The wife of an All Black "reviews" a book "by" Dan Carter
Dan Carter and I have history.
It goes back to when I was a weekly television critic on the DomPost, a quite lovely job, no silly old contract or anything like that. It lasted for nearly 10 years till one day they rang up and said, We’re not having a Monday TV column anymore. Overwhelmed by naivety, I asked, So when was my column going to be, then? My glum messenger, who not long afterwards received a similar phone call himself, explained the meaning of never. He had several such calls to make that night, he said, as if that would make me feel any better.
During the time when I was still gainfully employed at the paper, the Rugby Union started having an annual reunion for ex All Blacks. The Rugby Union was rebranding. As part of the deal, over a weekend, each broken down old chap got a reasonably posh dinner for two, and two free tickets to a test match. I said to Robert, don’t waste the ticket to the game on me, so he took my cousin Acky, and my cousin-in-law Mary came round to sip a glass with me. Mostly we were diverted by the pleasure of our conversation but every now and then our eyes were drawn to the screen. I had to watch: my column was to be in print on Monday, and I’d offered to stay up far into the night – it had to be in by midnight – to write on how women watch rugby. A quaintly sexist approach but they were happy with that.
What I’d noticed about Carter, apart from the fact that he was an exceptionally fine figure of a man, and played at number 10 as had my husband, was the expression on his face when he lined up the ball to kick a goal. He tucked the ball carefully in place, then he stepped backwards, then he looked up at the goalposts and an expression of innocent wonderment crossed his face. It was as if he’d never seen goalposts before. How, he was thinking, the hell did they get there?
I wrote more or less that in my review. Time passed. A week or so later Carter was fronting up for New Zealand all over again, and briefly I watched. As was customary, within minutes there he was, kicking a goal. He started as usual, but at the point at which he normally raised his troubled eyes, he faltered. I’m telling you, he definitely did, and an embarrassed look crossed his face, and barely looking at the posts he gave the ball a quick boot, and no doubt, as always, it flew neatly through.
Look at that! I said to Robert. I yelled it, actually. I said, He’s read my column. Robert gave me a look: the look was more along the lines of You’re so fucking vain and self-deluding than, Well I’ll be blowed, so he has.
And it was more of a glance than a look, because when he’s watching sport he goes into another place, another zone, and given that anything I say is bound to be idiotic and ill-informed, he manages to just not hear a word I say.
My family got television when I was about 15 and us girls and my mother loved Coronation Street. As the unforgettable theme music surged from the acrylic linen panels by the snowy screen, my father drew himself up from his position on the sofa, gathered up the newspaper, his tobacco and his cigarette papers and took himself with showy dignity into the dining room. Through the glass doors we’d see him, almost obscured by smoke, sitting, reading, contentedly at peace.
I understand exactly how he felt, as it’s how I feel about sport. I more or less loathe it. I get unappealingly irritated even when at the end of the news on the radio, they say, so smugly, And now, sport. Why? Why? Why not, and Now for some really interesting news from the book world? The theatre? The streets of Laredo?
I’d have never been any good in the crowd at the Colosseum either. I’d have been a wuss at public executions. I can’t be alone in feeling like this. I remember watching a television thriller a couple of years back in which a child went missing from a crowded room. It turned out that everybody in the room was too busy watching a football match on the telly to see the child look out the window and slip out to follow a fox. Bullshit, I thought. There’d have been someone in that room who was like me, far more interested in watching a child watching a fox than grown men running round a patch of grass kicking a ball.
There was Richie McCaw, door to the bathroom open, just at final shake point, then it’s a flush, and he comes straight out, blokishly offering his hand
And now, good old still comely Dan has written a book. Well, he’s helped write a book and his publisher is thrilled to announce its imminence. Richie McCaw, another cutie, has written an introduction. Which does remind me. In my DomPost days I used to have a lot to do with TV publicists, oh how we loved to chat, and one of them recalled going to a hotel to interview Richie. The door to his room was open and he called out a genial Hi, followed by a Do come in, and there he was, door to the bathroom open, just at final shake point, then it’s a flush, and he comes straight out, blokishly offering his hand. Ahh, I love that story.
Dan’s oeuvre is called Dan Carter 1598 – which refers to the number of points this legend scored for the team of 5 million, and in it he takes us on a test by test journey. No wonder the publisher’s thrilled: his autobiography, which he helped write a few years back, sold 75 000 copies in New Zealand alone, and the same number overseas, and that’s one hell of a lot of fathers either delighted or occasionally disappointed on Their Day.
I’m very happy for people to do all sorts of things with balls as long as I don’t have to watch it or hear about it. Honestly, whatever makes you happy. If it’ll stop you denouncing me as a traitor on Twitter, I’ll say oh all right then, perhaps a spot of tennis. But after say one set, a few boings and grunts, I’ll withdraw to my sofa or bed with my book, and it’s a chance it won’t be this one.
And it’s not as if my television review was without repercussions. Not only did I influence how our best ever rugby player kicked his goals but the next year, the All Black reunion invitation came with a proviso: in the unlikely situation that a player’s wife (sic) was unable to accompany him to the match, the only other guest he was permitted to bring was immediate family.
At the reunion dinner – good food, though rather meat-centric, and plenty of wine, though a distressing preponderance of sauvignon blanc – one of the officials admitted to having read my review. He said, tactfully, it was what was called tongue-in-cheek. Dan wasn’t at the reunion. He was off earning zillions elsewhere.
Dan Carter 1598 by Dan Carter (Mower, $69.99) is available in bookstores nationwide from Thursday, October 14.
