Column: Without Big Den the Cup's a non-event

By Murray Deaker

Dennis Conner is to the America's Cup what William Webb Ellis is to the rugby World Cup: a mixture of mystery, myth, legend and history have made both these enigmatic characters the subjects of rumour, innuendo, speculation and lies.

Conner is larger than life. A complex character, his moods can fluctuate from charming to uncouth, shy to arrogant and even-tempered to darn right nasty faster than a windshift on the Waitemata.

One thing that doesn't change is his passion for sailing and his obsession with the America's Cup. No matter what you think of him, Conner is the world's best-known yachtsman. He has won four America's Cups, three Etchell 22 championships, two Star world championships, an Olympic medal and dozens of national championships in the United States.

This sailor understands better than anyone else that tragically, the America's Cup is not won only on the water, but equally importantly, it is a business planned in distant boardrooms and often decided in committee rooms where appeals are finalised hours after the event.

Conner knows the America's Cup game, plays it to perfection but at times leaves you in no doubt that he hates the corporate crawling he has to do to keep his campaign afloat.

I first met Dennis three or four years ago. He had done a deal (Dennis is always doing deals) with the Sheraton Hotel to speak at a business luncheon there.

I was approached to be the master of ceremonies, and not being backward about doing the odd deal myself, I accepted on the condition that Dennis grant me a television interview immediately after he'd spoken.

The deal was done. The audience was packed with Armani suits, Aldo Brue Italian shoes, Pierre Cardin ties and starched Hugo Boss shirts. Dennis was more nervous than you or I would be sailing through icebergs in the Antarctic in 30m seas.

Conner fronts because he has to. It is all part of the game. Even before he started to speak, he was sweating profusely and anxiously seeking assurances from anyone within earshot that this audience wouldn't attack him.

Attack him? What a joke. There is more likelihood of Tonga beating the All Blacks than that happening. The moment he got to the microphone and steadied himself on the lectern, Conner was in charge.

He is a master showman, an entertainer, decked out in his stars-and-stripes tie, playing the audience like a concert pianist. He knows what they want and he gives it to them, cliches tried and tested over time.

As soon as it was over we headed for the next room for the television interview but not before the usual Conner confrontation.

"How long is this interview?" Dennis asks.

"Half-an-hour," I reply.

"That's not what I was told. Ten minutes was the word I was given," he snapped back.

"Well, Dennis, it's over to you. It has always been half-an-hour and the cameras will roll for that long. I know you're not in the habit of sitting through the entire interview on New Zealand television but I'd like to think you'd made it through this one," I answered.

He did. He was magic. The moment the cameras stopped and the lights went down, he was off. No niceties, no pleasantries, the job was done and he was out of it.

We packed the gear and 20 minutes later I was standing on my own in front of the hotel musing about what made Conner tick. Suddenly, from behind, there was a gentle poke in the back.

I turned and there in front of me was a different Dennis Conner. He had on a baseball hat, old sailing shirt, a pair of shorts, boat-shoes and a huge grin. Dennis Conner was going sailing and was at peace with his world.

At the end of the day Conner is a sailor. He would be happy sailing in a P-class around the viaduct basin against Coutts, Cayard and Co for the America's Cup.

One thing remains clear: without Dennis Conner, we simply would not have a real America's Cup event.


• Murray Deaker is the host of Sportstalk on Newstalk ZB.