On Patriotism

I have ambiguous feelings about patriotism.  When ANZAC day rolls around I might shed a tear over the sacrifices of my long dead grandfather and his heroic elder brothers, when the national anthem kicks in before a rugby test match the chest might swell with pride in contemplation of the myth of All Black invincibility, when I hear tales of Peter Jackson being accepted as the peer of Spielberg and Lucas and achieving feats of funding denied all other filmmakers in the world, effectively bringing Hollywood to his home town, and on his own terms, I think I can honestly confess to being proud to be a New Zealander.  On the other hand whenever some misty eyed loon starts prattling on about things like “kiwi ingenuity” or our “clean, green image”, getting sentimental about nuclear free legislation or making embarrassing declarations about “God’s own country” or how we are “the best country in world”, I cringe. 

Though I have never left these shores I think I can say with some confidence that we are not the best country in the world.   Despite the concerted efforts of the Yankee propaganda machine, with its schmaltzy notions of “only in America” or the echoing delusions across the Tasman from a nation that is so far up the States’ backside that it gets into American wars before they do, there is no such thing as “the best country in the world”.  The idea that there is one, and, more to the point, that its questionable virtues and values should be exported far and wide, is probably the greatest threat the planet faces.  Pride cometh before the fall.

I’m quite happy with the fact that New Zealand is inconsequential, relatively underpopulated, and occasionally punches above its weight in the sporting and cultural arena.

I had these feelings confirmed last week when the crickinfo.com website concluded its exhaustive study of our finest ever exponents of bat and ball.  While the history of our national cricket team is a chequered one - experiencing its nadir in 1955 with the lowest test innings total in history, 26; peaking in the 1980s thanks to the brilliance of Hadlee and Crowe - the all time New Zealand First XI that was the end result of two months of debate could, arguably, take on all comers.  Individuals such as Stewie Dempster and Jack Cowie were competitive in the era of Bradman and Hutton; John R. Reid was thought of sufficient class in his day to captain a World XI; Glenn Turner scored over a century of tons; Ian Smith was more agile than his current, heart-attack-waiting-to-happen frame now suggests, and so on.

Giving me as much satisfaction as the team’s competitiveness is the fact that this country is so small, and its history so short, that I almost feel a connection to it.  Looking over the names, I can lay claim to having had conversations with three of the eleven, have beaten one at pool and eaten a hot dog with another, and have been in close physical proximity to three more.  I’ve got one friend who did unmentionable things at primary school with Hamilton’s sole player on the list, and other mates who aren’t short of a story or two where he’s concerned.

Casting the net back a generation or three, to incorporate Auteur House’s most senior and valued customers, reveals an association with the great Bert Sutcliffe.  One gentleman saw him score 250 in a day, recalling the technique in some detail.  Another, even more impressively, was in fifth form when Bert imposed himself on their secondary school First XI.

The point of all this is not mere bragging or name dropping.  It’s this: New Zealand’s strength is its size, its freshness and its conviviality.  Everyone might not quite know everyone else but the degrees of separation are far fewer than six.  Moreover, the egalitarian spirit that still informs the national character means that even the high achievers acknowledge their arm chair critics.  Martin Crowe might not have enjoyed being beaten on the pool table, he might have sulked and been an unwilling subject for my appalling photography, but at least he talked to me.