At the weekend, the prize-giving for the little ripper rugby was held.
Little Mr 3-year-old has gone along every week, touching up on his skills before he gets called up for the All Blacks.
So there they all are - 40 3-and 4-year-old boys and girls, sitting together on the mat waiting for their names to be called, certificates presented, ribbons awarded. One by one, they go up until the coach falters on one name "can't say that" and resorts to calling out his surname. The next certificate also clearly stumps her "that name's too long", and so the offending certificate is discarded while she goes with names she can pronounce.
They get to the end of the pile and the mokopuna-with-the-long-name is the only one without a certificate. It's no big deal to him, he thinks his name is Piri Weepu anyway and so he runs off, disengaged. The coach is busy getting on to the team photo, and tells Mum, just write his name on a blank certificate.
Mum wasn't convinced it was just an oversight - and, sure enough, when she looked through the pile there was her boy's name all right - it was the one pronounced "too long".