Cricket: Lads, how could you have forsaken me?

Murray Decker reflects on the highs and lows of New Zealand's performance in the cricket World Cup

It has never been easy being a supporter of New Zealand cricket. This week was no different than it has been for me for the past 50 years.

My emotional barometer soared to the lofty heights of absolute joy, delirious delight and sheer ecstasy after we thumped the Indians, only to drop days later to suicidal sadness, morose mutterings and furious frustration as the Pakistanis put us to the sword.

It's my own fault really. I've promised myself at least three thousand times to give them away. I very nearly did after the South African tour fiasco of a few years ago, but at the end of the day there is that nagging feeling at the back of my mind that if I give them up they just might come right and I'd miss out on all the fun.

It's sort of like a love affair that's been going on for a lifetime without ever being consummated. You see, I feel as though I haven't had the big one yet.

That's why this week has been so difficult. So near yet so far. You can have a look but don't touch. I could fill a book entitled Virginal Frustrations of an Average New Zealand Cricket Fan.

I've got feelings. The years haven't killed those. Building up to Thursday night's match the feeling got stronger and stronger that we were going to win. I didn't say it on air because even my more loyal fans reckon I haven't tipped a winner in 10 years.

The feeling was so strong that come Thursday night and our lounge is like a campsite, with the mattress dragged in front of the giant television, thermos prepared, lollies and chips stocked up and telephone off the hook.

This was the night of "The Big One," payback for 50 years of unstinting loyalty. God, let us win this world Cup and I'll never ask you for anything else in my whole life and I'll even try and be nice to gloating Canterbury talkback callers. I promise.

Even my wife was excited. Her cricket knowledge equates to my macrame skills but that didn't stop her advising me: "We're going to smash these Pakistanis." Her attitude to sport was nurtured in Northland to stories of the legendary Peter Jones and the Goings so she doesn't believe in taking any prisoners.

All this before a ball has been bowled. No wonder I was so worn out that I didn't see the first ball that Shoaid Akhtar let rip. More important, neither did our opener.

However, the new world authority on the game lying on the mattress next to me apparently did.

"Shit, that was quick," she exclaimed with unladylike accuracy. "He shouldn't be allowed to bowl that fast." A very fair point that I'm sure Nathan Astle, Craig McMillan and Chris Harris agree with.

Her interest was bowled over at the same time Astle's stumps went cartwheeling out of the ground. Nathan hadn't reached the pavilion before the snores next to me started to compete with the whistles, horns, cheers, jeers and din from Old Trafford.

By lunch I'm beginning to check Air New Zealand schedules to see if I can get over to Lord's in time for the final. 240 looks plenty to me. Tony Greig and Martin Crowe agree. What a shame neither of them took the trouble to tell Saeed Anwar at lunch.

Three hours later the green machine has smashed us and the chance of the Big One has again disappeared. In the end the biggest danger the Pakistanis faced was not from the New Zealand bowlers but escaping being crushed by their invading fans at the end of the game.

I turn the TV off and sleep fitfully on the floor until the phone rings beside my ear.

"Mate, it must be bloody hard being a cricket fan with all their inconsistencies," the Mad Butcher screams down my ear. "At least with the Warriors we know what will happen, mate."

Yes, butcher. it could be worse.