John Roughan: Twenty eleven will be a test of us

The first sunrise over Rangitoto Island is always special. Photo / Brett Phibbs

Midnight I can miss, it is the dawn I like. First light. First day. A new year feels like dawn all day.

Two thousand and eleven. Too many syllables there, twenty-eleven it will have to be. Those of us who have clung to two thousand will miss the echo of the millennium. Twenty sounds like just another century.

Now when we refer even to the single digit years it will be "twenty-O-". The century has settled in.

Twenty-eleven. It sounds like a rugby score, or another impatient version of cricket. What a treat this week to watch the real thing on TV. Timely too, since this is Rugby World Cup year and Australian cricket has given us another lesson in sportsmanship.

I didn't see Ricky Ponting remonstrate too long with an umpire over a good decision but I don't care that he did. I admired the spirit of the Australians in their second innings when the match and the Ashes were plainly gone.

Their commentators didn't descend into gloom and dwell on recriminations. They watched Shane Watson play strokes and their comments were equally positive.

Cricket is the sport of all of Australia and until recently they have dominated it as we do rugby. But it has not ceased to be a sport for them, a game.

This year is going to be a severe test of New Zealand's character. At Christmas I was reading Chris Laidlaw's cynical take on professional rugby, Somebody Stole My Game. He concludes a chapter on the World Cup thus: "Whether we like it or not the 2011 World Cup will make or break the long term future of rugby in this country ... Every effort to downplay the horrifying reality that New Zealand simply has to win it will only make things worse.

"It is a scenario that is deeply scary because the fans will come to the conclusion that if we can't win it at home, we will never win it. It's Last Chance Saloon."

If that is true we are a dour, insecure bunch and we are going to be terrible hosts. The All Blacks could win the World Cup anywhere. If that is the ultimate measure of the success of an event of this scale in New Zealand, we are wasting a golden opportunity.

Visiting teams have already been assigned to towns large and small for a significant spell during the first month of the Cup. September will determine whether the event has been worthwhile.

If the towns and their teams have made the connection they could, and their followers have moved around the country finding a welcome everywhere, the buzz from both sides is going to be palpable. By the end of this year we will be still buzzing.

And the Government will be re-elected, but it was going to be re-elected anyway. The only doubt may depend on the Maori Party's leaning after the election, but John Key can probably keep its confidence.

Twenty-eleven is a date long dreaded by responsible politicians. This is the year the baby boom can begin to claim superannuation. That glorious post-war eruption of big families that lasted precisely 20 years until the pill was prescribed, is no longer a looming social liability. It's here. The beauty of being a baby boomer is that we never grow old. Our numbers are such that we can keep redefining youth. Sometime before my fearful birthday this year I trust a trendy magazine will tell me 60 is the new 20.

The cover story in the latest Economist is entitled, "The joy of growing old (or why life begins at 46)". Today's paper has kindly reprinted it four pages hence.

If we are the forever young we could put off their superannuation for a while.

Twenty years ago it was rare to meet someone in their 80s. Now it is common. Twenty years hence, today's retirees might be surviving well into their 90s. Will most of us really need a pension at 65?

Countries such as Britain are pushing the age up, to reduce the burden on their children and grandchildren. This year, all going well, I will become a grandfather. That child will be paying the baby boom's pensions for 20 years or more of her working life.

Last month the Retirement Commissioner suggested we raise the age of entitlement to 67 in gentle steps of two months a year from 2020. At that rate nobody's plans would by delayed very long.

We raised the age from 60 to 65 at a slightly faster rate in the 1990s and the Government didn't fall.

But Key promised not to touch the terms of super while he is Prime Minister, so he won't. Silly really. If he asked, we'd probably let him off the promise. Granddads would anyway.

Happy New Year.