Leopards don't change their spots, even when they're clothed in canary pyjamas. The anti-Kiwi sledging from Australia began even before their semifinal. It's tempting to call it hubris, but that would only encourage David Warner to demand, Speak English.
They may question the size of our ground-hood. They may call us bludgers. But we will not let it get under our skin. Because that's what they want. In fact, they also want us to say things like we will not let it get under our skin. Damn them. No, don't damn them. That's stooping to their level. Bastards.
Courage is contagious, but so is agonising self-doubt. By some kind of alchemy, the NZ cricket team has managed to embrace the enthusiasm and euphoria of national support without catching the twitchy and sweaty fatalism that goes along with it. I put it down to the smiling. "We're having the time of our lives," grinned Captain McCullum after the Eden Park victory. Another time, he talked about trying to "remember to play for the little boy that fell in love with the game". In doing so, the Black Caps have magicked us all back into childhood, great big kids wandering around, full of wonder at the world, bumping into stuff, like Tom Hanks from Big times four million.
Win or lose, the achievement of the Black Caps team and management is immense already. On the whole, I'm a fan of democracy, but should things go belly-up at any point, the most prudent governing structure would be headed by Mike Hesson, Bruce Edgar and Brendon McCullum. Imaginative yet empirical, positive yet ruthless, these are the kind of people to lead the country in an emergency.
Let's add Therese Walsh, who presided over New Zealand's hosting of the World Cup, to the oligarchy, too. All the winning does add a rose tint to things, but it's been superbly organised, from the energy and charm of the small grounds to the heart-stopping mega-spectacles at Eden Park.
