Andy Colquhoun in Christchurch It’s cold in Christchurch. The city clenches its shoulders against the freshening breeze coming off the Pacific or tumbling out of the freezer of the southern Alps. No one dawdles in the streets, the tables and chairs optimistically placed on the pavement by cafe proprietors sit empty. It’s as far from Johannesburg or ‘J’ Bay as you can get without picking up a parka and an ice axe and calling yourself an Arctic explorer. And, by God, the Springboks are glad to be here. After the splendid isolation of Australia’s Gold Coast – Durban’s crime-free twin town -the Boks are back in rugby country. Of course, they’re not given a prayer against Godd Blackadder’s side – a generous 5-1 at the bookies and a 15-point spread to the All Blacks – but at least here people know who they are and why they’re here. Yes, Godd Blackadder. You’ll have heard that they’ve renamed his hometown of Rangiora “Blackadderville” for the week in honour of the great man. It’s a farming/commuter belt community of 12 000 rugby-mad souls 30 minutes north of Christchurch and Blackadder’s considerable feat of leading the Crusaders to a hat- trick of Super 12 titles has seen him earn mythic status in the town. (I heard a joke on local radio the other day: Tim Horan, John Eales and Todd Blackadder are involved in a plane crash and go to heaven. At the Pearly Gates God asks each in turn in what they believe before he will allow entry: Horan says he believes in a CFC-free environment – Antipodeans are perennially concerned about the hole in the ozone layer above their heads; Eales believes in world peace and, wait for it, Blackadder says: “I believe you’re sitting in my seat.”) Blackadder appears genuinely bemused by the adulation. As bemused as some recidivist north islanders who don’t believe he’s worth his place. Actually, even down here some Cantabrians will admit – in sound- proofed rooms and away from prying eyes – that he might not be worth his place. The great man actually does a good line in bemused. He often appears bemused at press conferences. I put it down to clever dissembling. Gary Teichmann was very clever at speaking while never saying anything when he was Springbok captain and Blackadder has taken that a step further. He speaks less than Teichmann and says nothing. If he didn’t smile one would think him dour. It’s a shame he says so little as it’s endlessly entertaining unstrangling Kiwi vowels to get to the heart of what they’re saying. What, for instance, are “chick out chucks” or “dimmer kretz”. Correct, they’re supermarket sales clerks and those who believe in democracy. One man who is very at home is Springbok assistant coach Alan Solomons. He may sometimes feel a prophet without honour in his own country, but here his name has been floated in Kiwi journalistic circles as a man who could do a job with a New Zealand Super 12 team! His opinion is as sought after as Nick Mallett’s but then he takes the right attitude – he goes out to embrace the country.
“It’s fantastic here,” he says. “This is a real rugby country, the Mecca for me. This is where you really measure yourself. “When we arrived at the airport there were about 15 people rushing forward with microphones. Everyone talks rugby.” What everyone seems to expect is that the Boks are going to be buried so deep they will be used as landfill at the redeveloping Jade stadium (why do the Boks never play at finished grounds away from home? Cardiff, Melbourne and now Christchurch?).
When the locals hear you’re from South Africa they treat you as if you’ve recently suffered a bereavement in the family – when they’ve managed to extinguish the gleam in their eye, that is. They solicitously inquire how you think the Boks will go but, really, they aren’t interested in the answer.
They have Wayne Smith in charge now and the All Blacks have won four games on the trot, including coming out on top in the game the Aussies unselfconsciously declared to have been the best Test of all time, bar none, ever, and for ever more. The Kiwis, more realistically and more characteristically, have been more circumspect. Smith has even made three changes to his team, which shows how canny he is. Everyone in these parts heaved a sigh of relief when he replaced John Hart, disgraced for the World Cup semifinal defeat, his golden seasons of 1996 and 1997 forgotten.
Ah yes, Nick Mallett may be thinking, this is very like home.