‘Murdoch exile’ best for Warner
OPINION: Who knew that Australian tear ducts were the most developed in the sporting world? Who could have guessed, watching them over the years at their sneering, self-important, selfrighteous peak, that the moment they were found to have transgressed, Australia’s comically self-styled leadership group would whimper like fiveyear-olds caught with their hand in the biscuit tin?
As one wag put it on Twitter, this past fortnight we have seen more Australians blubbing on television than at any time since Scott and Charlene got married on Neighbours.
But if the feeble snivelmerchants want to know what proper sporting contrition looks like, they should have read the recent obituary pages. There they would have found the story of Keith Murdoch, the former New Zealand rugby international who died on Good Friday at the age of 74.
True, Murdoch would not have been someone with whom the cheating Aussies are likely to be familiar. But that was largely of his own volition. This was the man who, after bringing embarrassment on his colleagues, team and nation, disappeared from public view. This was the All Black who went into a self-imposed exile that lasted for more than 45 years.
A prop forward with a reputation for enjoying a drink, Murdoch played in an era when a game of rugby - even international rugby - was reckoned to be not much more than the prelude to a lengthy session at the bar.
Thus it was that during the All Blacks’ tour of Britain in 1972, he sought to celebrate scoring a try in a 19-16 victory over Wales by downing a few at the Angel Hotel opposite Cardiff Arms Park. Disappointingly for him, by the time he got there - possibly via several other hostelries - the place was closed. When a doorman informed him that time had been called, he reacted as only a disappointed prop with a still unslaked thirst can: he punched the man. He also punched a tour official who tried to intervene.
The response from the New Zealand management was immediate and draconian: Murdoch was sent home in disgrace on the next available flight. Goodness knows how much he patronised the in-flight trolley, but perhaps aware that a sizeable media scrum was certain to be forming at Auckland airport to greet his return, when the plane stopped to refuel at Darwin in northern Australia, he got off. And from there he made his way into the Outback. As far as we know, he never set foot in his homeland again.
There was no televised mea culpa. No choreographed attempt to appease the sponsors. No lachrymose self-pity. Murdoch just disappeared with his shame. Nobody knew where he was or what he was doing. A couple of journalists did manage to track him down over the years, hoping to elicit the story of what he did next. They were given short shrift.
But he was not forgotten. Every time the All Blacks subsequently played in Cardiff, the team would gather in the Angel Hotel and toast the health of the most absent of absent friends. Presumably these days they do so with water.
Admittedly, as sporting remorse goes, Murdoch’s strayed towards the extreme. This was more substantial than Tiger Woods checking into rehab or Eric Cantona doing a bit of community service.
But you get the sense from the reaction to the Aussie ballscratching shame that there would not be many in the cricketing world who would be too upset were David Warner to do a modern-day Murdoch.