The sporting complications of an ordinary nation

Like so many other chumps I got totally caught up in the 2013 America’s Cup. And like so many other small-minded cling-ons to that yachting debacle, this old mug took the humiliation and loss to Jimmy Spithill personally.

Spithill achieved the greatest sporting comeback of all time, while Team New Zealand, skippered by ‘choker’ Barker and lay-day Dalton, managed to outdo the infamy of the All Blacks loss to France in the semi-finals at the 1999 Rugby World Cup.

I went from true believer and sailing race addict to quivering spectator hiding behind the couch, only managing wincing glimpses at the TV screen as victory slipped from the Kiwi sailors’ grip.

The psychological bruises and trauma are still with me to this day. I don’t know how Warriors fans do it, re-investing their sadomasochistic belief in their beloved team week after week.

But that’s me. At this tender age, I now find myself at, I still struggle to fathom faith, but have concluded it means giving an unknowable God the benefit of the doubt.

So this Americas Cup 2017, I cowardly steered well clear of the battle for the auld mug, which was easy to do because you could only watch the races free-to-air delayed on Prime TV.

News of the water wars went on in the background of my life like a radio station you couldn’t quite hear, but can pick up the gist of, if you stopped to strain an ear.

I wasn’t the only one. A lot of the country had no stomach for another kick in the guts, so when the cup was won, it fell a little flat. For the non-believers, there had been insufficient foreplay and build-up to savour the climax of a win.

And if you didn’t buy in at the beginning, was it really cricket to have the temerity to show up at the end to dine out on the victor’s spoils?

The America’s Cup had been a race that went on in faraway place and could have disappeared into the Bermuda triangle for all some of us cared. The bitter memory of 2013 had left many feeling that the boat had sailed forever.

After the win, it was left to the corporates to do catch-up and quickly start milking the win for all it was worth. The masses needed to be marshalled so there would be a decent turn-out for the victory parades.

The corporate command rolled out the royal we, telling us that ‘we’ beat Jimmy Spithill and Oracle, and how ‘we’ should all feel proud. Even if ‘we’ had only nibbled at the very edges of the America’s Cup experience, now was the time for the whole country to get in behind, to let out the spinnakers and celebrate ‘our’ win.

But if ‘we’ hadn’t won the cup the ‘we’ wouldn’t have been employed. The loss would have been referred to as Emirates Team New Zealand’s loss that we weren’t contaminated by.

Now the country has been orchestrated to do our bit for nationalism and turn out in great numbers for a ticker-tape parade to wave the Kiwi flag and pay homage to ‘Emirates’ Team NZ.

Quick, get a look at the salty gods before they return to their giant man sheds to magic up the next technological breakthrough canoe to float at Auckland viaduct four years from now.

And we have done as we were told and dutifully lined the streets and celebrated that the cup was won by a helmsman from what, his mother said, was a very ordinary New Zealand family.

In this country we make a virtue of our ordinariness. Apparently it’s what the rest of the world likes about us. We like to think of ourselves as ordinary, humble, decent folk who live by the rules of true sportsmanship and give everyone a fair go.

But ripping off touring Lions’ rugby fans and over-charging them in caravan parks, hotels, motels, AirBnbs, camping grounds, bars and restaurants isn’t sportsmanlike or fair.

Each day sees another headline of an ordinary Kiwi’s greed, leaving a sour taste in the visitors’ mouths. And still we expect them to suck it up and say nice things about us and tell us how welcoming and friendly we are.

After all, if they’ve come all this way, they must be well-heeled and can afford to spend an extra penny or two. Unlike Kiwi rugby players and their fans, who are from the ranks of the ordinary, the English part of the Lions are from the middle and upper classes and it would be churlish not to help them loosen their wallets.

Of the Lions’ fans I’ve seen in Wellington, they look cold, miserable and bored. Thems the breaks if you tour in winter, but I do feel bad if they’re having difficulty hanging on to their ha’pennies. I remember the last tour and the Lions seemed more cheerful, quite the proverbial happy camper.

Perhaps I could be reading too much into their body language, but you can’t hide your Lion eyes.