Years ago when I was managing a restaurant in Courtenay Place in Wellington, four or five members of the New Zealand cricket team filed through the restaurant where I was the maitre d' and into the back bar, where a good time was guaranteed.
The Black Caps were in the middle of a test match, against Pakistan from memory, and my lips pursed as I watched the high-spirited young men go from the restaurant into the bar and vanish into a night life Narnia. It was very late. There was a game the next day.
But still, I reasoned, George Best had been known to play his best football after a night of carousing and James Hunt won the Formula One race in Tokyo when he shouldn't have been able to stand, far less drive.
And besides, I could hardly march into the bar, drag them out by their ears and send them home, like a caricature of a nightmare mother. But I wish I had.
The next day, the Black Caps collapsed and lost the test with a day and a half to spare. I was livid. I love — or used to love — cricket and it appalled me that some of the team could be so cavalier about such a beautiful game.