PIECES OF THE PAST: Why I still, and always will, support the All Blacks | Rodney Reiners

Reposted by kind permission of Rodney Reiners. Visit his blog at https://rodneyreiners.wordpress.com

 “You’ll never have a quiet world till you knock the patriotism out of the human race.” – George Bernard Shaw

“Rugby is great. The players don’t wear helmets or padding; they just beat the living daylights out of each other, and then go for a beer. I love that.” – Joe Theismann.

“Patriotism … is a superstition artificially created and maintained through a network of lies and falsehoods; a superstition that robs man of his self-respect and dignity, and increases his arrogance and conceit.” – Emma Goldman

“Better people make better All Blacks” – One of the team’s core principles.

They could pick 15 players of colour in the Springbok rugby team – and I would still support the All Blacks. Win or lose.

It’s that time again. The Rugby World Cup.

And, as always, it’s a time when I have to don an extra layer of thick skin to absorb the scorn and ridicule of close friends and pub mates.

I am, unabashedly, an avid, life-long fan of the All Blacks.

In the same way that I am, unabashedly, an avid, life-long supporter of Liverpool Football Club.

Don’t speak to me about loyalty and patriotism.

Patriotism is for fools.

If you want loyalty, get a dog.

Just because I was born in Cape Town, South Africa, doesn’t mean that I am obligated to follow and support South African sports teams.

Nonsense! Such parochial claptrap bores the pants off me.

As an individual, I have my own idiosyncrasies, opinions and predilections. And so do others. I respect other people’s opinions – they are entitled to that – because they are individuals in their own right.

But, in the same way that I regard other people’s right to their views and sports teams, so, too, I’d like to expect the same in return.

My son – Rustin – supports the Springboks. Nothing wrong with that.

He also supports Arsenal…

So you can imagine the father-son rivalry when it comes to football and rugby. But that is what makes sport such an emotional, yet, oh so wonderful, rollercoaster.

Because, like the title of Charles Dickens’ seminal novel – A Tale of Two Cities – for my son and I it’s a simply a case of having grown up and experienced ‘A Tale of Two [different] South Africas’.

For me, in the 1970s, a ‘laaitie’ on the streets of a South Africa in the brutal grip of the apartheid regime, the sight of the All Blacks’ Bryan Williams speeding down the right wing was not just a thing of beauty, it was a middle finger to those who believed that people of colour were inferior.

Williams, of Samoan origin, was the first sportsman to find a special place in my sporting heart.

[King Kenny Dalglish arrived a few years later, hence my continuing Liverpool obsession].

In fact, just to illustrate the sheer insanity of the period, apartheid South Africa only allowed the four players of colour in the New Zealand squad – Williams [Samoan] and the three Maoris: Sid Going, Buff Milner and Blair Furlong – into the country under a special pass, which ostensibly gave them ‘honorary white status’.

And that was only because apartheid SA was forced into the concession – New Zealand had taken a stand: “No Maoris, No Tour”.

If that does not make you, at first, want to laugh – and, afterwards, just boil over in exasperation and rage, then I don’t know…

But that, as I say, is the South Africa I grew up in.

It subsequently gave rise to the Springboks’ divisive 1981 tour to New Zealand, during which there were marches, protests and violence – and culminated in what is still today known as the “flour bomb Test match”.

And so, in a time when there was little to look forward to, when there was no hope for a young kid growing up in a crazy, confused country, the All Blacks were a source of promise and optimism.

In the expansive, exciting rugby they played, and the rugby they continue to play today, there is magic, there is passion – and there is a sense that, whatever the circumstances, whatever the situation, there is a way out.

For this poor, oppressed and aimless kid in the 1970s and 80s, there was hope and inspiration in that. They were heroes to look up to, they were role-models to follow, and to emulate – [certainly not the Springboks of the time, who revelled in the faux ‘first-class’ status afforded them by apartheid South Africa].

In 1977, Jimmy Kruger, apartheid’s police minister at the time, infamously reacted to the death of Steve Biko as follows: “Dit laat my koud.” [It leaves me cold]. And that was the same reaction the announcement of a Springbok rugby team evoked in us: it left us cold… who cares?

It was in this turbulent atmosphere, amid my gradual social and political awakening, that the All Blacks provided succour and symbolic resistance in the struggle against our oppressors.  

That was then – but, still today, the aura, mystery and passion of that black jersey, which captivated and inspired me all those years ago, is as strong and fervent as ever.

Williams was the first – and, since then, there have been so many great All Blacks to cherish.

John Kirwan, an elusive winger of frightening speed and verve; the unerring boot of Grant Fox; Jonah Lomu, the man-mountain who scared the living crap out of defenders; Dan Carter, one of the most versatile backs to have played the game; and, of course, Richie McCaw, the provocative yet inspirational loose forward.

The All Blacks had some of the most durable hardmen to step onto a rugby field – Wayne ‘Buck’ Shelford, Jerry Collins, Sean Fitzpatrick and Josh Kronfeld.

There was just so much pleasure in watching the composed, self-assured midfield partnership of Walter Little and Frank Bunce – and, for grace, elegance and fluency of movement, nobody has ever come to close to matching the genius of Christian Cullen. He was poetry in motion.

Last, but not least, my two all-time favourite All Blacks: the ‘Iceman’, Michael Jones, and Zinzan Brooke.

Jones ferociously trod every blade of grass over the 80-minute duration of a match. He stalked, schemed, tackled, linked, and ran with intelligence and gusto – and, what’s more, it was not just about his physicality, he also had the hand and ball skills to pull off some the most audacious manoeuvres on the field.

Zinny, what more is there to say? The complete rugby player. You name it, Zinny could do it. Power, pace, passing, kicking, skill and invention – a rugby brain that couldn’t be matched.

I still vividly remember when he was in Cape Town in 1999 and he came down to Florida Park in Ravensmead. He was with his English club Harlequins to play a friendly against Namibia. It was an occasion to treasure. I was there, in the packed audience…

He was initially on the bench. But the Florida Park crowd got the chant going: “Zinny, Zinny, Zinny, Zinny…”  He did not disappoint. A few minutes after coming on, he struck a drop goal clean through the posts – just as he so famously did in the 1995 Rugby World Cup semi-final against England.

And the crowd, including me, went crazy. It was a Zinny moment of a lifetime, something to savour. I still do…

Zinny and the Iceman… sheer genius, unforgettable– and their indelible performances are tenderly filed in a special place in my memory bank.

There’s a piece of the past in everything we do.

Yes, the country has changed. That is why my son is a Springbok supporter. I am super-glad that he is able to… I accept it. I respect it.

But my allegiance to the All Blacks has nothing to do with country and all the nonsense I have to put up with whenever the Springboks play New Zealand – it’s about the past, it’s about what’s under my skin, it’s about what inspired me, it’s about so much more than the simplicity of a glib patriotism argument.

[In fact, dare I say it, I’m sure that the very same people who give me stick for supporting the All Blacks are the same people who couldn’t give a shit about South Africa when it comes to football and other spheres of our society].