Anendra Singh: Stars line up for a change

Too often, awards nights are like picking winning teams in an office Super Rugby sweepstake.

Everything suggests where the intelligent money should go but come game day your worst fears are confirmed.

As I sat in my fourth-floor room at a hotel overlooking the Waikato River in Hamilton last week, I wondered if this time I was going to win an award.

I hasten to add I've attended several national awards as a finalist over the years but always came away empty handed.

This time it totally caught me by surprise, considering I was asked to submit five entries on soccer from last year for the annual New Zealand Football Awards.

I must have dedicated no more than half an hour to flick through the archives to select my five babies for the Regional/Community Writer of the Year. No time for 100-word preambles to support the entries.

Bingo! I was among three hopefuls.

"Well, if nothing, it'll be a nice trip to a city I've never visited before," I thought.

"Besides, I'll get some good tucker, bottomless glasses of wine and, hopefully, make some small talk with fellow scribes from around the country."

To the NZ Football Media Association's credit, it had extended an invitation to my spouse who regrettably couldn't get time off work.

A short time into the awards, I picked up my award not long after Napier City Rovers Club collected their two inaugural ones.

Guilty of religiously pointing out what's ugly in the beautiful game, I didn't think I would ever make the cut, let alone win it.

A very subjective ritual, I quite often came away from previous awards wondering where I "narrowly missed out" to someone or other.

I once read a winner's entry in another code only to realise it had nothing to do with the quality of writing. It had everything to do with the emotional strain of overcoming certain hurdles to get to a venue because the protagonist had died.

In another instance, a reporter received an award based purely on promoting a code.

Frankly, if I wanted to blow someone's trumpet I would have joined the rash of spin doctors seeking flashy cars, pin-striped suits and cocktail dinner invites.

My motivation comes from taking an impartial - albeit a perceived one - approach to any event I cover.

Consequently it is bouquets in victory but astute journos are not afraid to highlight that winning can also be ugly.

Anyone who has ever played any sport will also attest to how one-eyed one can be, so it's vital to give all parties a go.

If I hadn't won any awards it would never bother me. For me, the best award is a woman who in April sent a text: "Never used to read sport but always do now. Anendra Singh you do write some good stories thanks. Beth ."

Another was a letter to the editor from some bloke in Clive a few years ago that went something like this: "I have read the sport editor's columns for years but this time I disagree with his opinion."

They are breathtakingly honest and sincere sentiments from people who actually matter - the readership.

The soccer award last Thursday night is one I can live with despite remaining sceptical of awards, including the Halbergs and even knighthoods.

That is not to say other soccer writers in the regional sector of the country are in any way inferior or less diligent.

It simply means my star was aligned with the sun for a change.

My biggest thrill came last year when I found myself in the annual Canon Media Awards (the supreme one) in Auckland, finding myself in the company of elite sports scribes from metropolitan papers.

A nominee in the news and feature writing categories, I came away empty handed but satisfied I was among the best three that year in the country.

Having brought happiness and grief to myriad coaches, captains, players and fans over the years, I never hesitated to ask NZ Football, New Zealand Cricket or whoever the difficult questions.

In a myopic world, journalists seeking accountability stand to lose a lot but then whoever said any award is a yardstick of success.

For me, it's rewarding for all those hours spent way past the witching hour and into weekends.

It's a time to quietly salute my teenager who was my loyal little elf from as early as 7 years old.

With my head down I relied on her to master the art of watching which player sporting a number on the back of his or her shirt passed the ball to another who scored. Quite often she was on the sideline on a bitterly cold winter's day.

In cricket, she often feeds in the scoreboards.

It was unashamedly child labour. All it ever cost me was a hot pie in winter or ice-cream in summer. With her mother working and elder sister cutting a track to Wellington, the youngster didn't have a choice but to accompany me everywhere rain, hail or shine.

Armed with a cellphone and/or iPod these days, it takes a little more to coax her to a venue.

I share this award with her and my colleagues who diligently do everything humanly possible to ensure there are no mistakes.

Needless to say, we have woken up the morning after to cringe after finding the gremlins have caught us on the hop, again.

Just like me, there's always room for improvement.

Maybe we can invite Mark Richardson, with Bay connections, to be the MC at our premier sports award night next year - not that his boss, Andrew Mulligan, wasn't entertaining.

Is it just me or were you also left scratching your heads wondering why Black Cap Doug Bracewell, of Napier, didn't make the cut for the Bay Senior Sportsperson of the Year Award?

But then again, just as you don't put humour from the big night on a petrie dish, it pays to take a chill pill.

Sponsor Andy Smith, of BPX Consulting - mindful jocularity isn't his forte after a couple of years - mercifully took advice and ate humble pie this year.