The Warriors are like my Nan’s homemade pizzas – unpredictable, but I love them

READER REPORT: I remember, as a kid, watching Stacey Jones stepping off his left foot before turning on the afterburners and diving across the line.

I didn’t understand what it meant, or what the points meant, or what any of it meant. But I did understand the cheers of my parents, the celebrations of the players. And more than anything, I understood the single piece of chocolate I was allowed to break off the block. My own personal reward for the fancy feet of the Little General.

That’s my single greatest memory of the Warriors. Since then, it has been disappointment after endless disappointment.

For a country with as gifted a group of rugby union players as New Zealand, our capacity for transferring that skill to league, has been unbelievably low. At times, we’ve had players like Manu Vatuvei or Sonny Bill Williams twinkle and smash their way into our hearts and force us to believe in something. Maybe this is finally our day, we told ourselves. But it never has been.

Sure, we’ve won the odd trophy, created some unimaginable upsets, tickled at the idea of greatness. But that’s only ever been a moment, a hint, a suggestion. It’s never been real.

Until maybe now? I’d like to hope so.

My Nana, bless her, used to make us pizza when we came over to her place for dinner. “Kids,” she’d say, “love pizza”. And she was right. Pizza is great.

Unfortunately for us, Nana’s pizza making technique was to open up the door of the fridge, tilt it on its side, and shake. Whatever fell out – that was the toppings. Sometimes you’d get rich pizza sauce, shaved ham, mozzarella cheese, and bits of crispy bacon. Other times you’d get the dried up remnants from the rim of a bottle of Wattie’s, some old bits of potato from the Sunday night roast, and an unknown chunk of something that you couldn’t swallow no matter how hard you tried. We used to hope, when we went for dinner, that it was the ham and bacon night.

But far too often, it was the other kind. And hoping for the Warriors is like that. You truly, truly, want to believe that you are going to get high quality cuisine, but so often you get a sloppy mess.

And although I will be putting my kit on for the finals this year, cracking open a few cans, and screaming “up the Wahs!” at the top of my lungs, I will not be expecting success.

Oh boy, do I hope I’m wrong.