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Whilst Osama Bin Laden may have been found by the CIA watching another replay of the royal wedding yesterday in his Pakistan penthouse, another prominent un-Australian still walks among us. I am, of course, referring to myself.
My crime, particularly in these circles, is ruthless and borders on high treason. Something that rivals selling ASIO secrets to the Russians whilst eating an endangered rock wallaby and wiping my mouth on Steve Waugh’s baggy green. I have supported New Zealand.
Not in everything I might add, just rugby league. But not in a way that they’re my second favourite. I’ve supported the Kiwis over Australia. And I don’t even have a New Zealand great-grandmother.
I’ve done so for nigh on a decade now. It all started after the Kangaroos whipped the men in black 54-0 at Stadium Australia in 2000.
All of a sudden teasing the bloke at the newsagent with the funny accent had lost its lustre as the papers he sold spoke less and less about Kangaroo excellence and more and more about the demise of Test match rugby league.
I went about my business quietly at first, fearing friends and family might be suspicious of a full Maori facial tattoo or the complete Dave Dobbin record collection.
In secret I cheered on the Russians and the Welsh in that year’s World Cup, hoping against hope for an upset against Australia to give the Kiwis a run. Alas it was not to be as the green and gold went rampant in a deceptively close final leaving New Zealand to wander aimlessly for the next few years.
Flash forward to the 2005 Tri-Nations and enter Brian McClennan a portly, bald, abrasive man who was the rugby league equivalent of Jerome and Brett in Flight of the Conchords.
Few people outside of Footrot Flats knew who he was and soon he would be leading team NZ against the world’s best. Finding myself in London at the time of the tournament I followed the Kiwis surprise form all the way to the final, making my way to an icy Leeds the only way that was financially possible to me at the time, i.e. a fanatics bus tour, an experience of booze and flatulence that only further encouraged me to spurn my countrymen.
What should have been a magical night for this sheep in wolf’s clothing watching 50 years of trans-Tasman payback was somewhat dampened however by our tour leader who had us leave the ground 10 minutes from full-time, only for us to be subsequently spotted by some local English fans who gave us a ‘Yorkshire shower’ on the way out.
The stale beer, nor the drunken bus driver, could lower my mood though as I told all and sundry that New Zealand had only years to wait before they would be the true ‘World Cup’ champions.
It was to my dismay then that success disappeared for NZ quicker than the Mad Butcher at a vegan restaurant with the NZRL replacing McClennan with Gary ‘crayfish’ Kemble, a move that turned out to be a bit like replacing Paul Sironen with Michael Pobjie in the 1989 grand final.
‘Captain Calamity’ as he was known to his players coached the side to a 3-0 series defeat against Great Britain in a result Kemble labelled ‘pretty close’. The players and press labelled it ‘pretty atrocious’ however and one year out from the World Cup the Kiwis were coachless, friendless and beached as. Bro.
More importantly to me, I was a laughing stock.
Cometh the ice man. Like a gnarled wild west gunslinger that had seen it all before Wayne Bennett strode into town, kicked open the NZRL’s saloon doors and yanked the gold star from Kemble’s cold corpse. Suddenly some palms began to get sweaty.
At the bar Colin Love glanced at Geoff Carr, who looked at Ricky Stuart, who shoulder charged a referee. Bennett, who felt he had been duped by the ARL following the 2005 Tri-Nations, was out for revenge… a dish the ice man knew was always best served cold.
And serve it up he did in the Kiwis 2008 World Cup final victory, a game second only to the 1995 Illawarra Carlton League Grand Final for twists, turns and controversy. I watched the game from the nosebleed stands of Suncorp, wedged between a trio of young Australian guys and an old New Zealand couple.
When it became clear that the game was won the older gentleman in front of me burst into tears, as if unable to believe what he was seeing.
The Australian blokes behind me looked like they had just seen Ruban Wiki doing star jumps in the nude. I vaulted down to the sideline seats where the large contingent of leftover English fans and Steveo had begun taunting the Australian players; poms, pakeha, Polynesians and punters all cheering on the downfall of an empire.
It’s been a couple of years since that muggy November night. The Kangaroos and the Kiwis have played each other a few times since with the results being pretty even. Sure, the Kiwis haven’t dominated like I once predicted but it’s nice to watch a game between the two countries where power and skill have replaced predictability and skulduggery.
Which brings me to my final revelation.
Casting an eye over the two team lists on Sunday I couldn’t help but spot some chinks in Australia’s armour. A couple of players out of form here, a few gambles on the bench there. So this Friday, for the first time in over a decade, I’m going to be proudly cheering on the mighty Roos.
It’s not that I suddenly hate the Kiwis, with players like Hohai and Marshall I don’t think I ever could. It’s just that they don’t need, or deserve, our sympathy any more. Real Test match rugby league is here and to paraphrase Winston Smith; “I love Australia.”
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