In praise of halfbacks and their yapping

Halfbacks are like the lead singer in a band – they are the most vocal.

In the first Rugby World Cup semi-final of 2003, Australia hosted New Zealand in Sydney. The All Blacks were overwhelmingly the favourites and lost. In front of 82,000 people, most clad in that insult of curdledyellow with which Australia have somehow been inflicted, the Wallabies would outplay New Zealand by such a margin that it would cost their coach, John Mitchell, his job.

Oh, the words that were written. But no obituary for that failed campaign was greater than one delivered on the field, eight minutes before it ended.

By that stage, the pressure was beginning to dismantle the All Blacks. The alchemy was not working. The centre could not hold. And nor could the wing.

Byron Kelleher popped up a short pass to Doug Howlett, who hit it at speed, as he so often did, and knocked it forward, as he so often didn’t. And from a tackle after the resulting scrum, Kelleher was penalised for reaching into the ruck.

The game was effectively over. The All Blacks would not win the Rugby World Cup. The hollowness was beginning, again. And as the broadcast camera zoomed in on Byron Kelleher, George Gregan was screaming at him, ‘‘four more years’’.

Only a halfback would do that. Not the sledging itself but its beautiful precision, its quick and perfect accuracy, and Gregan’s deep understanding of the baggage that came with every failed New Zealand World Cup campaign. His instinct for where the vulnerability lay.

I love halfbacks. For me, it’s the greatest position in the game.

Halfbacks are rugby’s equivalent of Danny DeVito’s character, Louie De Palma, in the sitcom Taxi. Head dispatcher, smaller than everyone else, egomaniacal, megalomaniacal, opportunistic, outrageous and brilliant.

For all it requires of its players, the strength, skill and bravery, professional rugby (particularly in the Sanzaar nations) often comes packaged in language so rehearsed, cautious and leaden it’s unwittingly devolved into a form of parody. Those poor bastards, so desperate not to say anything wrong they talk about themselves in the third person, or they ham it up like the end of week production at a school camp. One of the many good things to have come from the elevation of the Black Ferns to a side receiving mainstream media coverage, is that a large number of our top female players are as expressive off the field as they are on it.

But last night, we saw two of the best, and two of the noisiest, going 9 to 9. Aaron Smith for the Highlanders, TJ Perenara for the Hurricanes.

We’re a ‘Canes household. We totally adore TJ, although we don’t for a moment argue that he’s sane. I’ve never seen a man talk so much. (And I include myself in that stocktake.) But at the heart of the unrelenting commentary he provides, the exhortations, the grievances, the litigation, the celebration and the gall, is a love of the game that makes him a joy to watch.

He’s also extraordinarily fit. TJ Perenara has scored more tries than any other halfback in the history of Super Rugby, and more tries than many famous outside backs – Joe Rokocoko, Sitiveni Sivivatu, Conrad Smith and Israel Dagg. And that’s because TJ supports like a scaffolding company.

Not only because he’s fit and wildly competitive, but because he hates the thought of anything happening that he’s not part of.

I was a halfback once. Sadly, I was slower than a Three-Toed Sloth after smoking a joint.

What I loved was the action. Being halfback means it never stops. You’re always in the game.

Wings get the glory, yes. Wings break the sound barrier and make the crowd stand and roar but I’ve seen wings go for 20 minutes without touching the ball.

A halfback calls for a formal inquiry if 20 seconds pass without them being involved.

Watch Kendra Cocksedge, who has 42 caps for the Blacks Ferns, and who tweeted ‘‘The Man’’ to TJ Perenara, halfback to halfback in their strange, mad club.

In a Black Ferns’ game against Canada last year, the forwards scored a rolling-maul try from a line-out. It’s 100 per cent the forwards.

The backs could have gone up into the stands to watch. But Cocksedge is at the back of the maul, leaning on Fiao’o Fa’amausili like she’s a public bar, and screaming at them like she’s their boss.

And the thing is, the forwards don’t stop, turn around to look at her and say ‘‘Oi, Kendra, we’ve totally got this, piss off’’, they think it’s her right to tell them what to do, even when they’re already doing it.

And that’s why I love halfbacks. Because playing is rugby fun, winning rugby is fun and talking non-stop shit during the rugby is fun. And halfbacks exist to simultaneously do all three.