"There's nothing worse than a boring one-dayer," said Don Cameron, the eminence grise of the Kiwi press box. Everyone nodded sagely in agreement. "India are just hopeless," said another journalist, who preferred to remain anonymous. "No spine," agreed a third, equally nameless.

It was tea time and India had been bowled out for 108, taking their tally in five international innings to 643 runs at an average of 128. In reply New Zealand were 29 for 1. The Boxing Day showdown was in danger of ending with a white towel thrown from the direction of the Indian dressing-room.

Forty minutes later New Zealand were 52 for 6 and the armchair critics in the press box were exchanging bemused looks. Outside, some of the blue-bench and plastic-seat critics were not so much sheepish as bullish. Eden Park had erupted into a sea of orange, green and white, or at least that's how it seemed. Indians accounted for about one-third of the 30,000 crowd, but it felt more like three-quarters. The noise was deafening, the atmosphere electric: the Wankhede in miniature.

You have to hand it to the Indian fans. Come rain or shine – and in recent weeks it's been a lot of rain and not much shine – they turn out en masse in virtually every city in the world to cheer on their heroes. They are the Barmy Army without the booze and the bravado. When Mathew Sinclair was hit in the box, they oohed and aahed (although Sinclair made a swift recovery when umpire Billy Bowden threatened to lend a hand). When Dravid straight-drove and square-drove Shane Bond for successive fours to make it 103 for 8, they danced and screamed. And when Anil Kumble appealed in desperation for one that might have hit another set of stumps, they echoed him in their thousands, not all of them from behind the bowler's arm.

Both sides had batted timidly, but it made for thrilling cricket. "All I wanted for Xmas was a five-day Test," whimpered one banner. We weren't even going to get a one-day one-day game. "Anj, will you marry me?" pleaded another. By the time New Zealand started collapsing, the proposal had been removed. Either Anj had said yes, or the groom-to-be had become distracted, which was understandable.

Over in the Open Terrace, there were one or two characters who presumably wouldn't have made each other's wedding invitations. One fan was ejected for throwing a bottle; since India had lost theirs much earlier, this hardly seemed fair. The police moved in several times to dilute some festive fisticuffs, and when the spectators drifted off, the Terrace looked as if a bomb had hit it. In a game as unpredictable as this, even that wouldn't have come as much of a surprise.

Stephen Fleming said the pitch had fooled him, but then it wasn't a 217-runs-for-17-wickets pitch either. India seemed intent on providing catching practice to the slips, and at one point Jacob Oram had figures of 5 for 16. He was one ball away from recording the joint-second-best analysis by a New Zealander in one-day internationals, but had to settle for joint-sixth instead when Zaheer Khan belted him over midwicket. No wonder Oram looked gutted.

Javagal Srinath rarely looks anything but. Even four-for on his return to the side barely raised a smile. Perhaps he just found the clatter of wickets distasteful. After all, there's nothing worse than a boring one-dayer.

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