Chris Rattue: Anton's Barmy Arm is taking a long time to shake

Reputations can be easily won and very hard to shake.

This is probably the time to point out all the things wrong with the English rugby team, so as to feel a bit better about the All Blacks' prospects at the World Cup.

Since the English have proved themselves to be very boring - as in boring a hole in our confidence and boring another hole in the Aussie pack with a rolling maul they should enter in the London Marathon - let's leave the Poms out of it just for now.

Instead, let's consider a national obsession. Anton Oliver's lineout throwing.

This has reached such a critical point that parents might baulk (note the terminology) at naming children Anton or even Oliver in case the little ones are invaded by demonic forces which force them to hurl toys out of the cot in all directions.

It doesn't matter what poor old Anton does any more, he's stuck with a reputation that his lineout throws don't stick - thanks to a bad case of the lineout shakes in a Bledisloe Cup test two years ago.

In the Herald's reader ratings for the All Blacks' win over Wales, a punter commented "finally a lineout thrower" when assessing Keven Mealamu's performance. This is the sort of anti-Anton comment you can hear any day of the week the length and breadth of the country. These supporters can only see Anton's Barmy Arm, whatever the case.

But hang on here. Only two lineouts went astray in Wellington the week before when Oliver was on the field, throwing in mad wind conditions against an English pack which is the best drilled, most experienced and aggressive in world rugby.

It was the massive English hooker Steve Thompson who had a hang-dog look on his face after the game while bemoaning his own lineout throwing. And Mealamu was involved in two early lineout mistakes against a Welsh pack that would get a run for its money from North Otago.

Highlander Simon Maling is one of the best lineout forwards in rugby, but Oliver never gets any credit for this.

Shouldn't we be saying, "Anton has got better and is as good or bad a lineout thrower as anyone else?"

Not on your life, buster. The punters just can't see past the reputation in this case.

Some people get a chance to banish their demons in sport.

George Foreman was a mean- spirited bad-arse who turned himself into a loveable boxing granddad after shaving his head, smiling and telling the world how many cheeseburgers he ate.

Ken Rutherford had a disastrous start to his cricket test career, but everyone said he was dumped in the deep end and gave him plenty of second chances.

Other people have themselves to blame for failing to emerge unscathed from a bad rep. Keith Murdoch sulked off to Australia when he was sent home from an All Blacks tour. What Keith needed was a good agent.

There was one in his team, actually. As soon as he belted the Welsh security guard at the Angel Hotel, Keith should have trundled down the hallway and seen Andy Haden. Keith could have been Andy's first client.

Instead of sulking in the Australian desert, Keith should have returned home, told a few jokes about Cardiff, set up a security firm called Keith's Angels, and opened a bar called Punchers. He would be healthy and wealthy now.

At least Anton doesn't have to drag around a reputation like the one Australian cricketer Kim Hughes has. Hughes was a decent batsman, but mention his name and people immediately remember that he committed the crime of crying on TV.

But for all of Oliver's philosophical views on life, he must quietly wish he could throw this reputation away. Like Greg Norman, his triumphs are strangled by a choker's reputation.

Andrew Mehrtens' drop-goal misses in the 1995 World Cup final have not tarnished his match-winning image.

But no such forgiveness for Oliver. The trouble with lineout throwing is that it only gets really interesting when things go wrong, and the hooker is the prime suspect even if the lifters and jumpers are the culprits.

It's never looked an easy task to me, having to hurl the ball with great precision, sometimes through a weave of arms.

When you hit the target, everyone takes it for granted. When you don't, the nation decides you're a plonker.

When it goes wrong, directors suddenly get interested in plastering the hooker's mug all over telly - especially if it's Anton. Throw a good one that helps to set up a try, and the camera switches to the scorer while the hooker plods back to halfway in obscurity.

There seems to be little justice in this job - especially for Oliver.