Rugby World Cup
As a nation, New Zealand did the vacuuming, put the sausage rolls in the oven and hosted the rugby world simply and well, despite the haters and grandstanding, which became less and less important as we went. As for the rugby – well, we bloody won it, didn’t we? Two months on, you only have to show me Graham Henry’s post-final-win-eyebrow gymnastics or Richie McCaw being eye-gouged and I’m glowing like those folk in Cocoon.

Beating the Aussies
After a world cup (remember that) where we did our lose-in-the-semi thing, That First Win In Australia Since Ever was an epic of fingernails on the floor. It was hard to know what kind of NZ cricket team we had post-captaincy switch (alright, it’s ALWAYS hard to know what kind of team we have), but the Tasmanian fightback showed we had some real heart – and hope for the future. Bring on the South Africans.

Super Tottenham
I haven’t mentioned them much on the site, for fear of jinxing them. After missing out narrowly last time, Spurs are quietly having a brilliant season and look very much at home in the top four. Ask me more about how it’s going after we beat Chelsea this morning.

Le Tour
One of the best and worst I’ve seen – worst because of the first week crashes that took Wiggins et al out – best because of the slow burning drama and eventual, worthy winner. Cadel deserved his win for the way he rode, and the way he’s ridden over the last few years. He won’t do it again though, and I hope for a few more fireworks next year. It’s been a fantastic year for NZ’s cyclists also, the folding of Pure Black Racing aside – hoping for a big medal haul on the track in London next year too.

Man of the year
Well, who do you reckon? Stephen Donald is a bigger folk hero than Bob Dylan, his journey from whitebaiting to world cup winner was more beautiful than an unattended burger restaurant. The whole country got the Beaver fever and I couldn’t have been more pleased. Here he is resting on the beach or my little tribute.

sportreview.net.nz highlights
A new daughter, other family stuff and employment related madness meant I’ve not been able to give as much care and attention to the site as I’d like – but I’m still proud of how it’s gone this year. I’ve done some of my favourite rugby writing ever on the back of the world cup, with the brouhaha over the jerseys beforehand, and the nervousness against Argentina, beating Australia in the semi, the final the highlights for me. Drinking was a reoccurring theme over the year, with the All Black selectors getting drunk and this little number about alcohol abuse in the north of England.

Twitter, obviously, is where all the former sports bloggers are hanging out these days – and most of the athletes. It’s possible to go from abusing someone on the field to abusing them on the internet in no time nowadays. Two twitter related posts: for the cricket and for the rugby. I love Powerpoint (even thought it was a slow year for sportreview cartoons) and loved this.

Of course, most thanks go to you, mysterious readers. This site is obviously a little labour of love, I do it for no other reason than I enjoy it thoroughly. sportreview.net.nz is the kind of crappy NZ sports blog I would like to read if this one didn’t exit – it’s extremely heartening to know others enjoy it too. Thanks, appreciate it.

Other stuff:

My top five listened to songs, from last.fm:
1. Harry Nilsson – Lullaby In Ragtime
2. Robyn – Dancing On My Own
3. Robyn – Indestructible
4. Joni Mitchell – Car on a Hill
4. Harry Nilsson – Always

I’ve done bugger-all film watching or reading this year. Drive was the best (only?) (current) film I saw at the cinema, and I’m working my way through Peter Guralnick’s Elvis Bios. TV wise, I’ve really got into Game Of Thrones, Breaking Bad and Community. I’ve also thoroughly enjoyed the Discourse NZ podcast. All recommended.

Wishing you a happy and more settled 2012 – see you next year!

 Photos:

Me and Dan. I told him how gutted I was for him, but also how stoked I was for Stephen Donald.

Best rugby ground in NZ, still. Tremendous atmosphere for all three matches I went to there.

Eden Park felt like a proper international stadium during the RWC. Let’s hope they keep those temporary stands somewhere handy.

Future Tour de France champ.

In fairness, we got a bit of nudge-nudge-wink-wink ‘never under-estimate the French’ thrown around during the week, but nothing that was going to actually wreck anyone’s post-Aussie-wasting buzz. That was left to the French team themselves, who showed up ready to play. Play they did, treating the All Blacks like a faulty keyboard, and hitting them just as hard. Tony Woodcock’s try calmed the nerves somewhat, but Woolly Valley’s Piri Weepu, who’d featured on more T-shirts than tomato sauce during the week, didn’t have his kicking boots on. Still, things were still roughly going to plan until Aaron Cruden started writhing about on the grass.

“Cometh the hour, cometh the man,” said Grant Nisbett in a slightly horrified manner as Stephen Donald took his tracksuit off. sportreview.net.nz is on record as a fan of the Waiuku wonder (ahem), but even I was bricking it. The Bath-bound Waikato first five, whose style of play can best be described as ‘elbow-y’ was our only hope, our oval ball Obi-Wan. But god love him, there he was, charging on with a look of steely determination, just as most New Zealanders started thinking about hiding behind the couch.

Donald made a decent little break and run. He got his kick. Thank fuck. And he was part of a second half defense-orientated All Black performance that would have Chris ‘ocker shocker’ Rattue calling for Robbie Deans even more than he does now, but was precisely what was called for on the night. Looking at our performances from the quarters on, it seems we were doing our best England 2003 impression, relying on a battle-scarred forward pack to belt the opposition and play it tight, with heaps of kicking. It’s all pretty un-New Zealand, but I couldn’t care less. Finally we discovered we, too, can play finals-style rugby and in doing so, we put ourselves in position to win it.

Having said that, I doubt I’ve enjoyed a game of rugby less. I was thinking of my mate Mike, who was at Twickenham in 1999 and Cardiff in 2007 to see France dump us out – he was there on Sunday and I hope he screamed like I did when we got possession back four minutes from time. The French had battered us in prime drop goal or penalty territory for most of the second half, sending me into a mood darker than Grizz Wylie discovering a smashed bottle of scotch in the boot, but suddenly it was on – maybe that point would be enough. Stephen Donald, who missed finding touch in Hong Kong that time, played it comically safe booting it out. We won the line out, rumbled it up, then got the penalty. I saw stars.

Jeff Wilson spewing in Johannesburg, dwarf-sized Frenchmen dancing around the Twickenham turf, John Mitchell being surly at press conferences and Wayne fucking Barnes don’t matter any more. David Kirk has company.

I promise I will stop going on about it, but I am absolutely made up for Stephen Donald. He’s having a great week. To go out and kick the winning penalty (as it turned out) for his country after being most people’s idea of world cup poison took proper character, guts and steel. From the moment he rejoined the squad, he exuded professionalism and confidence and he must be quietly enjoying showing his critics what he’s really made of on the biggest stage of all. It says a lot about our remarkable depth that we can call up a bloke who was too busy whitebating to answer his phone to the national coach and throw him on the field to win us the world cup. Not many countries could do that, and not many men could do what Stephen Donald did. Fair play to you, Beav.

This week has been all parades and people treating the Webb Ellis cup with the respect it deserves. The thing I’m enjoying the most is the sense of restarting, of nothing mattering any more. If we’d lost, we’d be in the middle of recriminations, Steve Hansen versus Robbie Deans versus Warren Gatland and rugby-related moaning and wailing reaching unprecedented-ly stroppy levels. Fuck all that. We won, and there’s plenty of time to contemplate what happens next. Later. Let’s enjoy the fact that our big party ended the right way, with a party. I still can’t believe it.

Like most New Zealanders, I spent the week before the semis talking myself out of it. Our world cup track record is not good, and the Wallabies are more cunning than Gerry Brownlee manoeuvring himself to a buffet across a crowded room. Immaturely, I greeted news of every Australian injury with a fist pump. I wished heavy contact upon the groin of David Pocock. Not good heavy contact.

But feck it – our team is pretty good too. Our captain only needs one leg, Brad Thorn has been flying into rucks like an angry photocopier all tournament, and our midfield is the best around. Piri and our back three are playing like Robert Palmer and a pack of rock chicks. Going into a semi final with Aaron Cruden instead of Dan Carter might seem as likely as John Mitchell subbing for Peter Garrett at a Midnight Oil concert, but he looked more at home than Piri Weepu on Endor. This tactic of having a guy on the sideline chopping piss for the most part of the tournament before being called into the squad may be a winner – I may have made a rugby player if it was around in my day.

On Sunday, Dagg’s running and Nonu’s early try calmed a few nerves, but I didn’t relax until about the 77th minute on Sunday night, despite Justin bloody Marshall saying it was in the bag from about the 26th minute. I’ve been hurt too many times by the Eales and Kefus of this world to feel comfortable about the Aussies not staging a Jason-from-Friday-13th style comeback. Our goalkicking, so pinpoint last week, started to look positively Welsh. I spent more time watching the clock and going to the lavatory in a nervous fashion than enjoying our performance in a tight, proper mature finals football semi final win against our great rivals. The All Blacks looked bloody stoked afterwards, and Australia were gracious in defeat, as you do when you come from a grown up country. They played their part as potential party-of-a-nation-cancellers well, and they deserve anything but playing a farcial match against Wales in a half-full Eden Park this week.

So now it’s world cup final week, and like last week, I just want the whole thing over. If we spend this week reading about how we’ll win it and watching the comedy stylings of our national team, then we lose, I will Not Be Able To Handle It. My dream result on Sunday would be a three try opening, leading to a 30 or 40 point thrashing, so we can just cheer the All Blacks the fuck on for 80 minutes, with men storming into the DJ booth and rip the fucking Black Eyed Peas off the decks, so the crowd can chant and sing songs of their own devising in a national rugby catharsis, putting the ‘NZ rugby crowds are quiet’ thing to bed once and for all. This world cup hoodoo has been hanging over us for a long time, team and there’s no doubt this is our best chance to win one since the last time it was here. I wish you well, All Blacks.

In other news, I went to see Wales play France at Eden Park on Saturday night. Everyone remarked how it feels like a proper stadium now, with its temporary stands and Allienz area style lighting on the South Stand. It’s got a proper cavernous-yet-intimate atmosphere and filled with Welsh and French fans, it was raucous and loud. Of course, we were robbed of a proper contest by the referee doing what he was told to, and the fallout seems to be continuing even now. On the night, I knew when the crowd started booing France they had it in the bag – there’s nothing those weasely French love more than being hated. I felt desperately sorry for Wales, and for some better goal kicking, they’d be at this party with us.

“I turned up expecting some real insight before such a crucial match, not some guy laying out lino and spinning around on it. It’s unprofessional,” said rugby  journalist Fred Sauce-Tie. “It’s the worst press conference since John Eales did rhythmic gymnastics in Brisbane that time.”

Breakdancing, a popular style of street dance that was created and developed as part of hip-hop culture among African Americans and Latino youths in New York City is generally considered a non-traditional media relations channel. However, it proved popular among French media, who tapped their notepads rhythmically while Sonny Bill Williams pulled off a difficult handglide freeze. Reserve first five eighths Stephen Donald did not participate in the breakdancing, performing only light Parkour at the press conference’s conclusion.

The most impressive thing for me about Cruden, Donald and Gear coming into the squad is that they’re fit and ready to go. Faced with sporting rejection and with many, many high class rugby matches to watch, sportreview.net.nz is sure sportreview.net.nz would have spent the last few weeks on the couch, enjoying a diet of pistachio nuts, beer and crying.

The hero of this particular script is, of course, Piri Weepu, the pint size and width Hurricanes half back that does it all – goal kicking, backup first-fiving, beard leadership and dragging boozing team mates out of north shore boozers. He’s an unlikely candidate for world cup saviour in fairness, having suffered a horrific leg injury this time last year, refuelled a lot over the off season and been one of the absolutely positively stroppy Hurriances. The All Blacks haven’t tried the folk hero approach since ’95 with Jonah Lomu – it’s going well so far, but as all Warriors fans know, banking on a wave of emotion to get you there is a risky strategy at times.

Even so, despite going into a semi final with the dastardly Australians with the country’s 43rd pick first five on the bench, I feel strangely calm, in a ‘really quite drunk, but unconcerned’ fashion. Fact remains that even with Slade Cruden, not Carter, we still have backline the envy of any team – even sportreview.net.nz could play between Weepu and Nonu and appear competent*. I am also heartened by the clichés being rolled out about the All Blacks being stronger as a group for having our star player in the stands and our captain on one leg. If we win this world cup, it will be as a group that’s been tested and triumphed – not as arrogant favourites that fucked it up. It’s worth a try, hey?

Dan!
The thing I love most about Dan Carter is he always looks half asleep. Running straight through a Wallaby defence. Goal kicking. Hanging out on someone’s wall. Farting about wearing only a pair of jocks. Tormenting the Lions. He always seems so relaxed, he’s kind of like your brother’s dodgy mate you suspect smoked a joint before showing up at the 21st. In a country where most males use Marc Ellis as template for manhood, Dan from Southbridge is pretty comfortable being himself, a shit hot rugby player, an obviously loved and respected member of the All Blacks, or an underwear model. Whatever. And so last Tuesday, he did a remarkable job of addressing a hysterical media pack who’d made his groin front page and lead-the-bulletin news. Suddenly he was guidance councillor to a nation, telling us to get over, um, him. It’s debatable whether signing Dan up for a further four years is good for NZ rugby long term, but there’s no doubt the man himself is all class. Heal well, fella.

Of course, in all the semi final excitement, let’s not forget the tournament’s minnows – I would like to pay tribute by publishing one of Haydn’s photos of Troy from Tampa, who didn’t let a little detail like a BROKEN NOSE he got playing rugby stop him coming to New Zealand, wearing an appalling hat and getting farkin’ wasted. Here’s to you, minnows, you have showed us how to enjoy rugby again. Let’s hope we remember that over the next couple of weeks.

* Total lie

This was the 1999 world cup of John Hart, new jersies and All Black front-row painted jumbo jets, not to mention hubris, over-confidence and pride before a fall. I was living in London at the time and had the ‘pool pack’ of tickets for NZ v Tonga in Bristol, the match versus England at Twickenham and NZ v Italy up at Huddersfield. We were a group of five chaps, mostly from Hamilton, all fans of rugby, travelling, drinking and average behavior. The match against Italy was a jumping off point for a couple of days away in northern cities.

Our bus from London took us along some of the most boring, scenery-free motorways known to man to Huddersfield in West Yorkshire. Alfred McAlpine Stadium is a charming stadium, situated in the middle of a charming business park – you sit nice and close to the action, and we cheered and carried on as the All Blacks racked up 101 points to poor old Italy’s 3. Cullen, Lomu and Osborne ran riot – even Dylan Mika got on the scoresheet. It was arguably the peak of the All Blacks’ 1999 campaign – next up was a lackluster quarter final against Scotland and THAT match versus the French. Anyway. Rugby is not really the point of *this* story.

Our little group moved straight out of the stadium to the business park tavern to watch Wales v Samoa on the telly. This was the accumulation period, in cricket terms, where a solid base of fizzy lager pints was laid down, while cheering the Samoans on to their second win world cup win against the Welsh. We weren’t feeling much pain at full time, and it was just a quick stagger to the bus to the train station, stopping only for a quick photo-op with a passing Glen Osborne.

The blogger with Glen Osborne. Companion’s identify concealed to protect the drunk.

I soon found myself wandering alone around a Huddersfield train platform, having lost my companions for a while – they were in the station McDonalds loading up before the night ahead, they told me much later (Cheers! You bastards). Having regrouped, we boarded a train bound for Leeds. This being the UK, it was dark when we got there, and we were soon slipping down Leedside streets fruitlessly looking for a pub – on the way we spotted a huge, flash-looking bus outside a flash hotel. “Wouldn’t it be awesome if that was the All Blacks’ team bus?”someone said. Cue Twilight Zone theme.

We ended up in the Leeds equivalent of a Lone Star, thoughtfully offering a two-for-one happy hour, where more accumulation ensued. From there it was on to a dodgy nightclub, an upstairs, no-windowed affair. Our group was busy being loud witty in a fashion you can only be after 16 pints of lager, when we noticed a group of improbably wide-shouldered guys in matching polo shirts and pleated pants making their way in – it was only the bloody All Blacks! Imagine their surprise, having carefully chosen accommodation away from Huddersfield and getting out to a wee nightclub to unwind away from the glare of a rugby mad public, to see us in our All Black gears with a slurry welcome.

We bowled over to the group of seven or eight players, seemingly lead by Josh Kronfeld and Jeff Wilson, to say g’day. Kronfeld was the friendliest, happy to pose for photos and accept any drinks on offer. Wilson was happy to talk, but seemed to have trouble relaxing, weirdly answering any questions as talking to a post match interviewer. I made a great faux pas, asking Greg Feek, who towered over me by about seven feet, who he was. “Greg Feek,” he said helpfully but sternly, before stalking away.

I was pretty impressed with some of the All Blacks players’ own accumulation, considering this was the middle of the world cup. If you remember, John Hart took the team away to the south of France (the next day, as it turns out) for  ’frolicking in the surf’ photo ops before heading to Scotland for the quarter final. I can’t remember if we left first, or them, but we were soon on our way – I remember thinking “Won’t it be great when we get home to New Zealand, we can say we were on the piss with the All Blacks when they won the 1999 world cup!” Ahem.

From there, we were back to Leeds station, to get the last train to Manchester, where we were staying. Just to add to the surreality of it all, we found ourselves sharing the lift up to our hotel rooms with Begbie himself, Robert Carlisle, and two lady-friends. “You’re Robert Carlisle!” I said. “No I’m not,” he said. It bloody was, you know.

This was the first of a three-day tour up north – from Manchester we went to Newcastle (“Hey, we’re over here from New Zealand, do you know our long lost cousin – his name is Alan Shearer?”) then Edinburgh (“I know, let’s spend the day in this ancient city having a head-to-head drinking championship of the world!”). It was a lot of fun. More fun than the rugby.

We’re constantly told we’re a rugby mad nation, and now our real appetite for the egg shaped ball code is being put to the test, with rugby and rugby related material dominating all the channels, all the time. And it’s great. On Sunday of the opening world cup weekend, the conversation at our place went like this:

“OK, so we’ve just watched Australia v Italy, Wales v South Africa is later on… do you want to watch Ireland v USA?”

“Um, yeah?”

“The real question is, do you want to watch six hours of rugby in a row?”

The Tron
I used two of the tickets in my ‘Hamilton’ ‘pack’ to attend live matches. The first was the third of the All Blacks not horrendously injured taking on Japan on Friday night – we had seats in the temporary stands and had an excellent view. The All Blacks played like they wanted to be in the team for next week, mostly. Poor old Colin Slade played like a guy in a Stephen Donald tribute band playing at the Donald’s home.It’s the old cliche, but Hamilton was going off – we had a big night out in a pub right in the middle of town, next to the fan zone, we had no trouble getting to. It was brilliant. Equally brilliant was Wales v Samoa. Where I was expecting our Taro-reared south pacific brothers to put Wales to the sword, smashed-him-bro-wise, Wales tackled the crap out of them – and won it. It was a tense match, with a great ‘atmosphere’, in no small part to two fantastic sets of supporters from opposite sides of the world bought together by the love of the rucking code and the big fucking tournament. Awwwww. My only quibbles were the stadium DJ, of course, who squashed any chance of a sing-song from supporters renowned for their singing ability. I heard the same happened at Eden Park with the Irish. The other quibble is the twats starting Mexican waves about ten minutes into the matches – get over it people, I hear Mexican waves are totally uncool even in Mexico these days.

Public enemy
When you see a battered station wagon with ‘Quade Sucks’ written in electrician’s tape on the door, you know NZ has a new public enemy #1. But I put this to the nation – is Quade Cooper the best we can do? A little chicken-legged bleeder from Tokoroa? For throwing a few handbags at Richie McCaw? Really? It all seems a bit forced to me. Surprisingly, Richie seemed up for it in Brisbane. He got involved where a Colin Meads, say, would have ignored Cooper on the field, before marching into the Aussie changing shed post-game, throwing Quade over his shoulder and taking him back to Te Kuiti to shear him in an unnecessarily rough fashion. Bitch slapping, or indeed shearing, should take place behind closed doors, team.

Other stuff
The star of the cup so far has been the madder-than-a-mad-woman’s-shit Queenstown bouncer, on youtube and outside the Queenstown court. Incredible. More unhinged than a DIY gate I’d have built. Fantastic performance, get him alongside Dobbo or Saviloy.

The rugby world cup Flickr stream is worth a look

If you want to talk opening night ‘debacles’ – Fundy Post is all you need

Haydn is giving away Adidas jerseys with rugby world cup stories – most of mine, unfortunately involve getting shitfaced

Sunday afternoon was Hamilton.

Dan Carter, Richie McCaw, Mils Muliaina and Israel Dagg are all out injured after taking part in the ancient martial sport that gained popularity in the 12th century, while Richard Kahui, who has a suspected broken face, is bracketed with Zac Guilford. “You have to balance the strength and hand-eye co-ordination benefits jousting training provides with the risk of spraining, crushing and stabbing injuries,” said Henry. “We’re reviewing it.”

Steve Hanson said he had good results with jousting training with Canterbury. “You learn a lot about your team mates when they’re trying to put a hole in you. Everyone wanted to have a go against Justin Marshall for some reason – shit, some of the boys have asked if he’s available now.”

Hanson denied reports Andrew Hore had gone rogue somewhere in Hamilton’s north western suburbs with a mace.