Sport
Sonny Bill Williams knows a thing or two about how professional sport operates.
Sonny Bill Williams knows how professional sport operates.
In 2010, it was estimated that dozen people had been killed in the karaoke bars of the Philippines while performing My Way, the 1969 song that Frank Sinatra made famous, if not inescapable. The phenomenon was given a name – the
My Way Killings – and sociologists and bar owners engaged in lively debate over its cause.
Some believed it was essentially a coincidence:
My Way was a frequently performed number in the often-violent Filipino karaoke bar scene. Others argued that, because the song was so popular, people had strong views on how it should be performed, so the killings were the violent environment’s version of a scathing review.
Then there were those who reckoned the song’s triumphalist lyrics rubbed people, some of whom were drunk and packing heat, up the wrong way. (According to Sinatra’s daughter Tina, Ol’ Blue Eyes himself thought the song was “self-serving and selfindulgent”.) However, there’s no denying My Way’s enduring popularity: the 75 weeks it spent in the UK Top 40 is a record still unbroken, and it is the most-played song at British funerals.
The ambivalence about it may shed some light on our ambivalence towards Sonny Bill Williams, an athlete with an uncanny ability to inflame and divide public opinion. Most of us would like to live our way, without compromise, but lack the nerve, talent or resources – or all of the above – to do so. Because of, rather than despite, that thwarted ambition, we don’t necessarily admire those who manage to do it and get away with it. Terms like “bloody-minded” and “up himself” quickly enter the conversation.
So when Williams’ devotion to Islam led him to tape over a sponsor’s logos on his Blues jersey, it triggered another wave of the consternation and criticism that followed his code-hopping, his forays into boxing and even his rather charming gesture of giving his Rugby World Cup winner’s medal to a young fan. The opening sentence of the New Zealand Herald editorial on the latest controversy typifies this exasperation: “The charmed life of Sonny Bill Williams continues to amaze New Zealand rugby followers.”
There are few certainties in life, but one would have been stunned if the editorial hadn’t referred to “biting the hand that feeds him”. One wasn’t.
I doubt that Williams, who has just lost a sizeable chunk of his career to injury, would agree that he leads a charmed life. I suspect he would characterise it as a matter of negotiating a contract and exercising the freedoms guaranteed in it. And as in all negotiations, the other party – in this case New Zealand Rugby (NZR) – has the option of refusing to go along with his demands if it finds them unreasonable.
Williams (31) has been a professional athlete since he was 16. He signed his first multimillion-dollar contract at 22. When coaches praise his professionalism, they are usually talking about his dedication and commitment to selfimprovement, but this is a guy with an intimate understanding of how professional sport operates.
Williams and his manager, Khoder Nasser, can drive a hard bargain because he is a phenomenal talent, pin-up boy, drawcard and human headline, with plenty of options to fall back on should NZR balk at his demands.
The bottom line is that New Zealand rugby needs Williams as much as, if not more than, he needs New Zealand rugby.
Bill English, worryingly, found it “hard to understand that one guy has to behave differently than the rest”. It’s very simple, Prime Minister: it’s because he can.
Williams can drive a hard bargain because he is a phenomenal talent.