Pitch Fever

It is easy to define the word great. Somewhat harder for greater and greatest; they require a point of comparison, and ‘greatest” in particular is subject to so many variable and subjective views that it is usually impossible and often irresponsible to term anything the greatest.
So, will victory against Australia in Sunday’s ICC World Cup be New Zealand’s greatest cricketing achievement, or even New Zealand’s best sporting achievement? Some will argue that we are already there, simply by succeeding through to the semis for the first time;  a finals win against the Aussies just extends that.
I don’t know.
What I do know is that it has galvanised the nation and we are almost united as a country behind our team. Yes, there are those who say, correctly, that it is only a game and there are more important things in the  world (the Northland by-election, anyone?)
But at this time, and particularly since last Tuesday’s semifinal win, they have been rather muted, stripped of their usual weapons: “it’s elitist” (America’s Cup) or “thuggery” (rugby and rugby league). Left, like the rest of us, with the simple fact that the Black Caps exemplify almost everything that is inherently good about this country—including and perhaps foremost the great spirit in which “we” have played the game—Grant Elliott and Dale Steyn an enduring memory.
Which brings us to the Australians.
You knew we would go there.
 I watched last night’s semi between Australia and India. I expected the worst in regard to on-field behaviour. These two teams have been never afraid to have a go at each other, often resulting in near physical confrontation and massive fines. Before this match an unnamed Australian player or official stated that the team was “pledged to sledge.”
So, it was going to be all on.
What happened?
What happened, I think, was in part Phillip Hughes.
The tragic death of Phillip Hughes, felled by a bouncer at this very ground, the Sydney Cricket Ground, last year, drew the cricketing world together like never before. The outreach of support for the Hughes family and for the Australian cricket team was unprecedented in the sport
I think it caught Michael Clarke and his team by surprise and they have not and will never forget it.
Yes, they will continue to sledge. Yes, they will continue to be aggressive. That is who they are. That is what they are.
But there has been a subtle change. For the better. Perhaps, think first, sledge second. And that, surely, is a legacy of Phillip Hughes.
There was another last night.
Last night in the dying stage of the game Indian tailender Umesh Yadav was hit—hard—by a blistering bouncer from Aussie quick Mitchell Starc. Yadav staggered for a moment and there was a sudden silence—terrible silence—that swept over the ground. Remember, it is the same ground that… .
Michael Clarke was the first to react, the first to Yadav’s side, the second was bowler Starc, six or seven other Aussie players soon followed.
None left his side until the Indian physio reached them.
That will be one of the enduring image of the tournament for me: a solitary Indian batsman surrounded by Australians, not sledging, not being separated by umpires—just sincere concern for a fellow cricketer.
Something happened here.
Something special.

The not so secret diary of Handsome Sampson

So, some of my so-called supporters left me a “blunt” message. What a joke! They say I will have no funding or volunteer support if I stand for re-election. What a joke! Joke! Joke! Joke! I should never have gone to the Left. They are so finicky (is that a word?) and will go with anyone they think will listen to them. For goodness sake, that’s how I got in in the first place! I should have gone to the right where my true heart has always been. They would have stuck by me. They stick by everyone. Doesn’t matter what they do. Bevan told me that. I miss Bevan. Couldn’t stand that Stephen Joyce though. But all is not lost yet. The Pennies haven’t dropped! Ha, ha. Penny H will stand by me, because she has no show against Goff and Penny W, well she will stand by me because I make her feel important. As for the rest of them? Who cares! What are they, 20 votes? What people don’t understand about me is that I am resilient. I can keep it up, as Bevan used to say. I am a survivor. The world can throw everything it likes at me. Who is Mike Hosking anyway? And come election time and my smile—people love that smile—starts appearing on the billboards people will say “Well, Len’s a good bloke. Done a lot for this city. Want him in again.” That’s what they will say. Anyway, I digress. This is a diary. What have I done today? Not a lot, to be honest—and I try not to be. Went to my therapist. And that reminds me, I need to look up the meaning of delusional.

Game of groans

I am a recent and late convert to Game of Thrones. I missed it when it was first broadcast in New Zealand but have viewed all the repeat screenings from the beginning currently playing on one of Sky’s pop-up channels ahead of the new season in April.
In terms of grandeur and scale, Game of Thrones is probably without precedent in television. And it could sit comfortably on the big screen. It is right up there with feature films such as Kingdom of Heaven, Gladiator and the hey-day of epics such as Ben Hur and El Cid. It has  a cast of thousands—8000 I read—and the attention to costumes and sets is exquisite.
So too the scripts.
But you know all this. There is a legion of fans in New Zealand and world-wide. You may well be one of them, and I am preaching to the already converted.
So, let me focus on one small part of the programme. A very small part of the programme, that, conversely, proves size does not matter when taken out of and beyond context.
I am talking about Peter Dinklage.
Dinklage plays Lord Tyrion Lannister, a Machiavellian character of epic proportions. Yet he and by connotation the character he plays is only 1.3 metres tall. In the programme Tyrion Lannister is described variously as a dwarf, half-man and an imp. Under the guise of fiction and fantasy you can obviously and refreshingly get away from political correctness. Lannister’s size is crucial to his character. There is no getting away from that. The scriptwriters have capitalised on it to great effect. Lannister is derided, humiliated and ridiculed because of his size. And this is within his own family!
But, here is the thing. For the viewer, with Dinklage in charge and in his capable hands and care, Lannister’s size become secondary. Put simply, Dinklage takes this character and imparts within it such finesses that the 1.3 metre Tyrion Lannister dominates the screen whenever he is on it. The camera loves him and Dinklage/Lannister obviously reciprocates, treating the camera (and the viewer) with respect and affection. In a single scene Dinklage can deliver us a gamut of emotions and within that self-same scene we can respond in equal measure with sorrow, sympathy, disgust and fear. And often humour.
The only other actors who have been able to do that for me are Robert Downey Jr and, in earlier days, Jimmy Cagney—significantly both also small of stature.
So, is there is lesson to be learned from that last fact—small men, accomplished actors, who can through force of will and personality alone make us believe anything?
Only that Winston Peters may indeed after all win the Northland by-election.

Handsome Sampson

My Dearest Bev

I do so prefer calling you Bev. It is somehow more masculine, somehow less—well…gay, than calling you Bevan. You don’t mind, do you? Of course you don’t. You never minded anything I did, did you? That is one of the things I loved about you…when I knew you.

Sorry about that, I didn’t intend to be maudlin. It is just that I miss you so. I scan the social pages of the Herald, but you are not there. I am. But you are not. It is as if you have dropped off the face of the earth. Understandable, given what you/we went through. But I am a victim here, too. You can’t imagine how excruciating it was to go out in those first weeks after our story broke. I just wanted to stay home and in bed. But I wasn’t allowed there. I could have of course gone to the Sky City Grand and gone to bed. But that would have brought back memories—memories of you

So, I didn’t. I went to those functions instead. To be booed. I was even booed at the Auckland Nines. How unfair is that? After so long. Did you see me on the television? Do you see me, and still think of me as your Handsome Sampson? I am sure you do. I hope you do. I still think of you as my little Chinese Takeaway. Such laughs, we had.

Not many laughs these days. I find most of my councillors revolting—in both senses of the world. How you and I laughed about them! We could in those days, because it was hard to take this rag-tag bunch seriously—after all, they were elected by Aucklanders. To be fair (as the Mad Butcher says), they still can’t be taken seriously. What really hurts is that they don’t take ME seriously. To be fair (thanks Butch), they never did. Just because I came from South Auckland. But I showed them. Just let them open THEIR rates demands and then open mine. J

To get away from them, I could choose to do a round of visits to the CCOs. But very few of them know me or notice me. I went to Auckland Transport the other day, and reception asked for my name and gave me one of those stick-on ID labels. AND I was told that I would have to use Wilson Car Parks because all their spaces were reserved for AT executives! How humiliating is that? Wait until they get their rate demands!!!! AND they should be using pubic transport rather than their cars.

People are so unkind to me. John Key won’t speak to me, Steven Joyce laughs at me, Iwi ignore me, and Cameron Slater has forgotten me.

I am so lonely.

Come home to me.

Room 406.

Your Handsome Sampson.