Abunch of happy amateurs
OPINION: Be careful what you wish for. Some of the Black Ferns who were so impressive in running the White Orcs off their feet in the Women’s World Cup final would like to be paid for playing the game they love.
But professionalism is a Pandora’s Box full of unimaginable evils and many of the fantastic Ferns will never be as happy as they are right now.
Eloise Blackwell, a teacher, said: ’’I guess it would be pretty cool to be paid to play the sport you love, but the balance is good too.’’
I look at the All Blacks and I wonder just how cool it is for many of them. They are held up as role models with the prurient poking about in their daily lives. Aaron Smith’s lascivious torments go on. Jerome Kaino is probably right now sitting in a darkened room wondering how to hold onto his family and if he will play for the All Blacks again.
There are men like Sonny Bill Williams with battered melons being told to go back on the pitch and do it all again and again. It’s a band of brothers you know. They have all this time to train, so they get stronger and fitter, and fitter and stronger, and then they bash their brains until dementia becomes a word they forget every day.
And when their careers are over, if career is not too strong a word for chucking a ball around a muddy paddock, many of these young men don’t have a clue what to do. The admirable New Zealand Rugby Players Association does its best to help, but many wander through the rest of their lives in a kind of shadowland.
For 15 years they have lived largely with men, being told how wonderful they are. The public approach them with deferential awe. Crowds gather at airports just to touch the hem of their garments. And then one day they are just another ex-jock who has been eclipsed by the next bright young thing.
Some live out their lives on television, in a kind of alternative reality where the whole world of rugby is a wonderful thing. Did you notice that on the day of the first test against Australia, no-one mentioned the Aaron Smith and Jerome Kaino scandals on Sky TV. And when Ryan Crotty alluded to them after the match, his words were quickly brushed away. There are no dark clouds on Sky. It’s always sunny. And it’s fake.
So cherish the day you Black Ferns. Did you see how earnest the all-white women of professional England were? What happened to the Maggie Alphonsi’s of multi-cultural Britain. England’s women looked like jam and Jerusalem circa 1955. And God, were they dull. You see professionalism had given the coach time to turn rugby into a game of driving mauls.
Simon Middleton said of the rolling maul: ’’After the last World Cup it was an area that I looked at and thought we could make significant gains. It’s such an influential part of the game, it’s a fantastic attacking weapon and it can allow you to regain control of the game. It’s a work of art.’’
England’s professional art-work got torn down. Of course England’s defeat won’t stop the feministas from banging on about equality. But if the women want equality they should wait over one hundred years before their game goes professional. They should ban high street clothes shops like Zara and Top Shop from trading unless they can provide as big a choice of men’s clothes as women’s. That’s equality and of course it’s ludicrous.
But it doesn’t stop women like the Labour MPDr Rosena Allin-Kahn from writing to the the RFU and accusing it of being ‘‘far less than fully committed’’ to women players than men. Er, maybe that’s because four times as many men play the game. Er, maybe that’s because the RFU is a business and all its profits come through the top of the men’s game. Maybe this PolishPakistani Catholic-Muslim would be better wondering why the Black Ferns, from all walks of life, were so diverse compared to the White Orcs.
So be happy Black Ferns, as you clearly are. What joy there was when Charmaine Smith cleverly sneaked the ball out of the back of a two-man cohort that seemed about to charge and completely bamboozled England’s defence. Smarter and quicker in mind and body were New Zealand’s glorious group of amateurs.
George Nepia wrote of the 1924 Invincibles in his autobiography of 1963: ‘‘We were absent from New Zealand for eight months and I defy anyone to prove that the rush and bustle of today, the pursuit, so it seems to me, of profit out of the players, can provide the enjoyment and the relaxation that we encountered.’’
George played better with a drink on the night before a match. It helped calm his fevered brain. George played better with a good breakfast of bacon and eggs. He had no time for the ‘‘faddists’’.
If you turn pro, you glorious women of the Black Ferns, then you will be surrounded by faddists. They will tell you how to train. They will tell you what to eat. They will even tell you how to think. I’m sure you get a little bit of that already, but it will be a thousand times worse. Your lives will no longer be your own.
Maggie Alphonsi could probably have made money from athletics. But there was something about rugby. She wasn’t going to get paid to play for England then. But she loves the sport. She played with joy and fire.
Alphonsi wrote: ’’I would say do what’s important for yourself, don’t think too far ahead about the awards and achievements that may come from the sport, think about the activity – if it makes you happy, you should pursue it.’’