I'll be honest with you - I cried. Two or three salty little droplets squeezed from my 36-year-old tear ducts as the New Zealand cricket team embraced like first-time ecstasy users after their first series win in South Africa.
Not that it's difficult to make me cry. I often cry singing the national anthem. I cried when I saw Paul Holmes receiving his knighthood, and I sometimes cry on first sight of Auckland's green murk from a plane window after a long stint overseas.
After the dust had settled from the Kimberley game I ventured outside to sample the neighbourhood mood and came across a Samoan funeral cortege departing from their home in Hakanoa St. I welled-up as the distraught family gently slid the casket of their loved one into the back of a black hearse and then hopped into a Previa van with gothic writing saying "da boss" on the back to follow. Five teardrops in one day. Something was clearly not right.
Wandering streets of over-priced villas and late-model Audis, I found myself getting angry at the sudden change of New Zealand cricket narrative from gutless national embarrassments to world-beating heroes. This wasn't part of the story arc. Our game's in turmoil. We're supposed to be international easy-beats.
Who's to blame for this appalling reversal of form?