As many of you know although I am a proud Australian with an Australian wife, kids and dog, the blood pumping through my veins has a slight tinge of blue thanks to an equally proud English upbringing. And as I tap out this piece on Sunday morning awaiting the raucous start of Bathurst, that quintessentially Australian motor race, I am absolutely shattered. Last evening saw my beloved red rose wearing English side beaten by a French team that only a week ago lost to Tonga. My expectations were as high as ever daring to believe that 2003 could be repeated and I could once again puff my chest out and thumb my nose at the same time! I don’t often feel as spent as some of the iconic clashes we see in Australian sport don’t resonate as passionately as seeing my favorite team in my favorite sport. Don’t get me wrong I adore the gladiatorial combat provided by State of Origin, revel in the atmosphere and action of an AFL grand final and shed a tear as a supremely talented athlete is presented with a baggy green. It’s life and death for many but personally I don’t really care that Queensland have six straight titles in their keep or that the Magpies were beaten as Malthouse bowed out. Quite simply there’s not as much ‘skin in the game’ for me as when 15 men and true in white (or occasionally in black) sprint down the race and out into the Coliseum to battle whatever foe. Sporting academics have terms for it-birging and corfing. Basking in reflected glory when as winners we luxuriate in the spoils of victory and cutting off reflected failure where after a loss we slink into our shells and refuse to talk or even think of the match where our heroes were vanquished. I’m in corfing mode of course so you’ll excuse me not replying to the myriad of texts and emails that enquired into my parentage, my health and my general state of mind!! At least I have a second team to support… or do I?