We are Farrrrrmaleee!

A week ago I took the unusual step, for me, of commending the Australian cricket team for their sportsmanship. I highlighted their apparent concern for tailender Umesh Yadav after he was felled by a Mitchell Starc bouncer. In the light of subsequent and much reported Australian behaviour at the Cup Final I somewhat regret writing that post. It has also been pointed out to me that I should have questioned the temerity of bowling a bouncer to a tailender in the first place, particularly as it was tacitly countenanced by an Australian team captain who wears a black armband in memory of a team mate felled and killed by a bouncer.
However, I am adding nothing new here. All this has been written about before and even attempts by such writers as Chris Rattue to present a fresh perspective by playing Devil’s advocate, “They (New Zealand) surrendered in the final, and took this whole nice-guy business too far.”, lacks vigour and, some would say, credibility.
So, for my final word on the ICC Cricket World Cup I want to leave you with what it left me. Like much of the country I felt a real pride about the on and off field performance of this New Zealand cricket team. In terms of representing this country it was an almost flawless performance from beginning to end. The team was universally commended for the way and the spirit in which they played. It did not go unnoticed world-wide and in Australia it drew the inevitable comparison with their own team.
In sporting terms we were gifted with magical moments and memories. Some games were pure theatre that would defy scripting. Almost all games included examples of individual brilliance, and not always from the same individual. And then there was the way Brendon McCullum’s side went about their business—methodical, determined, skilled—getting the job done.
For themselves. For us.
And that is the point. It was us. I believe this team did something that no other New Zealand team has ever done. Yes, we have unified behind teams in the past—the America’s Cup team once or twice, the All Blacks often and the The Breakers repeatedly.
But somehow—and I cannot explain it—the New Zealand cricket team succeeded in making each and everyone of us feel that we were part of the team. Think back—did you not feel, as I did, that mix of dread, fear and anticipation every time Mitchell Starc stormed in at Eden Park? Did you not stand alongside Brendon McCullum for each and every ball wondering whether it was going to be an out or a six? We were there. Eden Park got crowded. Even the MCG got crowded. There were so many of us out there in the middle.
New Zealand’s participation and performance in this tournament had a family feel about it. So did the team itself. I felt that watching the NZ Cricket Awards last Thursday. There was a real sense of camaraderie in display there. This was a homogenous unit, unified on and off the field and remarkably free of any obvious ego. The speeches were heartfelt and eloquent—none more so than the perfectly crafted yet spontaneous and sincere speech by the team’s dying uncle Martin Crowe. That speech, even the gentle admonishment to Daniel Vettori to get a shave, was a perfect exempla of how this nation can handle itself when it sets out to be itself—without pretence.
Yes, it is just a game. A cricket game. A sport.
But you know what? It did something magical. It endeared ourselves to ourselves. During the course of this tournament we looked at ourselves.
And guess what?
    We liked what we saw.