Wish List 2011

They say that New Year resolutions will only work if you keep them to yourself.
Well, having done that for a lifetime and never played for the All Blacks, owned a Melbourne Cup winner or even won Lotto I've decided to take another tack.
Today I am publishing for all to see my resolutions for 2011 in the fervent hope that my wishes will at last come true.
So here goes:
I will not secretly take delight at the ABs not winning rugby's World Cup simply because Graham Henry is coach and Robbie Deans isn't.
I will not secretly take delight at the Wallabies winning rugby's World Cup simply because Robbie Deans is coach and Graham Henry isn't.
I won't continue to ask myself, or anybody else for that matter, what would happen to the ABs if fellas by the name of Carter and McCaw were whisked away to live on some other planet. And, if they were, what the odds would be on that planet actually winning the World Cup.
I will not continue to wonder why netball's Irene Van Dyk isn't given her due as the greatest ever single influence on any sport in this country by the proverbial mile.
I will not watch Silver Ferns skipper Casey Williams bully her opposition and fantasise how magnificent a rugby loose forward she would have been had she been born a boy ... imagine having two Richie McCaws on the paddock at the same time!
I will not hold my breath until Aussie netball coach Norma Plummer cracks a smile.
I will not say I told you so when All Whites coach Ricki Herbert becomes Sir Ricki.
I will not cringe when we are reminded for the umpteenth time that the AWs were the only unbeaten team at football's World Cup without the proviso they still came home empty-handed.
I will not laugh when rugby league's officialdom tells us -also for the zillionth time -that their game has been cleaned up and then apologises for the peeing, vomiting and bashing incidents of the previous day.
I will not ponder how rugby league gets so much prime television coverage when there are only three countries who really take it seriously and then think that the peeing, vomiting and bashing is part of a successful public relations campaign.
I will not swear loudly when Benji Marshall is compared to the incomparable Stacey Jones.
I will not question the honesty of Pakistani cricketers every time they drop a catch, even if it did look deliberate.
I will hold my tongue whenever television commentators vocally abuse our very own Black Cap Ross Taylor for "throwing" his wicket away when he has done nothing more than play his natural game, which is to smack the cover of the ball. Few do it better.
I will wait patiently for the day when gun spinner Daniel Vettori actually manages to get even half-pie decent turn out of a wicket.
I won't wonder how on earth Brendon McCallum can tell the BC's selectors where he wants to bat in the order rather than the other way around.
I won't slam the BCs for their mixed results, I'll simply expect it.
I won't pontificate at great length about how much hype the current Ashes series is creating when the real truth is that both the Aussies and English teams are average with a capital A.
I won't turn the volume down whenever Martin Crowe is part of cricket's commentary team or count how many times he refers to his own playing career when he is.
I won't repeat over and again that "Smithie" is not only our Ni1 one cricket commentator but also our No1 rugby commentator.
I won't wonder how anybody with Mark Richardson's voice can be so popular on television or radio.
I will defend the staging of the Commonwealth Games, despite it providing nothing more than a chance for second-rate athletes to take centre stage.
I will defend the amateurism and honesty of the Olympic Games despite knowing they are dominated by millionaires and drug cheats.
I won't knock the calibre of David Tua's opponents in the boxing ring even though Google has difficulty locating a profile for them.
I will sit through the breaks in American football without whinging I could take a toilet break, make a cup of tea, go for a run and have a nap before play resumes.
I won't watch male 100m sprinters and pontificate how lycra shows off their best assets.
I won't question why Kenyans are such good long distance runners when they have toothpicks for arms and legs.
I will listen to our national anthem without thinking that even God must be getting heartily sick of hearing about our need to have him defend us.
Happy 2011 folks.