KEY POINTS:
The Scene: An Olympic Games. The place: An apartment in the Games city. The time: Just before breakfast. The players: Famous English Sportswriter No 1; Famous English Sportswriter No 2; Daughter of Famous Politician.
The perceptive amongst you will have realised that I am deliberately withholding the names of the individuals. Sorry about that - it is against my instincts but the internet being what it is and the fact that all three of the players have a lot of clout mean I don't fancy copping a massive lawsuit and being forced to eat Burger King wrappers while I huddle in my cardboard box by the railway sidings.
FES No 1 is standing at the table, idly flicking through the morning paper, wearing only his underpants, and a truly terrible sight he was too. From the bedroom of FES No 2, exits DOFP, dressed in last night's clothes and, remarkably, showing no sign of the quantity of alcohol she had consumed the previous evening. I know a little about this woman because I was one of the many she drank under the table that night. Journalism, for all its faults, is most definitely an equal opportunities employer and I had retired hurt, as they say.
Anyway, DOFP sweeps through the front door without acknowledging FES No 1 or his underpants. FES No 1 is still looking astonished when FES No 2 emerges from his bedroom, looking sheepish (he is married, after all). The woman in question was also, if I may be so ungallant, not known for her beauty.
"Look here, old boy," says FES No 2, sidling over to the table. "I know I can rely on your discretion." He coughs discreetly into his fist to underline the point.
"My dear chap, of course," replies FES No 1. "I wouldn't dream of telling anyone that you are having an affair with anyone with facial hair."
The point of this story is that John Bracewell and the New Zealand cricket team are a little bit like FES No 2 right now. They have made a bad faux pas and have left themselves entirely open to insult and criticism.
The moral, I guess (apart from not drinking too much), is that you occasionally get nasty surprises when you meddle with the unknown. Bracewell's much-spurned rotation policy has been a bit like playing Twister in the dark - there are a lot of contortions but you can't see what you're doing and the whole thing ends up with everyone's head up someone else's bottom before falling over.
At least, in that scenario, there might be some laughter. There was precious little in watching the Black Caps against Sri Lanka last weekend. Unless it's like the laughter you occasionally hear in horror movies - where some curious members of the audience chuckle during the bit where one of the heroes gets his head cut off with a chainsaw.
Today, we stump up against the Australians in the Tri-series with England. It's a frightening thought, even if the Black Caps have somehow recovered from the black depths of last weekend.
If they don't make the final ahead of England, wounded by Kevin Pietersen's injury, and if the Aussies beat them consistently, our cricketers - once second in the world at one-dayers - will have another big confidence-dampener.
Their last memories before the final run-up to the World Cup in the West Indies will be: being beaten by Australia, again; a sodden and cricket-less day in Hamilton; and that abysmal 73 at Eden Park.
Hardly the best prep for the World Cup which is supposed to be the raison d'etre of this cricket season.
If Bracewell gets the Black Caps up for the World Cup and makes them a real chance, he will run away with coach of the year. Graham Henry? Rugby World Cup? Won't hold a candle to this. Not in terms of having stared at the abyss before climbing to the roof of the world.
We now have a ragged team with a ragged preparation and ragged confidence for the Tri -series. They are more than ever Davids against the horrible, hairy Goliaths of Australia (no, I am not getting at Andrew Symonds).
There's no slingshot, however. The Black Caps are being armed with the fragile confidence of soldiers sent out to battle the foe with a cotton wool bud and a licorice strap.
Once we had a bowling problem. Oh, and a bit of an issue with the openers. Now we have a batting infection spreading faster than the Black Plague. We've still got the bowling problem. And the injuries.
The prospect of winning the World Cup may be sweeping out the door while the Black Caps stand at the table in their underpants.
