I'm sorry guys, it might be over. Might.
I got the call around lunchtime yesterday at work. While it seemed like an ordinary day with my car still not running right and work slowing dragging its way to the weekend. It turned into one that not only I will never forget but one our small nation will probably never forget as well.
My phone flashed with the familiar but somewhat peculiar “Home”. I pondered what one of my parents were calling about as they usually call late at night when they know I’m home from work. Thoughts of dead grandparents and awkward funeral conversations came to mind as I swiped to accept the call.
I heard the faint whimper of a fully grown man in agony trying to get his words out. “It’s happened again mate, it’s over”. As soon as he said those words I knew what had happened. My heart sank. Co-workers stared at me as a single tear ran down my cheek.
About a month ago when the world cup kicked off my old man pulled out his trusty All Blacks top that he’d owned since he was about 20. The black was starting to fade. The white collar, worn from years of being squeezed around a head. It had become his tradition to pull on his black jersey any time one of our boys had to pull on theirs. I remember scenes from my child hood of my dad sprinting around the house, frantically trying to find his top after my mum had put it away. Somehow he’d always find it just in time.
It was just before the 2011 world cup that I had the conversation with him that he’d hidden his jersey from my mother so that there’d be no chance of it being misplaced before a game. To me it didn’t seem like much, just the old man wanting to wear his jersey while he watched the All Blacks. I was out of home by then anyway and I put it to the back of my mind. Flash forward to the end of the world cup and we were champions. I rang my dad after the whistle and we discussed the finer details of the game, ranging from sentences like “you fucking beauty” or “I never doubted that Donald prick”.
The old man’s jersey was once again in the back of my mind until after the test at Twickenham 2012. A pretty good year for the all blacks with that game the exception. He rang me up and started explaining that the reason we’d lost was because my mum had found his jersey hidden in behind the toilet in the garage, put it through the wash and placed it on his pillow (thinking she was doing something nice as she knew a game was coming up). He said he didn’t think much of it until after the game, sitting quietly on the couch reflecting on the loss when it suddenly clicked. The Jersey can’t be washed. If the jersey isn’t clean then the All Blacks won’t lose. I had a mild chuckle over the phone but he seemed pretty adamant. I remember saying “righto then, don’t wash the jersey and the Ab’s should have a clean sweep next year”. At the time I said it as more of a joke but the old man took it seriously.
The call came early in the morning after the Ireland test 2013. I had almost forgotten about the Jersey until he was screaming “what’d I tell ya boy”. He was smug, and rightly so I guess.
In 2014 I was slowing starting to believe in the jersey. The draw in Sydney had him slightly confused. Mumbles of the Ozzie neighbours kid squirting him with a water gun the day of the test. It wasn’t until the day before the Ellis Park test after him ringing me up, infuriated about how the game was already lost. Mum had found the jersey duct tapped to the inside of the dog kennel and put it through the wash, exclaiming she’d actually seen fleas on it.
World cup year. I was a believer. Up until then I’d doubted him. Counter arguing his jersey with breakdown stats, kicking percentages and TAB odds. Not this year. No amount of training and conditioning was going to win us a second world cup. I liked Hansen. He’d done his job. The last 3 years had gone well. Little did he know, tests aren’t won on skill or teamwork out on the field. They’re won by a man in rural South Canterbury wearing a jersey that goes months on end acquiring sweat and dirt. It would baffle most scientists how a jersey can have any correlation with a sports teams winning percentage. No matter how it works, it works. Facts are facts and any educated human being can see that the fate of a nation was in the hands of a smelly old rugby jersey.
If there were any suspicions from friends or relatives they were quashed after the Sydney test. My dad and I had flights book to go over and watch the All Blacks beat an Australian team that was rife with problems. Sure they had a new coach that looked like he was turning things around but with their internal problems and our jersey it was a no brainer. I met my dad at the Christchurch airport with a dower look in his eyes. “I’ve left the fucking jersey at home”. There was talks of flagging the trip, or getting the jersey mailed over but we came to the conclusion that we could lose this one. This was just another test. We knew from previous years that if the jersey causes us to lose a game we can bounce back from it. There was still a world cup to win this year and we didn’t have a major on our hands. We’d get back in time for the Eden Park test and retain the Bledisloe. We were still in high spirits after the loss knowing our secret weapon was at home waiting for us. We just had to keep true to the jersey and New Zealand would be back to back world champions. Piece of cake.
After yesterday’s phone call my father has taken it upon himself to try and correct what has happened. The woman in our family just never understood the jersey. So what a fully grown man had a rugby jersey hidden in the chicken shed. At the time it seemed like the best place to hide it. He just didn’t account for my sister coming home from uni and wonder why that jersey he always rambled on about was in the chook shed. Now I'm not one hundred percent sure on this but her new boyfriend that came home with her, sounded like he was trying to hide an all too familiar Trans-Tasman accent. It’s just speculation at this stage but a full investigation will be done once we get back on track.
As we speak the old man is out on the farm, jersey on, sprinting up hills, tackling sheep, rolling in cow shit, praying that he can fix the jersey. Our only hope now is that there is enough time, enough time to repair the damage that has been done. Perhaps the jersey isn’t our only hope. Perhaps come game day we put all our faith in the 23 men who will take the field and do battle with our most fierce of rivals. Perhaps a Wallabies jersey has gone through the wash that has cost them the match. All I can say is we are doing everything we can to make things right. There will be no amount dirt, sweat, blood, tears or shit left missing from the jersey come that final whistle.
