We didn’t get very far. Up ahead, by the bins and barbed wire, the Patu Squad stood eyeball-to-eyeball with the police, stamping and chanting. ‘One, two, three, four! We don’t want this racist tour! Freedom! Freedom!’ The police didn’t move.

Our march slowed to a halt, a few yards behind. I realised that Dad was gripping one of my arms, Uncle Tipene the other. Uncle Mac and my almost-cousin were just ahead of us. The people around us started chanting, too. ‘One, two, three, four! We don’t want—’ Next minute, I was yelling along with them. Voices I recognised joined in: Mum and Nana Florence. A TV crew appeared, squeezing along the footpath. I thought of the Waimoana Valley, our farm, the marae and the people maybe watching at this moment. I lifted my head, and chanted louder.

The small plane appeared again, circled once more: really low this time. Maybe Auntie Pania and Grandad Robert would be seeing us from above as well. I could just imagine John shaking his head.

A different shout from behind the skips up ahead. A cheer, inside Eden Park itself. The third test must have started. Hope we win, I thought. Our non-marching march chanted louder, and I felt relieved I hadn’t thought out loud.

Ten minutes passed. It was cold, standing still. I shoved hands in pockets, felt my fingers touch the bracelet and little pounamu bat.

Pushing and shoving began somewhere in front of us. The front ranks of the Patu Squad were trying to force their way towards the park gates. A voice barked orders over a megaphone. More blue uniforms hurried out from behind the bins, and pushed back.

Another ten or fifteen minutes crawled by. I was getting hoarse from chanting. Robbie turned around to look behind him, caught my eye and grinned.

A drone swelled to a roar. The plane flashed past above us, so low that people cried out. It skimmed the top of Eden Park’s main grandstand. A scatter of white squares fluttered down. ‘Leaflets!’ Tipene shouted. ‘He’s a demonstrator! He’s on our side!’

More cheers and yells from around us. Signs waved; faces squinted up. The police watched, too, while the plane dipped and climbed over the grandstands. Then another, louder cheer, from inside the park. ‘The All Blacks must have scored,’ Robbie went. I nodded. ‘Hope so.’ We both glanced around in a guilty sort of way.

Again the plane dived. Something else fell from it: something small but solid-looking. It plunged down and vanished. ‘What’s that?’ Mum went.

Another dive. Two more shapes plummeted down. One smacked onto the grandstand roof. An explosion of white rose and hung in the air. ‘Flour bombs!’ Uncle Mac exclaimed. ‘The cheeky sod’s dropping flour bombs!’