Ned Davy's Road to Redemption

By Matthew Jansen

In 1987, when we first and last held the Webb Ellis Trophy aloft, I was young and healthy and full of dreams. My hair was lush and reached all the way to my forehead and I knew exactly how I was going to be rich, famous and happy.

By 2007 I was forty-mumble, fat and fatigued. My hair had slipped backwards, my eyesight had decayed, and in any case I couldn’t see over my belly. I had the wife and the kids and the mortgage – and I wasn’t doing much good for any of them. I was working like billy-o, coming home late, going out early, eating crap and puffing going up the stairs.

My life was a metaphor for twenty years of All Blacks rugby. All the effort, all the trappings of success, but ultimately missing out on the things that really matter.

But here’s the thing – what if it was the other way around?

What if I am the metaphor for the All Blacks? What if their successes and failures were mirroring mine?

It was me.

It was my fault.

I am to blame.

Let the distance from Eden Park in 1987 to Cardiff in 2007 mark the furthest extent of our Fall from Grace. From Champion to Choker; from Grand Final winner to Quarter Final loser; from the omnipotentiality of youth to the grey drear of middle-age.

The return journey, from Cardiff to Eden Park, is the Road to Redemption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matthew Jansen
• Release date: Dec 5, 2011
• ISBN: 9780473201555

Matthew Jansen

Matthew Jansen is a writer living in Wellington, New Zealand.

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Ned Davy's Road to Redemption

By Matthew Jansen

Published by Fourth Wave Limited at Smashwords

Copyright 2011 Fourth Wave Limited

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Table of Contents

May 2010

June 2010

July 2010

August 2010

September 2010

October 2010

November 2010

December 2010

January 2011

February 2011

March 2011

April 2011

May 2011

June 2011

July 2011

August 2011

September 2011

October 2011

Postscript

The Road Manifesto

28 May 2010

I was in Cardiff on 6 October 2007, and all I want to know is …. where the BLOODY HELL were the All Blacks?

Les Bâtards Bleu were there. In fact they were everywhere – onside, offside, in front of the man passing the ball. But they were there.

The IRB’s youngest, least-experienced, slowest and blindest referee was there. Well, not quite there if by that you mean being in a position to see a blatant forward pass. But he was in the stadium. He was in Cardiff.

I was there, with Brother Phil and 20,000 other kiwis who had mortgaged their first-born children for a chance to taste the sweet glory of righteous victory.

A whole lot of Irish turned up, having bought tickets for the match back when you could imagine O’Driscoll would make a difference. He didn’t.

There were scatterings of French, gallically shrugging before Le Match, kissing all Les Girls afterwards.

Everybody was there, except the All Blacks.

Richie and the boys just never turned up. They had apparently been kidnapped by replicant aliens who looked like All Blacks but couldn’t play for shit. Instead they fuddled around like third formers at their first school dance – too much hair product, not enough gumption. Too scared of the Headmaster.

It’s a bloody long and lonely trek away from the Millennium Stadium when you’ve lost a Quarter-Final.

A bloody long and lonely trek when you’re surrounded by tens of thousands of braying Euro Orcs savouring another Mordor Moment.

In the days and weeks that followed – as I dragged myself morosely from here to there and back again, beyond caring, bereft and broken – a realisation began to unfurl, a koru kernel of consciousness.

In 1987, when we first and last held the Webb Ellis Trophy aloft, I was young and healthy and full of dreams. My hair was lush and reached all the way to my forehead. I could take my shirt off without clearing the beach, and I knew exactly how I was going to be rich, famous and happy.

By 2007 I was forty-mumble, fat and fatigued. My hair had slipped backwards, my eyesight had decayed, and in any case I couldn’t see over my belly. I had the wife and the kids and the mortgage – and I wasn’t doing much good for any of them. I was working like billy-o, coming home late, going out early, eating crap and puffing going up the stairs.

My life was a metaphor for twenty years of All Blacks rugby. All the effort, all the trappings of success, but ultimately missing out on the things that really matter. Like feeling good and doing good and being good and winning the World Cup.

But here’s the thing – what if it was the other way around?

What if I am the metaphor for the All Blacks? What if their successes and failures were mirroring mine?

It was me.

It was my fault.

I am to blame.

Let the distance from Eden Park in 1987 to Cardiff in 2007 mark the furthest extent of our Fall from Grace. From Champion to Choker; from Grand Final winner to Quarter Final loser; from the omnipotentiality of youth to the grey drear of middle-age.

The return journey, from Cardiff to Eden Park, is the Road to Redemption. It’s a long and winding tale of tragedy and terror and (hopefully) triumph that will rival all the great tales of voyages of self-discovery: the Iliad, The Lord of the Rings, Horton Hears A Who.

It’s about finding out what’s important in life, and doing it. Doing it in spite of – because of – the obstacles and the dangers and the derision. It’s about food and fitness and footy and friends and family.

It’s about me.

Bugger: sounds like a chick flick.

Gnarly old bastards

28 May 2010

The NZRU’s plan for the 2007 Rugby World Cup was based on the assumption that the best prepared and talented team would win the RWC. (para 3.18, p.9, Independent Review of the 2007 Rugby World Cup Campaign)

It’s nonsense, of course. There is no evidence that it is true or ever has been true or ever will be true.

On page 7, at para 3.2, the report makes the critical observation, and then skates right on by: The RWC finals are knock-out matches (with all the uncertainties that entails). Professional sport is not fair and results cannot be guaranteed.

'RWC finals are knock-out matches': who wins knock-out matches? The youngest: the fittest: the strongest: the fastest: the prettiest? No.

They’re won by two muscles – the head and the heart – that cannot be strengthened by a conditioning programme.

Knock-out matches are won by gnarly old bastards who have one last shot at glory. Who have tasted the bitter herbs of defeat during a long career, and are damned if they’ll do it again. Who will play with the smarts needed to smother the other team, to choke the life out of their game plan, to grind them into the turf, and to crawl our way to victory, one desperate inch at a time.

Not every player on the field will be old and gnarly, but the core of the team should be. The ones who will call the plays, direct the troops, lead the charges. Lead the charges: throwing tired old bodies into battle one last time without thought of hurt or future. Calling On me! so that a tide of irresistible black engulfs a dispirited, disjointed defence.

A upane kaupane whiti te ra!

My Everest

29 May 2010

I am 186 centimetres tall. At the peak of Upsize Me, in 2007, I weighed 146 kilograms, and my waist measurement was 145 centimetres.

Yeah, me too: metrics don’t mean a thing. I understand intellectually that 146 kg is bad, but I don’t know how bad, really. I don’t feel it.

But if I convert it to 6’1", 23 stone and a 57 inch waist … Well, now I’m embarrassed. (Hey, that’s not a waist, that’s a girth.)

I think that was part of the subtle ability to put on size: the metric conversion was another reason not to acknowledge the problem. It just didn’t register.

My memory of me, the real young man me, is 12 stone and 34 inch jeans. In some part of my brain 145 centimetres was plausibly equal to 36 inches. And 140 kilos must be, what, 15 stone? Not so bad, really, for a guy making a career and a family and a mortgage, but not the gym (or the stairs for that matter.)

So fast forward three years – actually, there’s no fast forward about it, it’s been bloody slow and gruesome – I’m still 186cm tall, but my weight is down to 112kg, and the waist is 112cm.

Say it with me, baby: 6’1", 17½ stone, 44 inches.

Nobody’s accusing me of being small yet, but people aren’t looking away embarrassed anymore.

By the time Rugby World Cup 2011 starts, my goal is to be down to 95kg and 96cm jeans. I know in my heart that the All Blacks won’t win if I don’t get there, because this two decade refusal to face the facts are what has held us all back.

Pray for me, brothers and sisters.

I come from ...

1 June 2010

I come from Des Moines. Somebody had to.

Bill Bryson, The Lost Continent

Well, Bill, I come from Hamilton. And I reckon Des Moines would have been pretty cool compared to 1960s Middletown New Zealand.

The big excitement in the whole week was to go to town on Friday night. That was it. Victoria Street, open until 9.00pm on Friday night.

I can’t remember actually doing much in town, except waiting for Mum who was always talking to people. Walk a few more yards, yak some more.

And waiting for Dad, who was always late from a meeting. With Mr Dominion and Mr Breweries.

When I was a kid the DIC department store still had a manned elevator, which was fine if you really wanted to get out amongst the women’s wear. If you wanted to be wild, you’d go ride the only escalator in town at the fabulously modern P&M Plaza. But that was always a bummer because it meant Mum and sisters would be spending hours and hours in Pollock & Milne choosing dress patterns and material and buttons and zips … and meanwhile my brain is leaking out of my ear as I softly beat my head against the floor.

The biggest excitement I knew as a kid was when a truck lost its brakes going down Boundary Road, and plunged down the bank towards the river. Even then, no-one died or got seriously injured or anything.

The weird thing about growing up in Hamilton – the really weird thing, that I didn’t even know was weird until I left home – is that Hamilton is inland, which is so not New Zealand. It’s not on the coast. It doesn’t have beaches or ports or seagulls or sand or rock pools or horizons.

A bit like Des Moines really.

The Ted Squad

2 June 2010

So Graham Ted Henry has announced his first All Black squad for the year, to play Ireland (12 June, New Plymouth) and Wales (19 June, Dunedin and 26 June, Hamilton). The squad has an early season feel about it: without being complacent, Ireland and Wales are the entrée not the main course, and with a few injuries around, it’s time to blood a few prospects in the wider squad.

Backs

Dan Carter (Canterbury)

Jimmy Cowan (Southland)

Aaron Cruden (Manawatu)

Israel Dagg (Hawkes Bay)

Zac Guildford (Hawkes Bay)

Cory Jane (Wellington)

Richard Kahui (Waikato)

Mils Muliaina (Waikato)

Joe Rokocoko (Auckland)

Conrad Smith (Wellington)

Benson Stanley (Auckland)

Piri Weepu (Wellington)

Forwards

Anthony Boric (North Harbour)

Aled de Malmanche (Waikato)

Tom Donnelly (Otago)

Ben Franks (Tasman)

Owen Franks (Canterbury)

Jerome Kaino (Auckland)

Richie McCaw (Canterbury, captain)

Keven Mealamu (Auckland)

Kieran Read (Canterbury)

Adam Thomson (Otago)

Brad Thorn (Canterbury)

Neemia Tialata (Wellington)

Victor Vito (Wellington)

Tony Woodcock (North Harbour)

While most of the commentary has been around the four new caps (Cruden, Dagg, Stanley, Vito), there are a few other points to celebrate and ponder.

First, fantastic to see Southland, Manawatu, Hawkes Bay and Tasman represented. That suggests the Super XIV/NPC season bookends can work to nurture talent from the regions and keep it there.

Second, hookers is a problem. The coaches are obviously not overly confident about de Malmanche: they keep putting him on the bench and keeping him there. A fit Hore is first choice, and taking on the captaincy at the Hurricanes has lifted his overall game. The man also has the best post-match interview eyebrows in the business.

Third, no candidate is making the halfback role their own. Wynne Gray has a fair article about Weepu, but many of the points he makes (surly when games do not run his way and as he loses his spirit his game disintegrates) apply equally to Cowan. The thing I like about Weepu is his unbelievable strength around the ruck: he pushes off forwards and always lays the ball back.

Fourth, first five-eighth is a worry. Carter is Carter, and Cruden isn’t. It might be just a matter of more game time improving his judgment, but I reckon his skills need polishing as well. Maybe this is why Weepu is in the squad: to cover both halves off the bench.

Last, and most importantly, I tremble at the selection of Dagg, Muliaina and Jane. That means they’re playing the fullbacks, wings and centres are interchangeable crap again. Two words, Ted: Christian and Cullen.

It’s a theme I am sure I will return to many times over the next 16 months, but let’s get it clear right here and now: if you want a champion team rather than a team of champions, you have to pick specialists.

A Few Slackers

3 June 2010

I see as how Martin Snedden is fairly happy about getting 165,000 applications for 600,000 tickets. Given that my personal tally is 23,750 applications for 76,003 tickets, I reckon there’s a few slackers out there.

I’m fairly confident of getting to see Scotland play Kazakhstan in Invercargill, and I reckon I’m in with a chance for a Quarter Final.

Meanwhile I’d better let Mr Mastercard know to expect a bit of a thrashing on the plastic next month. I’m working on the theory that I’ll be too big to fail, and the US Government will have to bail me out.

The International League of Pain

4 June 2010

I used to work with a guy called Bernie. For some deep historical reason that he once explained to me with the bright-eyed intensity of the true sports fanatic, but which I thankfully no longer remember, he was a follower of Aston Villa.

He spent much of his time in his cubicle in detailed internet research about English football, rather than doing his actual, like, you know, work. What he was really working on was his League of Pain.

It was a very simple idea that became, in practise, extremely complicated: to compile a single numbered list of English football teams from the one you most wanted to win (Aston Villa) to the one you most wanted not to win (Manchester United). For any given match (such as Portsmouth versus Coventry) he could quickly consult his League of Pain to decide which team he would support: you always wanted the higher-ranked team to beat the lower-ranked team.

Nice idea, if only because it creates the right context to watch every single match going.

One of the ways in which it falls down, of course, is how a particular match affects the competition standing of your preferred team. Sometimes poor Bernie just had to hope for a ManU victory if it would help keep Villa up the table.

What it really is, though, is a very nice way to spend the summer. Okay, so there’s no actual football on, but that shouldn’t stop you thinking about it all the time.

In trying to create a similar table for the All Blacks, in the specific context of Rugby World Cup 2011, however, you immediately run into the issue of what sort of pain is involved: hate or shame.

I would absolutely hate to lose to England. I would be utterly ashamed to lose to Russia.

So I’m therefore proposing two separate parts of the league. There’s the Table of Hate for those teams who have previously beaten or drawn with the All Blacks (SethEfrika, GirtBySea, Pongoland, LesBâtardsBleu, Jones&Jones, Oirland, Bargies, HaggisEaters).

Then there’s the Table of Shame: the other 11 teams who will be at the Cup (Canada, Fiji, Georgia, Italy, Japan, Namibia, Russia, Samoa, Tonga, USA, Romania/Tunisia/Uruguay/Kazakhstan).

There are three rules:

1. The Table of Shame ranks above the Table of Hate. That is, in any match between a Shamer and a Hater, I will be supporting the Shamer.

2. If the All Blacks lose to a Hater, there will be a period of national mourning of not less than four years. We can all have as many sick days as we need by informing the Boss Sorry … I just can’t … Not today, sorry.

3. The All Blacks are not allowed to lose to a team in the League of Shame, under any circumstances. Mrs Windsor will declare a national emergency at the 79th minute if it appears possible that such a result may eventuate, and Phil the Greek will be on hand to smooth it over with People of a Foreign Persuasion. The Government will be sacked, and martial law will be declared (which will be a bit tricky if the Army’s Landrover has a flat battery that day). Girls’ blouses will be instituted as the compulsory national costume, and the Rugby Channel will be replaced by the Morris Dancing Channel. There will be a period of national amnesia of not less than 125 years.

The Holden EJ Special Station Wagon

5 June 2010

The first car I remember as a kid is a Holden EJ Special station wagon. Of course, I remember it as huge, but you see them occasionally these days and I think they’re about the size of a Corolla hatch. But with bench seats front and rear, you could pack all the kids in no worries. And no seatbelts.

I remember the night drives home, from the beach or visits to Dad’s parents down country. As a kid, I never could figure out how Dad made the lights change between dip and high-beam. (Only years later did I find the foot toggle next to the clutch.) I just glazed out into the night counting the moments between when an oncoming car appeared and the lights would dip. Even then I somehow knew that there was a social contract at work here, where not dipping at the right time was a source of shame. But getting that sweet spot between not blinding the other driver, but keeping as much light out ahead, was a matter of driverful pride.

And man, even I could tell you had to really work to drive them. The high-beam foot toggle, the heavy heavy clutch, the push and shove column shift. And that was just to get the thing moving, when you’d find out how hard it was to keep it on the road with thin tyres, floppy suspension, sloppy drum brakes, and a big steering wheel that you had to hand over hand.

And Mum all the time sighing, fighting the urge to say something until she couldn’t hold it any longer. Bob!

That was it. One word of pent up fear and frustration and anger at the speed and the swerves. And Dad would say nothing because he was so pissed off to be called on it. Maybe he’d drop it a notch, but probably not, and never for long.

International League of Pain Update

7 June 2010

I reckon the easiest place to start in allocating places on the International League of Pain is at the extremes. Obviously the team I want to beat everybody is the All Blacks, so they rank 1.

But who ranks 20? Which team above all others would make me utterly sick with despair if they were to win at Eden Park on 23 October 2011?

It’s a team that everyone loves to hate. A team that has an arrogant self-regard beyond all evidence. A team that claims to have won a World Cup, and yet has never beaten the All Blacks in three World Cup meetings. A team that has played the All Blacks 33 times for just six wins and one draw.

There can only be one team at Number 20: Pongoland.

Concrete

8 June 2010

The old joke was that New Zealand could not afford a four day working week because it would mean half the country would be concreted over within a year.

That comes from an era when a) nothing was open on weekends, so you had to make your own fun, and b) not many people had spare cash, so you had to make your own fun. And the fun was for gangs of friends and family to move around the burgeoning suburbia to complete home improvement projects.

The star of each project was undoubtedly the concrete mixer.

Everybody knew somebody who knew somebody who owned one, or could get one, for the weekend. That somebody would be the one in charge of the mixer and the mixing, and had to have their own secret recipe. The masters knew exactly how to have the metal and the cement and the mixer and the wheelbarrows arranged for minimal effort: a couple of stabs of the cement bag to open it up, a casual lob of metal, the hose on slow to fill up the bucket.

It all combined as a series of essential rites of passage for kiwi males. Early on you could get away with mucking around on the metal pile with your toys, but soon enough you were holding stakes as they were bashed into the ground. Then you were allowed to cut the timber for framing. Then you might be allowed to throw a couple of shovels into the mixer, so long as you got out of the way as the work sped up.

Eventually you would get to the big test: lifting a wheelbarrow full of concrete, pushing it to the pouring site and, if you were feeling lucky, pushing it up to pour. (And give it a shake and a bang to get the last slops out.)

It never always went that easy, of course. At some point, the wheelbarrow would tip, and a load of concrete would end up in exactly the worst place. All the men would quickly converge to scrape it up off the lawn or from the rose garden, and you would step back ashen with embarrassment while an older brother or cousin gave you a withering look.

The local missus would put on the spread for morning tea and lunch. And at the end of the day, after everything had been cleaned up and hosed down, there would be a couple of crates of DB or Lion.

Perfect.

The Incredible Shrinking Me

10 June 2010

A funny thing happens when I meet people I haven’t seen for awhile. They do a double-take and burst out smiling. It’s just like Alan Funt doing Candid Camera.

Of course what my friends and colleagues are surprised by is how much less of a man I am these days. And what is really touching is how pleased they are for me.

The corollary of the pleasure must be that they were less than overjoyed by what I was like before. Thank goodness they were all too polite to say anything.

Often their first question is How did you do it?

Well, since you asked, here’s my secret:

plenty of regular exercise

almost no alcohol

very low fat

cut back the scrummy white starch (bread, cake, rice, potato)

lots of lean protein

eat small portions often.

Who knew?

Well, as it turns out, the people at ProZone know. The above list is my take on the programme they run, and which I had been trying to follow for about seven years. (Well, okay, maybe not so much trying if you mean actually changing anything I really wanted to do like drink beer, eat cream doughnuts or sit on the couch.)

Finally something clicked for me, I applied the rules, and I’m losing weight faster than I’m losing hair. Go figure.

The Other World Cup

11 June 2010

It’s maybe kind of appropriate that the Road to Redemption passes through the Land of Soccer, because that’s what happened back in the 80s. We were all All Whites fans in 1982, and we’ll all be watching them in South Africa too.

There was a lot of nonsense talked back then about soccer replacing rugby as the national sport. Which presumes that we can only follow one sport at a time, when we all know that this is the Age of Also.

There’s much to admire about football (which is what we have to call soccer now). The simplicity of its rules make it easy to play and easy to watch. The skills of the best players are truly beautiful to behold. And football fans really know how to be fans. The Phoenix Yellow Fever, for example, put the Hurricanes fans in the shade.

Now I’m a rugby nut, obviously, so what follows is maybe a little biased. And probably the basic reason I’m a rugby nut is the same reason people put the milk in before or after the tea or like to wear walk shorts with sandals: because that’s how they were brought up.

There are three key reasons why I prefer rugby to football. The first is that the complexity of the rules means that the playing emphasis is on the precision of the teamwork. Which is why people often refer to it as a simple game, or that success comes from doing the basics well.

The second reason is the recurrent observation that rugby provides opportunities for people of all body shapes and sizes, from the wee fat po-pos up front, to the bean pole speedsters out back. You don’t see that diversity in football.

Finally, it is the complete physicality of rugby compared to the simple fitness and dexterity of football. Every rugby player (certainly every professional rugby player) has to be willing and able to crunch and be crunched. Whereas many football players appear to be psychically sensitive to any possibility of physical contact and will fall over if they come within a few inches of another player.

Anyway, there’s no denying the strength, fitness, courage and skill of the All Whites, and you have to admire the coaching qualities of Ricki Herbert. I’m just pleased that they’ve changed their shorts from last time.

South 3, North 0

14 June 2010

There’s plenty to mull over from the weekend’s tests. Only the Jaapies are entitled to feel good after their 42-17 win over the Frogs. LesBâtardsBleu were rugged in the contact as well as fleet of foot, but they were up against a brutally efficient SethEfrikan machine.

Pongoland were … were … well, what, exactly? Tourists, mostly, because they didn’t look like they had come Down Under to actually win a sporting contest. They did win the scrummaging award, but it was against the Kogarah Kindergarten Third XV front row, so who really cares? The rest of the time, they looked clueless, particularly against the outrageous inventiveness of Quade Cooper.

I hope Cooper enjoys this season, because come next year he’s going to be hammered by every open side flanker who watches the videos. On the other hand, it was great to see O’Connor have a confident game at fullback after the horrors of last year when it looked like Dingo Deans had introduced him too young.

The cliches about the ABs – Oirland match being ruined as a contest by Jamie Heaslip’s sending off were as predictable as they were wrong. For my money, it made the game more interesting because the Oirish knew they weren’t playing to win, so they actually played some attacking rugby, and got the rewards for it. Put another way: the Oirish scored four tries against the ABs for the first time exactly because they had no chance of winning. There’s a lesson in there for the coaching staff: but there’s no chance they’ll learn it.

As for the ABs: not good enough. Not by a long shot. If I want let everybody have a turn to express themselves nonsense I’ll join the PPTA. What I want from the ABs is ruthlessness. Playing a continuously expansive game plan against a 7-man pack is to play away from your comparative advantage: leaking four tries to fourteen men is pathetic.

Finally, a word on the refs. Lawrence in Cape Town and Barnes in New Plymouth were both very good: precise, clear, consistent.

Owens in Perth was in Liberace mode: Oooh, look at me everyone. Get a grip, buddy.

The Pride and the Fall

15 June 2010

You know how it goes. I was feeling pretty good about myself at the gym. Doing more time on the cross-trainer, extra weights on the resistance machines. Looking at myself in the mirrors and thinking, Yeah, baby, the Thin Man Inside is getting ready to break out.

So I ask the Gym Guy for a new programme to take me to the next level.

Dumb dumb dumb.

He doesn’t care how far I’ve come. He’s just looking at me as some fat slug who needs to get moving.

So now I can barely walk, and sitting down is agony, because those muscles on the top of my thighs have announced their intention to secede from my legs.

Now, I know from past experience (the start of each rugby season) that this moment will pass, and that it is indeed emblematic of progress.

But it bloody hurts.

Adult Up

17 June 2010

You’re going to have to adult up.

I’m on the phone to MrsDavy, who is working late while I get dinner on the table. LittleDavyOne and LittleDavyTwo are having separate and combined meltdowns over homework or friends or Søren Kirkegaard‘s concept of irony or who knows and who cares, and MrsDavy chooses that exact perfect moment to call and find out how things are going on the home front.

Well, dear, just peachy, thank you very much for asking.

How come she always knows exactly what’s going on by what I say, didn’t say, how I said it, how I didn’t say it, the pauses, the gabbling, the breathing? How does that work?

Forget waterboarding, the CIA should just employ MrsDavy.

So I have to give her the rundown on who said what and when to whom. And then she says it:

You’re going to have to adult up.

Now, I understand exactly what she means. There are three people in the house at the moment: two of them are too young to vote, and the third would simply like to point out that his position is both right and righteous, and that if there were any justice under heaven that his will would be understood implicitly and acted on immediately at all times and with respect to all matters.

Uh huh.

I know, I know, but ‘adult up’? Not ‘toughen up’, or ‘grow up’, or ‘listen up’ or ‘smarten up’. But ‘adult up’?

Hey, I’m an adult, thank you very much. Says so right there on my tax return. (You what? How much? Can you, like, just take them at the elbow and the knee?)

But I know what she means. When adults are dealing with kids, especially their own kids, there come those moments when even though the kids are totally, absolutely and completely in the wrong … they’re just kids. And the adult