In the chilly cauldron of Waikato Stadium, where breath fogs in the night air and legends are born under floodlit scrutiny, a new name was etched into All Black folklore. Brodie McAlister, the rookie rake from the Chiefs’ den, rose from the pine like a bolt from the blue to seal a dramatic 29-19 victory over France—completing a clinical 3-0 series sweep for New Zealand on Saturday night.
Like a hooker scripted into a rugby fairytale, McAlister latched onto destiny when the ever-creative Jordie Barrett cracked the French line wide open in front of the uprights.
Barrett, part magician and part battering ram, darted through the defence and, like a seasoned conductor handing the final note to a soloist, flipped the ball inside to McAlister.
The debutant dove under the posts like a man diving into a dream, greeted by a euphoric Hamilton crowd that knew they’d witnessed something special.
“To debut here, it’s pretty awesome and I’m pretty proud to put the black jersey on and get to work with the brothers,” McAlister said, still riding the high of his first Test appearance.
“It’s been quite a journey (for me), a lot of setbacks, a lot of resilience.”
And resilience was the very currency the All Blacks needed to cash in against a French side that had clearly not read the script of submissive tourists.
Though they arrived without several front-line troops, Les Bleus swung punches with the fervour of a challenger hungry to break their New Zealand hoodoo—a drought dating back to 2009 in Dunedin.
For much of the first stanza, France had their boots firmly on the All Blacks’ throats. Scrumhalf Nolann Le Garrec scampered through the fringes in the eighth minute like a pickpocket in a crowd to open the scoring.
With Antoine Hastoy slotting a drop goal and Le Garrec adding two more penalties, the visitors surged to a 19-10 lead, threatening to sour the Hamilton night like rain on a hangi.
But All Black centre Anton Lienert-Brown, returning from injury with the steely composure of a seasoned veteran, ignited hope on the stroke of halftime.
After 18 bone-crunching phases that tested sinew and soul, he muscled over to trim the deficit to just two. The try was a momentum shifter—the kind of grinding, blood-and-mud score that’s forged not in space but in collisions.
Scott Robertson’s men, reconfigured and reshuffled like a deck of cards before kickoff due to Luke Jacobson’s hamstring mishap, had to dig deep. Du’Plessis Kirifi, thrust into the starting XV at the eleventh hour, announced himself with the gusto of a man long overdue his dues.
When Sevu Reece and Damian McKenzie combined with a grubber that bounced like a rogue pinball, and Leo Barre fumbled under pressure, Kirifi pounced. His try just before the hour mark edged the All Blacks ahead for the first time—a lead they would never relinquish.
France, brave but battered, defended like sentries guarding the Bastille. But Barrett—playing like a man on a personal mission with his brothers Scott and Beauden sidelined—was everywhere.
Not content with his attacking spark, he delivered a try-saving tackle that arrested a surging French attack, a moment that hung in the air like a gasp.
“He represented the family with distinction,” a fan murmured from the terraces, echoing what every Barrett backer must have felt. Jordie’s presence on the field was less about revenge or responsibility—it was redemption and reassurance wrapped in one.
As the clock ticked towards its climax, the All Blacks packed into the French red zone like wolves stalking the last lamb. The pressure mounted. The cracks appeared.
And then—Barrett’s slashing break, McAlister’s gleeful dive, and the crowd’s thunderous roar that could shake the Waikato plains.
For Scott Robertson, the 3-0 clean sweep was not without its messiness—but that’s what makes it real. His reshuffled side showed depth, grit, and growth.
For France, despite the result, it was a tour that will harden the bones of a new generation.
In the end, it was a Test match that felt more like theatre. Blood and bruises, rookies and redemption, heartbreak and heroics.
And under the moonlight in Hamilton, it was Brodie McAlister—the boy with the battered dream—who slid into the script as if he’d always belonged.
