Black Ferns vs Red Roses: How a Rugby Final Became a Global Satire of Progress

Sometime around 2 a.m. in Auckland, while most of the planet was doom-scrolling economic forecasts and wondering which hemisphere would catch fire next, the Women’s Rugby World Cup final kicked off like a polite riot in Eden Park. England versus New Zealand—two nations that once colonised each other’s accents—settled the matter with 80 minutes of regulated violence watched, according to the ever-optimistic broadcasters, by “hundreds of millions.” That figure is almost certainly inflated the way a prop forward’s neck is, but it sounded impressive in 17 languages.

The All Blacks’ female alter-ego, the Black Ferns, won 34-31 in a match whose momentum swung more wildly than crypto prices. England, apparently allergic to happiness, coughed up a 14-point lead faster than you can say “post-Brexit trade deal.” When the final whistle blew, confetti cannons fired red, white and black tissue paper into the night sky—an inadvertent tribute to the French flag, just to keep everyone geopolitically confused.

Global implications? Oh, they were there, if you squinted through the haze of corporate slogans. Visa reminded viewers that “everywhere you want to be” includes a muddy try-line in stiletto-free zones. Emirates, whose home country still politely forbids women from driving to the stadium, splashed its logo across the uprights. Hypocrisy is the official soft drink of international sport, lightly carbonated and sold at a 400-percent markup.

Still, the match was a Rorschach test for the world’s neuroses. In Paris cafés, philosophers debated whether a forward pass is existential. In Lagos traffic, Uber drivers streamed the game via cracked phone screens, wondering why their own national women’s team still travels to tournaments by bus and prayer. Meanwhile, American sports networks relegated the final to a ticker-tape crawl beneath a college football score that ended 78-3, because nothing says “global village” like ignoring 51 percent of its population.

The broader significance arrives wrapped in the usual platitudes: empowerment, visibility, legacy. All true, give or take a marketing budget. But the darker joke is that women’s rugby, having finally elbowed its way into prime time, now inherits the same late-capitalist circus that devours every other sport. Within minutes of the final whistle, betting apps pinged punters with odds on the 2025 edition. NFTs of Ruby Tui’s grin were minted, purchased, and devalued before sunrise. Somewhere, a Silicon Valley bro pitched “ScrumCoin: tackle volatility.” The revolution will be tokenised; please hold for gas fees.

And yet. For one humid evening in Auckland, teenage girls from Soweto to Sapporo watched bodies like theirs smash through stereotypes with the subtlety of a blind-side flanker. That matters, even if the after-party playlist inexplicably included “Sweet Caroline.” (Nothing says cutting-edge gender equality like a 1969 Neil Diamond earworm.) The UN’s Sustainable Development Goal 5—gender equality—doesn’t mention drop goals, but maybe it should; every time a woman slots a penalty from 40 metres, an oligarch briefly loses a yacht.

Meanwhile, back in the real world, Afghanistan’s women play in underground garages, dodging both the Taliban and stray footballs. Their WhatsApp group lit up during the final: “See you in 2035?” The joke is funny until it isn’t. Rugby’s governing body, World Rugby, pledged “targeted investment” in emerging nations, which is corporate speak for “we’ll send some cones and a PDF.” But hope, like a well-timed offload, can travel laterally when forward progress is blocked.

So the Black Ferns lift the trophy, England pick up the pieces, and the rest of us return to our regularly scheduled apocalypse. Climate reports, energy bills, and the creeping suspicion that 2024 will be worse—none of them paused for kick-off. Yet somewhere in that overlap between sport and survival, 30 women reminded the planet that controlled chaos can still be beautiful. And if that beauty is already being monetised, well, at least the invoice is finally addressed to both genders.