The atmosphere, the anticipation, the funny men, the wigs and hats, the banter and the pervasive awareness of being part of the home crowd - embroiled in the rituals, it felt good to belong.
We watched as the nippers, knee-high to grass-hoppers all, ran round in circles; then as the Southern Man song sounded out and a gang to the right barked out the lyrics.
And we laughed as the Selwyn Ballet choreographed their own high-camp hilarity: a well-rehearsed and nimble ensemble - testosterone in tutus.
The Dunedin City Choir gave a magnificent rendition of the South African national anthem, then it was the singing mayor's turn: Peter Chin led us, and all around, the young men and women, mostly less than half my age, bellowed with him, the majority equally conversant with both versions.
And so, post-haka, on to the game itself.
A stop-start first half followed by a pulsating second.
The result was always in the balance and most of us knew, our hearts in our mouths, that it could go either way.
"Good game, though," I heard one of my terrace neighbours say to a mate, as we turned, enriched, enlivened, warmed by the occasion, momentarily winded by the late killer blow, but knowing we had witnessed a good contest and come up one fortuitous bounce of the ball adrift from victory.
I am not a die-hard rugby fan.
The last time the Springboks were at Carisbrook I sat in a dilapidated stand so far back I could barely make out the replay screen, and had my sensibilities assaulted by an obnoxious drunk who liked nothing so much as the sound of his own voice as it ranged repeatedly across a narrow and crude range of four-letter profanities, while tipping beer down our backs.
It was the father with the 10-year-old son in front of me that I felt for.
The face-value of the ticket was something like $80.
So $160 for a miserable, uncomfortable experience. I vowed not to go back.
But I'm glad I did. For there was victory of a different kind in the air in the aftermath.
It was more to do with the mood of the city than the match itself. How proud and how good it felt to be noticed and to "perform".
An affirmation to the rest of the country - and to the world - that Dunedin is still on the map.
It can still do the business and do it in its own special way.
Adrift on the gently surging seas of spectators leaving the grounds and, later, hot sausage in hand, wandering across Bathgate Park to the car, I knew, again, just how much would be lost if this great southern city with its wonderful, multifaceted heritage, could not in future host such events.
Which is why I'm in favour of the new stadium.
Yes, there are imponderables: but this country, and this city, was never built on certainties.
From the times of its European settlement, and before, it evolved out of adventurousness; out of entrepreneurship; out of over-reaching visions; out of risk; and out of a sense of building for the future generations.
We can talk about the millions of dollars that have been pumped into the local economy over the last week or so.
We can talk about the less tangible benefits of showing a bright and attractive face both to the rest of the world.
And we can talk about how a new stadium will impact on our rates bills.
But we can also talk about a Dunedin that allows itself to go into hibernation and slips off the bottom of the country into a quiet and fading dead-end sort of town - where the university, the city's economic engine, slowly loses its competitive edge, because, well, who wants to go to a city where nothing much ever happens.
Heck, if poetry was our national sport, I'd barrack in support of that, too. Because in the end it's not about the rugby.
It's about putting a stake in the ground and saying: this city still counts.
It's about the community and it's about the future.
Simon Cunliffe is assistant editor of the Otago Daily Times. The views expressed in this column are entirely his own.
