Everyone remembers the line "show me the money". Tom Cruise, playing the part of sports agent Jerry Maguire, yelling that down the phone to his one last prospective client Rod Tidwell.
Tidwell, a steady but not much recognised NFL player, has been infected by bitterness and resentment that his contract is not the size of that of some of his teammates, that the endorsement deals are not coming his way and that the game is not rewarding him the way it is others.
Tidwell needs to be sure Maguire gets it – that the game needs to give something back. A lot back and that Tidwell isn't in it for any other reason than the money. The game owes him.
Tidwell, like some character in a Greek tragedy, can't see that he's destined to never get what he wants because he's lost his soul. He's lost his love for the game and he's driven by a need to fill the emptiness inside him with money.
He joylessly plies his trade, the big contract extension never forthcoming until Maguire lays it out for him – that the game won't love him until he loves it.
Tidwell needs to fall back in love with football: re-connect with the things that brought him to the game in the first place. He needs to play with his heart, invest his soul and forget about the money.
Right now it feels awfully like rugby - from aspiring First XV players, to career professionals, administrators, agents, sponsors and broadcasters – has collectively cast itself as Tidwell.
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For too long, too many have said "show me the money" which is why the sport is now in a desperate struggle to sustain itself and despairing that whichever way it turns, however it tries to reinvent itself, the problems only get worse.
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Rugby has too many Rod Tidwell's, asking first what they can get not what they can give. It's a syndrome showing up everywhere.
It's present in schools where these days the best kids already know, in Year 12, what they want from their first contract.
Their parents also seem to know the going rate and many have a good idea what they want to be in it for them – a few flights here and there, a bit of kit and tickets. Always tickets.
It's no mystery about from where this attitude stems. It's driven largely by the prevailing culture within the leading rugby schools, many of whom lost sight of rugby being an educational tool rather than an education itself, years ago.
What blinded them was the riches that they felt would come if they could produce winning teams.
Success would attract better players, loosen the wallets of the old boy networks and at some point in the last decade those kids who wanted to play for the love of playing were cast aside.
Worse, they were made to feel unworthy of the sport, ashamed even, for lacking the ambition to see it as their future meal ticket.
Schools rugby is only for the Rod Tidwell's of this world as there is no teenager in New Zealand playing simply because they like the camaraderie, the exertion, the complexity of the game and the challenges it presents.
No one is there to set them straight as the agents, the men literally playing the role of Maguire, are complicit in nurturing the greed.
They plead their innocence, say they don't like having teenage clients who are still at school, and recognise the moral boundary they are effectively crossing.
But whatever discomfort they feel, it's not enough to stop them being in the living rooms of the next bright thing, laying out the probable career pathway, all the while doing the mental arithmetic as to what their 15 per cent will amount to over the years.
Higher up the food chain we have seen the somewhat dubious interpretation of the word sabbatical to allow those chasing the dollar to do so under the guise of career development.
Beauden Barrett takes time off to travel, rest and recondition and it's called a sabbatical. Sam Whitelock effectively stays in Japan after the World Cup to play a professional club season before returning in May and it is called a sabbatical.
One sabbatical is about delivering mental and physical rejuvenation, the other is about collecting a million dollars and the judgement here lies not with Whitelock and his career choice, but with the national body and their word choice.
But this is the problem with the Tidwell syndrome, those who have it become adept, or think they do, at hiding their real intentions.
That's why there is rainbow padding around the posts at Eden Park tonight. Supposedly the padding was there to show support for the rainbow communities.
But inclusivity is not a one night theme but a way of life, so shouting about it and making a thing of it is a gimmick. It's entirely lacking in authenticity and what the rainbow posts were really about was an opportunity for sponsor NiB to promote themselves.
And if they say it isn't so, then why was their brand on the padding?
It's callous and cynical in one overhyped move - and maybe this is why Super Rugby grounds look emptier every week – fans have seen through the plastic promotions and are sick of the way sponsors trawl for brand recognition under the pretence of crusading for social justice.
Then of course there are the executives: banging their fist on the desk promising to protect players from excessive workloads in one breath, ramming in another test match the next.
And Super Rugby is testament to the folly of chasing money. The competition, since 2006, stopped thinking about what worked for the fans.
They were driven by the economics of it all – moving into Melbourne in search of advertising dollars; to Perth to grab a slice of the commodity boom and to Japan for the growth potential of the broadcast audience and the enormous pool of corporate funding.
All three territories failed to deliver compelling rugby sides, dragging the quality down, sending fans into the arms of the NRL, and all the while Sanzaar rejected a move into the talent rich Pacific Islands because there was no financial angle to work.
The question now for rugby is who can play the role of Maguire and re-set Tidwell?
Maybe, not that he's asked for the part, it could be Aaron Cruden. He's a man who is obviously head over heels in love with rugby again.
He left for Montpellier in 2017 and while the move to France filled his bank account, it emptied his soul. It didn't work out. He didn't love the game when he was there.
But he's back at the Chiefs, earning a fraction of what he was paid in France, and never has he looked happier. Never has he been so at home and in two games he's been brilliant.
Cruden is playing with his heart: with his everything. He's the player Tidwell became at the end of the movie when he stopped wanting so much and started giving more.
Rugby might be a joyless pursuit of material wealth for others, but not for Cruden who seems to have only one wish and that is to be afforded the opportunity to play the game he loves.