Paul Thomas: Rugby in crisis - aah, I must be home

The saying "Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home" could have been coined for Kiwis returning from a trip to Europe.

We might not have history, grandeur or the cosmopolitan delights of big cities that never sleep, but there's the reassurance of familiar faces and surroundings, the luxury of space, the relaxed tempo, and - outside Auckland - ease in getting from A to B.

But for a moment there I had to remind myself that I really was back in good old NZ. Being greeted by mass footy brawls, barbecued pets, and fatal exorcisms - perhaps the churches should issue a "Don't try this at home" warning - made me wonder if I'd been re-routed to Papua New Guinea.

What settled it were the unmistakable signs that we've embarked on another round of civil strife over the position of All Black coach.

The usual volatile elements were reacting explosively: a coach under pressure, the Auckland-Canterbury divide (although the traditional South Island gripe about the Auckland media conspiracy won't wash when some of the most trenchant criticism of Graham Henry appears in this newspaper), and the world's biggest imp, Andy Haden.

The difference this time is that Robbie Deans' rivalry with Henry has an immediacy and edge that was lacking when the comparison was between the incumbent and an under-employed alternative, between the actual and the theoretical.

Whether they like it or not, their head-to-head is now the sub-plot to every All Blacks-Wallabies encounter.

Thus far this has worked to Henry's advantage, with his supporters quick to point out that he leads 4-1. Should the Wallabies lose tonight, Deans can expect the blowtorch to be applied by media on both sides of the Tasman.

Both have been appointed through to the World Cup, but in professional sport contracts aren't much more than bargaining chips in severance pay negotiations. Deans was head-hunted by Australian rugby boss John O'Neill, but autocrats tend to have high expectations and low tolerance.

In 1997 O'Neill sent the late Greg Smith packing after five consecutive losses to the All Blacks and annihilation at the hands of the Springboks (which Deans now has on his CV).

Notwithstanding, the bellowing from a couple of old bulls in the southern paddock (Billy Bush and Richard Loe) Henry isn't vulnerable - yet. The All Blacks were in a worse position at this point in last year's Tri-Nations by virtue of having lost a home game, but still ended up winning the thing.

Having said that, the All Blacks have been comically bad at times this year, and were lucky to get out of Africa without being humiliated. The coaches' selections and public pronouncements, reliable indicators of clarity of mind, have been characterised by uncertainty.

There's a view that Henry and the New Zealand Rugby Union are rusted on to each other. If push came to shove, however, the NZRU board's over-riding priority is to preserve the integrity of the All Black brand which sustains the game in this country (Jamie Joseph, take note).

No doubt some will dismiss the controversy as a lot of sound and fury signifying nothing, except perhaps our pre-disposition to negativity. But at a time when rugby's decline is assuming the status of received wisdom, it should be a source of comfort for the NZRU. When you can no longer start an argument by criticising - or defending - the All Black coach, rugby will have cause for concern.

Faking blood injuries in order to get away with illegal substitutions has been rugby's equivalent of insider trading: everybody does it; nobody gets caught.

Until now. Spare a thought for Dean Richards, coach of English club Harlequins, who has been banned for three years. That's two years and 10 months longer than eye gougers get.

As far back as 1997 the All Black coaching staff were convinced that the Wallabies were faking blood injuries in order to operate a league-style interchange. It wasn't long before they decided that if you can't beat 'em, you might as well join 'em.

In his autobiography Tana Umaga recalled being pulled off at halftime during the 1999 World Cup: "The team doctor wanted to cut me around the eye so technically it would be a blood bin. I wanted to know what was wrong with the old blood on the towel trick, but he said the officials would need to see a cut."

Although "Bloodgate" is being described as an indelible stain on the game's reputation, no-one took the slightest notice of Umaga's revelation. Perhaps everybody, including the NZRU censors, missed it. Or maybe they just didn't think it was a big deal.