This non-sporting life

So, last night the NZ soccer team, the All Whites, qualified for the World Cup finals in South Africa next year, and "a jubilant nation erupted". Apparently.

We're not a sporting household. I didn't grow up in one and nor are my children. People say, "How about the big game, then?" and, never mind the teams, I won't even know what sport they've been playing.

It's hard for some people to understand not being the least bit interested in sport; and the kindest of them are sorry that I'm missing out on the thrills and camaraderie - but as far as I can see, if you're a Kiwi, there's not a lot in the way of thrills. More like a ton of misery. Even the All Blacks, I understand, can't be relied on to deliver in crucial games. No, I'm perfectly content for my ups and downs to be controlled by sunshine and rain, and leave rabbles of unpredictable, badly-behaved and overpaid young men well out of my life.

Having said which, I did enjoy the gaelic football All-Ireland final at Croke Park in Dublin a couple of months ago. True, I felt a bit of an imposter amongst 82,000+ rabid fans all painted and dressed in their colours; and because of my red jacket, chose to support Cork, who lost, so that was disappointing. But it was a grand spectacle, and highly entertaining being such a fast and clearly skilful game, and for me was absolutely a novelty - so it was a well-spent afternoon that I don't regret. But it was part of my tourist experience: I couldn't keep it up back home.