Intolerable cruelty towards whingers

South Africa's early exit from the World Cup has thrown many of us into confusion about what we should be feeling when we watch the decisive games of the tournament.

Most of the people of my acquaintance appeared to be willing a New Zealand/France final, but as the semi-final between New Zealand and Australia played itself out, I found myself experiencing a kaleidascope of different emotions.

Initially there was a desire to see the All Blacks win because of their abundance of flair.

There was also the significant point that their results reflected that they had to be ranked as one of the top two teams in the world this year. Therefore you had to think they deserved a place in the game that would crown the world champions.

Of course, it may also have helped that the one thing the Kiwis are not is whingers. Now that their complaints about Suzie the waitress have receded into distant memory, we South Africans tend to recall far quicker the many tirades that Aussie coach Eddie Jones has launched against both our Springboks and anything else that might stand in the way of a perfect passage to his rugby nirvana.

And it was tempting to write a story after the Sunday semi-final billing the final as the battle of the whingers. We all know how bitter and twisted the Poms were after their 53-3 victory at Twickenham last year, and their coach Clive Woodward has been heard to complain a couple of times during this tournament.

But while an All Black victory was hoped for at the start, how many of us found ourselves suddenly swinging behind the Aussies? They did start as underdogs, and all neutrals love underdogs, and they also played damn fine rugby.

But then there was also another perhaps disturbing emotion that stirred somewhere in the recesses of the soul. I love New Zealanders, I think they have a great attitude to the game, I would want them to beat Oz nine times out of 10. Yet the mind went back to 1999.

Everyone expected New Zealand to beat France in their Twickenham semi-final, so when they didn't, and the Kiwi nation went into mourning, we all loved it.

There was something savagely satisfying to know that New Zealanders were hurting even more than South Africans were.

The next day I spent some time imagining the atmosphere that must have prevailed in that country, where rugby is at times even more important than religion.

The dark newspaper headlines, the gnashing of teeth over the lines to radio phone-in programmes, the complete and utter despair of a people that I like but are sometimes a little over the top in the way they deify the sport.

That sadism came back some 20 or so minutes into Saturday's semi-final. What if the All Blacks lose? Imagine the reaction this time, knowing it has been a full 16 years since they were official world champions and they have another four years to wait. Oh, the cruelty of it all...

It is not all just sadism. Part of it is rooted in the extra interest that will be attached to the New Zealand performance at the next tournament in France.

It is a similar emotion to the one that is probably evoked in many neutral people when they see Natal stumble time and again at the last hurdle in the Currie Cup.

Like New Zealand, the Natalians have probably deserved to win it a couple of times since they last got their hands on the trophy in 1996. But for some reason that knowledge does not make you feel sorry for them, it does the opposite, even though you may happen to like the guys involved in the team and the union.

Somehow that chokers label, and the unmistakeable signs that they start displaying every time they get to the business end of a competition, makes them more interesting.

It is not easily explained, but maybe it is the glue that keeps us transfixed to sport.

The fact England, who have never won the trophy but have tried so damn hard, are in the final probably makes it more watchable than if two teams played each other that take turns at winning the tournament every other year.

When the final whistle sounds, we will either see the elation of Clive Woodward as he finally realises his dream, or the magic of having England build up for the next tournament still trying desperately to shed their status as perennial pretenders and also-rans.

Poor old Woodward will be utterly inconsolable and I will feel dreadfully sorry for him.

Like New Zealand, England have been the most consistent team over the past 18 months, and on that basis they deserve to be remembered as a great team rather than forgotten, as all losing finalists are.

But at the same time, his despair (or that of Eddie, for that matter) will keep me glued to the scene, in much the same way as people who don't pay any interest in the event all afternoon suddenly find themselves watching intently as the end gun nears in the Comrades Marathon.

Yes, we feel for those who miss out, maybe we even cry for them or with them. But if they all made it there would be no drama and we probably wouldn't bother to watch.

As that is what makes sport tick, perhaps I need not apologise for the sadistic pleasure I will take in seeing one set of whingers lose out on World Cup glory at the final, tantalising hurdle.

There are a lot of reasons we are addicted to sport, and the cruelty is one of them.