The contents at their most vivid are now hazy, but let me enlighten those who want a touch of bemusement this Friday.Graham Henry had named me on the bench in this weekend's test against Scotland...being played at Wembley Stadium.
I cannot tell you how pumped I was. My dad was proud, I'd made history by being the first female to be named in the mighty team, people, people were talking. I somehow became shy and started seeking advice from Ian Jones. He told me to call him Kamo. That part was weird.
How did I get named? Turns out I'm big enough to play at international level in the second five spot, despite retaining my 59kg, 5'4" stats in dream world. Nonu had popped his achilles, and when confronted by the media (on a school rugby field no less), Henry was quoted as saying "Nonu is out, Williams is having a baby, and I certainly can't take the field- chortle chortle- Morris has been playing outstandingly lately, and we feel that she is the best person to take the bench despite being a female." I would have thought this type of approach to winning might fly in the current state of cricket, but to have my conscience whip it out for code? Crikey.
But oh how the media loved it everyone! The NZ Herald was knocking on my door, stuff.co.nz had it splashed across the homepage, One News all of a sudden had recruited Summerfield and he was backing me 100% despite substantial doubt across the rugby world.
I was the new Stephen Donald you might say.
Cut to the changing rooms. Everyone was present apart from McCaw. We were all sitting around. All of a sudden I was (and I can't lie here, I have to be honest) checking out the All Blacks. Now, admittedly I am someone who has picked her Fantasy Rugby team based on looks. But that was when I was stupid and wanted to be controversial when I worked in a warehouse with 8 males, and was interested in rugby for superficial reasons. Nowadays Kieran Read and Tony Woodcock have as much respect from this little ginger neck of the woods as former France fullback Xavier Garbajosa. Does anyone remember him? He played in the 1999 World Cup. Oh, that's right, that year is banished from ever New Zealander's life. Never happened. You can't even get a tax return from that financial year.
You may as well be calling your peer a cotton headed ninny muggins when you bring up '99. Or 'nam, as an aside.
Anyway, the dream. All of a sudden management walks in to the changing rooms. I get excited, we're about to be given our jerseys! We're taking the field soon! I start thinking that I don't even care if I take the field or not (my size and real world a) lack of rugby experience and b) anatomical differences are catching up with me fast). I plan on donating my jersey to a helicopter rescue place (non-descript in the dream). Richie McCaw starts giving the tactical plan for the game. I sit comfortably in my boyfriend's blue jersey knowing that any minute it's getting ditched for a shiny new black clima-cool number.
Then ol' cappie names the team again. As if we didn't know. I almost tune out since we've ben told who makes up the haka pod. This ritual is obviously just another chance to pat yourself on the back for being ruddy amazing, almost deifying yourself for donning the jersey. I then realise everyone's looking at me.
I've been dropped from the bench. Nonu's back. I slip out quietly to have a cry in the stalls. Henry can't look at me in the eye. I'm no deity today.
Graham then finds me and starts justifying my dropping. I can't quite recall the details, but I do remember him saying something about me being able to join the Black Ferns.
Ah, no thanks G. Tempting, but I will pass. I'd get absoutely dominated in that arena. I might be an amazing rugby player that transcends gender, but I'm not after a death sentence.
Until next time!