New Zealand Cricket, you’ve lost me.
And I know you don’t care.
In fact, it’s worse than that — you couldn’t give a snort’s stuff. You probably laugh and roll your eyes at people like me — the older generations, the lifeblood of your support base for the past 50 years. We’ve been your most loyal customers, rain or shine, through collapses, comebacks, and countless coffees brewed in the early hours to watch the boys in black on the other side of the world.
But somewhere along the way, you stopped caring about us.
This new administration seems beholden to the almighty ICC dollar, kneeling at the feet of players who now treat the silver fern not as an honour, but as a ticket — a stepping stone to the next big global T20 payday. The national team used to be the pinnacle. Now it’s just another line on a résumé between stints in the Texas Tugboaters and the London Lollylickers (or whatever other make-believe franchises are floating around these days).
Take the recent Chappell–Hadlee series.
Played in New Zealand. In October. Rainy, cold, unpredictable October. The most unsettled time of year, when even the sheep are still debating whether it’s spring yet. And what genius scheduled it to clash with the Bledisloe Cup — on the same night, no less? That’s not just poor planning; that’s self-sabotage.
And what happened?
It rained.
Well, bowl me middle stump over with a marshmallow — who could’ve possibly seen that coming?
A three-match T20 series against Australia. A token gesture, really. Because getting our top players to turn up these days seems to depend more on their personal calendar than the national one.
This was the Chappell–Hadlee Trophy, for heaven’s sake — the most prestigious one-day prize in our cricketing calendar, honouring Sir Richard Hadlee himself, the holiest name in New Zealand cricket. And where was our current hero, Kane Williamson? Sitting it out — in his own hometown.
Now don’t get me wrong, I have immense respect for Kane. His record, his grace, his leadership — all world-class. But Sir Richard Hadlee didn’t skip matches in Christchurch because the timing wasn’t ideal. Kane may be a great, but he’s not Sir Richard. Not yet — and not like this.
And next year, when the T20 World Cup rolls around? You bet he’ll be available. Same for Trent Boult. Their agents will be speed-dialling NZC faster than you can say “player welfare,” declaring their undying commitment to the fern — just in time for the global spotlight and the TV cameras.
Because deep down, they know something: nobody cares about the endless churn of T20 leagues, outside of the IPL. The rest are wallpaper cricket — forgotten before the post-match interview ends. Sure, they earn millions, but it’s invisible money, earned in invisible matches. And players feel that.
So no, I wouldn’t pick them next year. Not if they can’t be bothered showing up for the Chappell–Hadlee. That’s not loyalty. That’s branding.
And that’s what New Zealand Cricket has become: a marketing department that happens to run a cricket team.
A glossy balance sheet with hashtags and TikToks instead of history and heart.
You mock us oldies — our loyalty, our “nostalgia,” our insistence that playing for your country means something. You treat trophies named after legends as little more than PR assets. You forget that the only reason these modern players have a global platform is because they once wore the fern with pride, not profit.
So yes, NZC — you’ve lost me.
I’ll still watch the Ashes this summer, because that’s still real cricket. Test cricket remains brilliant theatre, honest sport, untainted by gimmicks.
But your version? Your rain-soaked October scheduling, your token series, your Instagram-era marketing exercise
It’s left me cold. Just like the weather in Tauranga.
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