I’ve always been a huge fan of the America’s Cup. It’s true that two weeks ago I couldn’t tell a tack from a gybe, and I thought that foiling was something you did to your potato before you shoved it in the oven.
But watching our boys go up against those cheating Americans has been something special.
This contest has speed and danger, and chance pays a huge part in the final outcome. And just like some of my other favourite sports (squash, netball, and basketball), the event is usually decided in a court.
I love the way the entire nation has fallen solidly behind our boys, apart from a few spiteful people who probably think the millions we spent on the Cup would have been better utilised feeding children or housing the poor.
It’s true that the America’s Cup is the epitome of everything that is wrong with sport. But only because we haven’t won it yet. Go boys!
A week ago we had this contest in the bag. Now it’s looking less certain that we’ll win.
Some folk are already trying to prepare us for the possibility of defeat. They’re saying that it won’t be the end of the world if we don’t bring this baby home. Nobody’s going to die if we lose, they keep saying.
That’s not quite true. I have already compiled a list of people who must pay the ultimate price if we don’t win this. The list includes people from Team New Zealand, Team Oracle, Steven Joyce (everything turned to custard the moment he arrived in San Francisco), and Martin Tasker (no jury in the land would find me guilty). Oh, and all the members of The Feelers. Just because.
I was waiting in line in the supermarket just a few hours ago when I overheard someone talking about the yachting.
It’s not my style generally to intervene in the supermarket queue discussions of others. But on this occasion I was left with no choice but to take immediate action.
“It’s just a rich man’s sport,” I heard this gentleman say. “What a waste of money. The whole bloody thing makes me sick.”
Unluckily for me, the supermarket had just finished its kitchen knife promotion, so there were no blades within easy reach. I allowed myself to reflect for a moment on how a short sharp slice across the carotid artery, though messy, would silence the traitor forever, but I quickly returned to the crisis at hand. There was no point in dwelling on lost opportunities.
I glanced quickly at the contents of my shopping basket, noting with relief the can of tomato soup I had picked up on aisle three, part of a three-for-two special.
I bludgeoned the man to death with the can, but that was about the only thing that went to plan. I dented the soup tin all out of shape, and now the police have taken me into custody for some reason.
I just hope I’m out in time for race sixteen.