I have never really been a fan of South African Rugby.
Aesthetically, stylistically, emotionally, technically -
Springbok rugby leaves me as cold as an Afrikaner's eyes between pints eight and twelve.
I don't like the angle of the sun across the pitches and the colour of the 'grass'.
I don't like their mode of passing (it's not quite French, not quite Public-Schoolboy-Swoosh, certainly not Aussie-Zip or even Clwb-Rygbi-Harlech-heave).
I don't like the stuff and nonsense that the 'boks have indulged in over the professional years or before: fighting; gouging; racist abuse; poisoning; throwing more cheap shots about than on ScreamCard student night in the George come September.
I don't even like the manner in which they play, relying as they do on bulk and brutishness, bosh and boot. Nah. Don't like it.
And why do they insist on being grimmer than a Tuesday in Blaenau Ffestiniog?
Why the All Blacks struggled to beat 'em Saturday, I really do not know. Perhaps it was Henry's desire to be able to field two entire teams (inc subs.) for any given game in the next year that meant that the New Zealanders weren't as strong as they could be. Perhaps it was the fercocious tackling. Perhaps... perhaps... perhaps it was Just One Of Those Things. But the Kiwi's are so much more technically accomplished, so much more accurate, so much more astute somehow.
Henry needs to think about this: Sir Clive Bludi Woodward messed about with the tried and tested and correct when he attempted to put together a team from a disparate bunch of individuals that hadn't had time to work together, to gel, to learn each others' funny little ways. And that, my little rugby watchers, doesn't work. Train hard and smart, select well and play your team lots. That'll do her.
So, Jake White, Jack Black, Jonty Blume, or whoever is in charge of the Springboks better get his act together because passion will only get you so far.
Wales showed that in the 80's, 90's and even, on occasions, the naughties...