There can't be many New Zealanders who don't love the All Blacks. I have a daughter who doesn't; used to go fishing with a bloke in Hawke's Bay, all hulking six feet four (192cm) of him, who'd never played rugby nor had the slightest interest. But they're the exception.
The All Blacks are kind of our religion. Yet we don't worship as such so much as passionately analyse every moment and every player. Unlike the French, who are passionate just for its own sake. Each and every male Kiwi rugby fan considers himself an expert, if not a better coach and selector than the three wise men. How often do we hear, "How has Hansen picked this guy? He's terrible."?
This atypical bloke can't be told he was no great shakes as a player, if he played senior rugby at all. Let alone coached a team. In every bar, at every rugby club, the same type looks you in the eye and says, "Hansen inherited most this team from Graham Henry. Anyone could coach them to victory." With not a blink.
In the same way, many sports journalists think they know better than the All Black coaches. I always think of the player's parents, how they must feel to read scathing criticism of the son whose career they made by taking him to every practice, watching every game. A father spent countless hours passing, fetching kicks, teaching tackling techniques, sidestep, body positioning. A mother and all that muddy washing turned into a perfectly ironed stack of sorts and jersey, socks and polished boots so her son just assumed this happened by some miracle. Letting her boy shed secret tears in her arms.
The sacrifices they made, both of time and stretched finances; never letting go the dream. To finally wear that most-coveted black jersey only to be damned by an overweight journo, or a scrawny one who never played a minute of the game. How would you feel as a parent to read the knockers?
