a view only of sundry axles, diffs, and leaking brake fluid.
According to some, who were obviously not purists, this particular vantage point may have provided a better spectacle than the match itself, until the lights went out and the real fun began.
The rest of us were not so lucky. We sweltered without relief on the pitilessly exposed slopes of Owen Delaney Park, buoyed only by the immediate dismissal of Tendulkar, who appeared, inexplicably, to fall asleep on arriving at the wicket. Isn't he used to this sort of weather in Calcutta?
The Indian chap next to me had driven all the way down from Auckland that morning, specifically to watch the master batsman in action and was seriously considering asking for his money back. When Azharuddin was dismissed cheaply shortly after, my Indian friend got up and left, announcing to all around him that the match had obviously been fixed.
At the end of the Indian innings and in quest of some shelter from a relentless sun and some desperately needed liquid refreshments, I bumped into Jeremy Coney who appeared to have abandoned the broadcasting box with the same objective, and asked him for a considered prediction of the outcome. ``No question about it. India's got this one in the bag. History's against us this time, I'm afraid. Batting second and all that. And you know the lights are no good here.''
Just what every rabid nationalist wanted to hear. I asked him if he was going to burden his many dedicated listeners with this pessimism. ``Good Lord, no. That's not what we're here for.''
By now the sun was approaching the yard arm and most of the spectators, badly dehydrated and angry that the Indian tailenders had been let off the hook, were recognising this appropriately. Alcohol sales rocketed, the consumers undeterred by the fact that prices appeared to be escalating by the round.
We settled down in marginally less discomfort to watch the New Zealand run chase. It looked all too easy. The Indian bowlers seemed dispirited. McMillan was rubbing it in. I wondered vaguely what Jeremy Coney was saying up there in the box.
Night fell. The temperature dropped catastrophically. The wind got up. The entire crowd, dressed inappropriately, began to shiver, sustained only by the possibility, barring collapse, of a New Zealand victory.
Then suddenly the lights went out. Jeremy Coney had certainly got this bit right. Was this an act of inspired sabotage, masterminded in Delhi? More likely an act of uninspired incompetence, masterminded by ECNZ. Not to worry said the PA system. Its only a fuse. It'll be fixed in a jiffy. A faintly familiar voice echoing loudly in the gloom called on Christopher Doig to come and fix the problem. I could swear it was Glenn Turner.
By this time it was so cold we might as well have been at Carisbrook. People were seen digging in, like beleaguered troops under siege at Anzac Cove. The long wait began.
An obliging person on the public-address system took over and suggested we all enjoy the cold and the darkness by dancing to the strains of YMCA and other favourites of the aerobics industry. We were so cold we had no choice. Streakers came and went, probably organised by the Taupo District Council to stop the fans from wrecking the stadium through impatience.
Nobody seemed to have a clue as to what happened if the lights weren't fixed. Somewhere in the darkness, a committee of statisticians worked out a formula which ensured a New Zealand victory, and when the lights came on again, that particular script was followed. To the letter.
Once we had been treated for exposure, those of us who saw it through to the end concluded that this had been an excellent day-night out.