Confessions of a recovering rugby fan

It's been just seven days since THAT match for anguished fans like this one. For Tony Wall there's been alcohol, panic attacks and solace from a shrink called Dr Stress, who tells him it's the fault of his Celtic genes.

As the final whistle blew it came from somewhere deep within, spewing forth with a life all its own an ugly, primal sound, a full-throated roar of despair: "No-ooooooooo!"

Then my body started shaking. I felt nauseous and started heaving, my constricted throat attempting to retch up something that wasn't there an imaginary bile.

My wife, holding a bowl under my mouth, spouted Buddhist philosophy, something about "balancing my ego". "Focus on the good things in your life," she said, "like me."

On screen, men in blue jumped about wildly, while some blokes in a colour that made no sense grey sank on their haunches, their emotions mirroring mine.

The next few hours are a blur. Wine, initially from the glass, then the bottle. A vodka and tonic five parts vodka, one part tonic. Half a dozen beers consumed at speed. Nothing could shut out the pain, the memory.

Curiously, I wasn't angry not at the All Blacks at least, or even the referee. Instead, my thoughts turned inwards, and a river of questions flooded my brain.

How could this be? How could a game of rugby take this kind of mental, physical and emotional toll? How could I have not learned the lesson of four years ago?

In 2003, I was living in Sydney and, when the All Blacks lost, "fell" into Darling Harbour. You don't want to know the details, but an all-night bender followed.

Even the stupidest lab rat learns after it's been stung a couple of times not to follow the same route. Yet here I am again, spiralling into a pit of despair.

The mornings are the worst, that moment when blessed sleep gives way to full consciousness and the horrid reality of defeat, accompanied by a hot, nervous feeling in the chest that I recognise as a panic attack.

It's time to take a good, hard look at myself.

What am I? Who am I? Do I like what I have become and if not, what can I do about it?

The answer to the first question, according to the Oxford dictionary, is a fan, an abbreviation of fanatic, a person with an obsessive enthusiasm for a pastime or hobby.

But I'm more than this; I'm someone who cannot control my emotions or responses when things don't go my way. I need to understand how it came to this. I need help. I need to see a shrink.

Psychologist John McEwan, who calls himself Dr Stress, is in his garden when I arrive at his home (and consulting rooms) in the moneyed Auckland suburb of Epsom. A tall, thin man with a beard and glasses, he sports a Tweety Bird bow tie and is so friendly I instantly feel better.

We sit in comfortable leather chairs and I describe my symptoms.

I'm worried that McEwan will reach for a straitjacket how could any sane person feel this way because of sport? but he not only legitimises my feelings, he provides a deep level of understanding.

I'm expecting him to rattle off some psycho-babble about how rugby has replaced something that is missing in my life, and that I need to focus on positives.

Instead, McEwan shocks me by taking me on a journey back thousands of years to the ancient Celts, my ancestors. These genes have been passed down through the ages and are now firmly embedded in the part of my brain where passion and primal urges give rise to the emotions I'm struggling with today, McEwan advises.

He explains that today's rugby players are the modern equivalent of the Celtic warrior, appointed champions of the people, going into war on our behalf.

"Think about it," McEwan says, his hands a flurry of movement. "All the television and media advertising has been to make the All Blacks the champions and representatives of the nation... once you've made that identification, if they are defeated, so are you, and that was the culture of the ancient world.

"The Celts would celebrate a victory with poetry; the bard was as important as the chief. The bard would praise those who had excelled in war... and would mock those who had failed or fallen short.

"So to fail in war, to not fight well, you received total mockery. That was the same tradition in Maori society."

McEwan takes a breath and continues: "These are legitimate, primal emotions; that's why they are such powerful triggers to depression.

"Sport, at the level of the contest of champions, is like war, and it's a true contest and battle. What that means is, if your champion is well beaten, you salute the victor and become their slave. Because you recognise until there is another round, they were the better side."

OK, so now I understand why I care so much, but why am I reacting like this? Why am I in the depths of depression when other fans have already moved on?

Again, those damned Celts.

McEwan: "Your personality is that you're a man of passion. The Celtic nature, which you have, comes to a high level here. Wales goes into mourning (after a rugby defeat), Scotland is in carnage when the Rangers-Celtic game is on. These are passionate people; that's your genetics, that's who you are."

So what now?

McEwan says I have to make a choice: to continue watching the All Blacks with passion, or to take that passion elsewhere.

If I choose the All Blacks, there will be more pain ahead, but hopefully victories as well.

"We don't cast away a lover simply because of one battle," McEwan says. "In effect, we're facing the challenge of lovers here. We love our team, they were our champions, but they let us down.

"What do we do? Well, we train a new group of champions.

"But you need to identify what you are committing to and do it more consciously. Recognise that it's a primal need, and you want to be part of it because you want to savour the victory.

"You are saying, `I want this passion, I want to live, and I'm prepared to pay the price, which is at times I'll lose, but I want the thrill of the win'.

"But you only get the thrill of the win if you have the passion and commitment and the preparedness to lose at times."

The bottom line is, John, I don't even enjoy watching the All Blacks any more. The joy of victory is always tempered by the anxiety of possible defeat in the next game.

"What you've identified," McEwan says, "is that their role as your champion has run its course... you need to step back from it to make the conscious choice. Can I make these men my champions again? Can I put them into battle on my behalf? Or am I going to find that passion elsewhere, with a lover, or in the creative, cultural or intellectual areas?"

I leave McEwan's rooms feeling exhilarated. There's nothing wrong with me, I'm perfectly normal! Graham Henry's not to blame, I'm not to blame. It's the Celts!

I know what I have to do, but first, I phone an old colleague, Grant Bradley.

Poor old Grant filed for divorce in 1999. From the All Blacks, that is. He called it his "citizen's divorce".

He still follows the game, but no longer invests any emotion in the All Blacks. They're just another team to him.

How is he feeling now?

"Intellectually, I'm disappointed," he says. "But emotionally, I'm fine."

McEwan would say that Bradley is watching the rugby with the cerebral cortex part of his brain, the logical, educated centre rather than the primal mid-brain. This allows him to enjoy the technical aspects of the sport a good scrummage here, a side-step there but without experiencing the thrill of victory or the despair of defeat.

I'm too passionate to be able to switch off that way, I need something more tangible, and final. I need to put this part of my life behind me, to cast off this role of All Blacks fan and throw it into into the fiery chasm from where it came.

My Frodo moment comes on Wednesday evening. I dig a hole in my yard. I have my All Blacks jersey and my All Blacks figurines Henry, Jerry Collins, Carl Hayman, Richard Loe, Frank Bunce, Olo Brown.

Like the Celtic bard of old, I sing a few words of mockery I'll spare the players the further humiliation of reproducing the words here and toss the items into the hole. I fill it with dirt, turn, and walk away, happy.

This may not be goodbye forever McEwan says I may choose to divert my passion back to the team in future but the journey is over for now.

I can no longer walk this path with my champions. I wish them well, but I'm looking for a new obsession.

- © Fairfax NZ News