It's all about the jersey really, and I have one I bought 20 years ago and still darn whenever a hole appears. Darns and all, it's the first garment I'd grab if the house was burning down. I can't imagine discarding it for some new, untested stranger.
I guess Dan Carter and Ali Williams know what I mean.
Not that I have a brand, but they are supposed to be ambassadors of one until they die, ex-All Blacks forever, not Kiwi larrikins caught being idiots near Paris monuments that must be swarming with police, more so than ever with the ongoing threat of Islamic terrorism.
If we needed more proof of the effect alcohol has on the Kiwi male's brain, they've provided it. In scenes played out every night in this country, especially on weekends, they've been charged with drunk driving (Carter) and buying, or trying to buy, drugs (cocaine, Williams). This despite the reputation of the French police, who you're wise to steer clear of at the best of times. Well it's how Kiwi boys do it, eh, when they go downtown to do something wild and illegal where everyone hangs out, including the cops, and - would you believe it? - get caught.
Both men now play rugby for Paris club Racing 92. The club is not impressed. No apologies could ever be enough, and no amount of shaming too great. Buying cocaine near the Arc de Triomphe? Drink-driving near the Champs Elysees? They might as well have been blowing trumpets and wearing clown suits.
Think of the jersey, that sacred relic and performer of miracles, once made in New Zealand like our boys, but now made by whoever, overseas. The jersey is offended. The All Black brand visits sick kids in hospital and helps old ladies across roads, for goodness' sake.