All Blacked Out

All Blacked Out
by Ross Elliot

Part One - Degringolade

As we all know, rugby is a significant Sense of Life issue. If you don't know this, go to the back of the class, be quiet and pay attention.

Last Saturday night, the (formerly) mighty New Zealand All Blacks lost a Rugby World Cup semi-final. I watched the game with a (platonically) intimate grouping of five friends and come fulltime it was all we could do not to burn coach John Mitchell in effigy.

Mitchell is the prototypical NZ strong, bald, silent type. Much like myself, in fact. He appears to live by the motto that it is better to be silent and be thought a moron than to open your mouth and remove all doubt. Well, we all know the truth now.

Sure, it's easy to blame the coach; to malign his style and disparage his judgement. Sure, I lashed out after the game, and if it hadn't been for that lovely bottle of Bombay Sapphire Gin we consumed in record time , I might have performed wanton, unmanly acts of violence. But, no judge would have convicted me.

THAT fucker has to go. He's toast!

Why?

Well, I'll tell you why.

He lacks PASSION!

Those magnificent men in black that stride, nay, flout! their (impressive) manhood on the field of play, deserve a coach that will motivate, engender, instill, IMPREGNATE! them with the irrepressible desire for conquest that each and every (real) man doth surely feel when he slips on the hallowed black jersey.

But, no. Mitchell's a little too cool for that approach. We trusted him and he betrayed us.

Be gone, Mitchell! Take your passionless countenance and leave us to grieve--to grieve, perchance to rise: RISE! again and dominate, subjugate, ANNIHILLATE! our foe.

Be in no doubt: the players are also to blame. They choked. They stiffed it. They blinked and they failed. The captain has to go. We need a fullback that can actually kick and the first-five needs a brain transplant.

So, tonight we play a pathetic match that decides who comes third or fourth. And, who do we play? The French. The fucking French. A people with NO sense of humour. You thought the Krauts were serious? Try telling a Frenchman a joke and see how excited he gets. At least the Germans make good porn.

We'll bash the French but it won't matter. When we needed the passion it was lacking. It was out to lunch. It was AWOL. It was on vacation.

But, damn it! Never lay down! Go passion! Go freedom! Go Black!

Part Deux - Le Francais - No Consolation

So, on to the playoff for third and fourth places. They said this game would be like kissing your sister--a thankless task but someone's gotta do it. They were right.

Rugby is a game of power and beauty. Reputedly, the game they play in heaven. A game where 3,000 pound scrums thrust and heave for precious inches. Where sub-orbital punts land with pinpoint accuracy. Where running backs float delicate passes to laser-quick wingers who, with a subliminal sidestep or wiggle of the hips, scythe through the opposition defense and slide in for breathtaking tries. Imagine Swan Lake with heavy artillery and you'll just about have it.

Yes, the game's that good; too good to be relegated to an ill-conceived consolation playoff that would be better reserved for a Barbarians-style festival game featuring the best players from the lead-up matches.

Yep, the All Blacks beat the hapless French 40-13. Yep, the crowd enjoyed it. Yep, we slavaged some pride. But what couldn't be erased was the feeling of distress and frustration that it should be the New Zealand All Blacks facing the English in the final on Saturday.

Passion and desire are the derivatives of sound and proper values. The All Black management and coaching staff lacked a SOL and therefore lacked the proper passion and desire. They could not instill this in the players as they appeared bereft of it themselves. Witness the result. We haven't just been beaten, we've been shamed.

This is applicable to life in general: the terrible shame of failure when you know the failure was self-inflicted.

This final game for the All Blacks had one high point and it was nothing done on the field of play. While the French anthem, La Marseillaise, was sung with typical gusto and pride, the broadcast director had the good sense to hold shot on the face of a young boy, his face painted in the red, white and blue of the French flag. The boy's expression was one of simple smiling radiance born of excitement, anticipation and the unashamed joy of a child witnessing a great spectacle. A more efficacious remedy to the dour aspect of our rugby leadership would be hard to imagine.

Coach Mitchell's contract expired at midnight following the game. The Rugby Union has called for applications. Mitchell will reapply but won't be chosen. What's needed now is a leader with fire in his eyes, the pride of All Black achievement in his heart and the ability to evoke and communicate the passion and love for the game they undoubtedly do play in heaven.

Go Black!

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