The Real McCaw (2)

This week we have lost from rugby two of its biggest names, though of course for vastly different reasons—one a tragedy. But as we all mourn the passing of Jonah Lomu at such a young age, we can I think call it a point of maturity—not to say, common sense—that we have not allowed it to overshadow Richie McCaw’s retirement announcement. That announcement was handled superbly, I thought. It paid homage to the great Jonah, sensitively mixing sadness and some humour, and then it moved on. As I now do. In fact, I move back. Rarely does Fryday repeat any of its postings, but I am here repeating one I wrote on December 16, 2011, when it was first mooted that Richie McCaw was right to decline a knighthood—then! And that was then. Now is different and whilst I have changed nothing of the earlier posting I think it still has relevance today. By the way and as some small barometer of the esteem in which Richie is held, this December 16 edition is the most read of all Fryday blog posts since I started recording them in May 2010. The second is a Fryday post (29/6/12) that opined Mickey Mouse was gay. I do not think the two are connected. Here is what I wrote on Richie.


"This morning the Prime Minister revealed on Radio Sport that he offered All Black captain Richie McCaw a knighthood in the New Year’s Honours List. John Key further revealed that Richie had declined because he (McCaw) felt it was too early for such an honour. Implicitly that left the door open for one later, and most New Zealanders would probably applaud that. Having said that, I can think of a number of New Zealanders who have accepted the honour who are far less deserving of it. The criteria of who gets a knighthood these days seems to be a lot looser than that of the Knights of Old and Knights of Bold. If we go back to those days, to gain a knighthood one had—generally—to be brave, chivalrous, to exhibit considerable prowess on the battlefield, and to be diligent in protecting the sanctity of a woman’s maidenhood. Well, if we replace battlefield with rugby field and acknowledge that protecting maidenhoods may be more honoured in the breech than the observance, nobody would be more qualified than Richie. But it won’t be this time. Richie’s decision. But when they do come knocking again—as they will, perhaps on your retirement Richie—accept it then. You deserve it. We deserve it. It honours you. And in some way it honours us, and who we like to think of ourselves--the Real McCaw.

Letters From Wogistan: Rugby World Cup

Letters from Wogistan: Dear Richy

The Democratic Republic of Wogistan (Inc.)

Office of the Foreign Secretary

123 Bruce Springsteen Boulevard (third door on right). Telephone: 125.

Captaino Richy Mcaw

New Zeland Rugby All Blacks Team

At New Zeland

Dear Capitano Richy

The Democratic Republic of Wogistans peoples send warm greeting to you esteemed capitano of mighty All Blacks rugby team.

We much like rugby in our country. Our big team is Kraconuts. Kraconuts captained by esteemed President Yoseph Flaglantelie, who play all positions, win last fourty national contest in a (front hah hah) row. He 86. Now retire.

We offer you position now you to old for mighty All blacks. In Wogistan you not be Capitano, you be GENERAL! You bring Dan Carter with you, he not have to cart anything in Wogistan. You boths get free membership of Spartacus Male Gym and Bathouse.

You much like rugby in Wogistan. All players get own boots.

Come now. Do not take to long.  You get old. Wogistan gives yous last chance for yous to win World’s Cup.

With sincere facilitations,

Yoseph xxx

Yoseph Wankerstan

Foreign Secretary The Democratic Republic of Wogistan (Inc.)

Proprietor Spartacus Male Gym and Bathouse.

Game of Throws

This week’s State of Origin match from Sydney was a hit and not miss affair. Paul Gallen’s classic one-two combination on Nate Myles just before half time is exempla. Neither punch missed; but also neither punch had a lasting effect, on or off the field. Nor will the criticism of it by hypocritical rugbyites, wowsers and other talk-back callers who claim this as “yet another” example of rugby league brutality. That criticism will subside and the game will continue. The reason why is that fights, brutal and otherwise, are part of the game—most games in most codes—and they do far less damage and even some good on the playing field than if elsewhere (uncontrolled) in society. I learnt to box as part of strength training in my days of playing rugby league. The only times I actually used that skill—and skill it is—were on the footie field. My fights were frequent but none but one had any lasting effect beyond the beer at the end of the game. If anything, they gave me the confidence to deal with other matters in my life then and now. So criticise the fight of Wednesday night all you like. That is your right. But be aware that most are unaware and don’t care. I certainly don’t. Besides and with age as a constant companion you learn, and I have learnt sometimes to my cost and never to my credit, that there are far more devastating ways of damaging a person than anything Paul Gallen threw at Nate Myles. That is the greater dismay.

Whetu Calls: The Wider View

The country is in a sombre mood. The litany of disasters, none of our making (though culpability for Pike River is still to be determined), is evoking questions such as why us and how much can one small country be expected to take.
Even that barometer—some say adjudicator—of popular culture, The Zuckerberger, is uncharacteristically quiet: some are trying jokes on it but the Facebook firmament, already hit by Steven Jobs, is simply not in the mood at the moment. Nor am I. When a guy said to me yesterday, “All this and Dan Carter!” I bit my lip and said nothing. I was funnier in the midst of my recent melanoma operation.
So it was something of a surprise when the knock on the Ranchslider came.
Then again, perhaps it wasn’t…

ME:Good morning.
HE:Bro.
ME:What are you selling this time? Mt Maunganui Brylcream?
HE:Funny.
ME:Not really.
HE:Not selling nothin’
ME:Nothin’?
HE:Nah. Giving something away. Koha for youse because youse been so good to me.
ME:What is it?
HE:Wells, you knows that new waka wot the Prime Minister opened yesterday?
ME:Did you go to that?
HE:No.
ME:Why not? You’re Maori.
HE:Wrong tribe.
ME:Me too. Anyway…
HE:Anyways that new waka wot you paid for…
ME:Yes.
HE:Me and the bros want to present you with a small token of our thanks for forking out that two and half million bucks.
ME:Well it wasn’t me only.
HE:Yeah. I knows. But it was all youse white fellas, with wide-screens.
ME:I don’t see what that’s got to do with it. But, anyway, I appreciate the recognition.
HE:The wot?
ME:Forget it. Do you want to make that presentation now, or later?
HE:Later.
ME:When?
HE:Saturday night. We’ll come to you.
ME:What time?
HE:Dunno. What time’s the game on?

Bulls and Balls

I am so over the Rugby World Cup. I know it is not the RWC organisers’ fault, but all this periphery stuff: The Dolly Partons, the jersey, the abstention et al is so tiresome. And I now hear the possibility that The Warriors may lose the home ground semi, if they earn one, because of the RWC. I am also heartily sick of the hype surrounding it and am yet to be persuaded that it will have any long-term benefit for New Zealand. That said, I acknowledge that it may have short-term benefits. My friend Whetu, of whom you read occasionally in Fryday, is making a killing selling All Black replica jerseys for $30.00. They present very good value because you get two jerseys in one. After three washings and the black dye wears off you are suddenly presented with a Lion Red Warriors’ jersey circa 1995. Whetu is also selling abstention kits cunningly disguised as 12-pack of Lion Red. His rationale? After drinking that much you can’t get it up anyway. Whetu describes it as the Maori contribution to science. And nor is Whetu the only one making a contribution to and a killing from, the RWC. New Zealand’s squeezable pimple, Hamilton, is heralding a rallying cry for its citizens to make an international statement that their village is right behind the RWC and Telecom. Hamiltonians are being exhorted to abstain from sex in support of Telecom’s erstwhile campaign (they haven’t caught up with the news yet). I am not sure whether cows will be disappointed or relieved. On the other hand I hear Palmerston North is taking the opposite approach. They have decided to have frequent sex. Well, as they say, there is a first for everything. As for me? This Fryday will be my only contribution and comment to and about the RWC. I support the All Blacks, but I detest the self-perpetuating dominance of the code and in keeping with most Aucklanders I think there are more important things in life than rugby. I am just struggling presently under the weight and mire of the media to find one.

Of Nappies and Nipples

In his later years the great American actor Spencer Tracy was incontinent. Katharine Hepburn looked after him. She was his soul-mate, his partner, his life. She was with him when he died. Katharine was Spencer’s backbone. His rib. And it was in that guise that she starred in a movie with him—Adam’s Rib (1949). It of course evoked the biblical proclamation that God created Eve from Adam’s rib. Why the rib, I don’t know. I would have thought there is at least one other male appendage more crafted for creation than a rib. But a rib it was. I won’t mess with God. But that doesn’t explain nipples. If woman is derived from man, in that order, why does man have nipples? On a man, they must be about as useful as a George W. Bush dissertation on quantum physics. But they exist. And according to the Bible, they existed first on a man. Why? Was God experimenting? Is man an experiment—a try-out, a prototype—and woman the real thing? Did God, when He was designing the male architecture, say I’ll put one of those there and that one there and see if that works and if it does I’ll give them to Eve and make them super sensitive so that Adam has something other than apples to munch on? If that is the way it worked, I guess God simply forgot to take them off Adam. God can be forgetful—look at Hamilton. But if we do not accept God as the answer then there is still the question: why do men have nipples? For the answer to that, I trod the oft-trod passage of modern pilgrimage: I went from God to Google. And according to Google, all men are bisexual, which of course explains the rugby scrum. It appears that when we first appear, God has a bet both ways. It is only later in the piece that he bestows an extra piece. Or not. Meanwhile, the nipples stay. And maybe God has a point. Nipples do no harm. In fact, they give men a small glimmer of equality with women. Something shared. And in that context nipples have a stand-out quality—unique as a body part. I could kiss them for that.

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A Game of Three Halves

Tonight New Zealand plays Australia in the ANZAC Day rugby league test. Most Kiwis hope for the best and expect the worst. The New Zealand team appears to be too young, too inexperienced and too light to compete with a star-studded Aussie side hunting for State of Origin places. But it should be a good game and I shall be watching. Pity it’s not actually on ANZAC Day though. It used to be and that showed a great deal of sensitivity by Australasian rugby league as well being a good marketing ploy of course—neither of which could be comprehended by the omnipresent but moribund rugby code. But here is a thought: why not play all three major codes—rugby league, rugby and cricket—on the same day, ANZAC Day? You could play a league test in Sydney at 2.00, rugby in Melbourne at 4.00 and a 20/20 cricket match in Brisbane at 7.00. Indeed, with all the facilities Australian have you could play all three games in the same city with the same set of spectators travelling to each venue and the Australian television networks competing for rights.
Of course we would probably still lose all three matches to the Aussies. And I now come to my point--to my way of thinking it is not the games, nor even the losing—it is the captains’ post match speeches that most differentiates the codes. Based on speeches of old here’s how I see them going:
Benjie Marshall (Rugby League)
Well, mate the boys are pretty battered and bruised. I thought we were right in it for the first half mate, but you can’t afford to give the Aussies any space out wide and if you do mate you can expect Lockyer and the boys to take it to yer. League’s a game of possession mate and we just didn’t get up for it today mate.
Richie McCaw (Rugby)
Fairly shattered, to be honest. I thought if we could control it there in the tight we would be in there with a chance. But all credit to the Australians they dug deep and at the end of the day were a better side on the day.
Daniel Vettori (Cricket)
Disappointed to be honest. Our top order didn’t do enough and that put pressure on our lower order. We’ll put that game behind us. Regroup and look to next year. No, I don’t see any selection changes—I’ll probably still trot out the same clichés I do every speech.

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Coming out in the Walsh

So, Tauranga has lost Winston Peters and the 2011 Rugby World Cup? What is it doing right to deserve that? Hamilton wants to know. Rugby has also been in the news this week with the expulsion from the game of erstwhile leading referee Steve Walsh. Apparently there is a drinking issue. Strange, I thought there was always a drinking issue with those in charge of rugby. Maybe it is just because Steve is from the Southern Hemisphere that he stands out and is being penalised. He probably doesn’t like gin either. But Walsh’s troubles are insignificant to another facing rugby this week; that’s the commencement of the NRL season. Now, as everybody knows, and none will dispute, rugby league is the superior game. Indeed followers of all sporting codes will welcome tonight’s first game of the 2009/10 NRL season. Those who are particularly starved of good sport—i.e. Super 14 followers and golfers everywhere—will be salivating at the prospect. Unless they are of course masochists and living in Hamilton and therefore self-delusional and luxuriating in lives of misery. For the rest of us, with actual lives, rugby league is 26 weeks’ of sheer panacea akin, but not exceeding, our enjoyment and relief last year at the departure in one year of both Helen Clark and George W. Bush. It is the best of times…the worst of times can now be forgotten.

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