Well, there it was, the whole of New Zealand gutted. France in, the All Blacks out. As always our men had performed their haka. We lifted up our hearts, choked down our emotions, and prepared ourselves for glory. But it wasn't to be. The magic didn't work.
Our hopes initially soared heavenward. The first half really lived up to all expectations. Carter kicked like a man inspired. Line-outs were won with monotonous regularity. We were so obviously on top at half-time, despite that officious English referee. Like millions of others I rushed out for a quick fix of coffee and spooned in some müsli. I even nurtured quite generous thoughts about the French who had tried so hard, but were not, alas, in our league.
Then came the second half. Unbelievable. No justice in this universe.
We invested $50 million in this team, the front page of my newspaper screamed the next day. But of course it was the emotional investment that really cost. We had been betrayed, cosmically, and we found a discourse to express this. Never has the word ‘gutted' been used so frequently before in this fish-obsessed country.
'Gutted' — a biblical, bowel-evoking word if ever there was one. St Erasmus, you may remember, was the most notable victim of gutting, his martyrdom consisting of his entrails being wound out of him by a sort of capstan, or so the stained glass windows would have us believe. Today we Kiwis stand shoulder to shoulder with saints and martyrs such as Erasmus. Our Otago hero, Anton Oliver, even likened the post-match desolation to the smell of death at Passchendaele.
These French, of course, have a habit of gutting us. And not only at rugby, though 1999 was solemnly and repeatedly remembered. It was not so long ago that their agents mined and scuttled the Rainbow Warrior. And got away with it, too. Unforgotten. Unforgiven.
So, yes, we're gutted. Don't underestimate our pain, please. It's not just in the pubs and clubs that grown men have been reduced to tearful dissolution. At Satay stalls, manned by gentle figures with scant resemblance to front row forwards, huddled figures know only one topic of conversation; and among the crisp women in the computer centre, one has to choose one's words and gestures these days with the utmost pastoral sensitivity.
We're all on edge. Even I, as a soccer dude, a life-long