And now it’s back to work for the Black Ferns ...
Nicked by a police officer, doused by a firefighter, given a lesson by a teacher and unable to contain a rampaging graphic designer, England’s professional rugby players were no match for New Zealand’s World Cup oddjobbers.
England, the only paid side in women’s rugby, lost their world crown 41-32 in Belfast, Northern Ireland yesterday morning to the Black Ferns, whose final lineup was 73 per cent amateur – only New Zealand’s sevens players are contracted.
England will now adopt that model, announcing in July that its 15s player contracts were to be axed in favour of the sevens.
So money didn’t bring England happiness. A New Zealand team that stood in silence to honour the late-great Colin Meads before the game, then paid him the ultimate tribute during with their refusal to be chopped down.
Meads played in the amateur era, which ended for men in the late 1990s but persists for women. If market forces in the shape of viewer numbers and advertising revenues truly are to blame, then this victory should have started pushing them back like a faltering scrum.
For this was some game. It had skill and passion. A cracker, is the technical term, I believe. British commentators described it as the best rugby World Cup final played. That means you too, guys.
With its cut and thrust, skill and speed, its ever-changing landscape, its revelation of player character, it mounted a resolute argument as the best.
New Zealand led, England led, New Zealand struck back, so did England. Across Aotearoa, fingernails were nibbled and gnawed.
And then it was over. No ladies, a plate, for this group of Kiwi rugby women. It was silverware, in the form of a cup. A very big cup. World champions.
England had been outwitted. Looking to repulse black attacks from a set of backs boasting tryscoring machine Portia Woodman on the left, they were blind to the brains and brawn of the Black Ferns pack.
Loosehead prop Toka Natua scored a hat-trick. Now a graphic designer, she was a Fonterra warehouse worker in a previous life, which might have been where she learned to put things away – just as she did England.
Natua hails from Tokoroa in South Waikato, and hates it when ‘‘people mock my town, or talk badly about it’’. You have been warned.
Add in two tries to Manawatu police officer Selica Winiata, so fast she would be inescapable if you happened to be a crim on the run. Captain Fiao’o Fa’amausili, too, is in the police; it’s enough to persuade anyone against a life of crime.
Northland-born lock Charmaine Smith, whose social media shows her working out in a cattleyard, scored a try that recalled Meads and his rustic habit of lugging fence posts and rugby-booted opponents around green pastures.
To ice the 41 points, there was try-scoring, goal-kicking Canterbury rugby development officer Kendra Cocksedge, who as a kid grew up playing in bare feet on the icy Taranaki grass. Kiwi as, eh? So Kiwi that most of the Black Ferns have to work fulltime, then indulge their passion after work – just like the rest of us.
Auckland firefighter Rebecca Wood trains after 5.30pm. Her other option is before 7am, when her shift starts. Eloise Blackwell is an Auckland teacher; Miss Blackwell to her students.
‘‘I guess it would be pretty cool to be paid to play the sport you love but the balance is good too,’’ Blackwell said.
Without pay, the Black Ferns have risen to the top of the world. Would they do better if rugby were a job? Could money provide them with more of the qualities they showed in Belfast?
More passion, more team spirit, more dogged refusal to die when 12 points down and the Red Roses sprouting prickles all over the place?
England had more money, but now the Black Ferns are happier than they.
But cash can buy time to train at a convenient hour, or a workout in a gym, rather than a cattleyard. A contract can make you feel appreciated, more worthwhile.
Still, the Black Ferns have their treasured cup back, even if it does not exactly runneth over for them.