The Black Arts

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One of schoolteacher Sean Winter-Bottom's earliest memories is of being lifted out of his bed in the dead of night, wrapped lovingly in a blanket, and plonked in front of the television to watch his country's rugby team, the All Blacks, play a test match against Wales. So special was the event, he was even allowed to break his parents' rule against eating cereal on the carpet in front of the TV. Such is the abandon that manifests in the face of New Zealand's national obsession: the brutal, beautiful game of rugby. "Here," says Winterbottom, "rugby crosses all boundaries. Everyone from five to 85 has a basic knowledge of the game."

With a population of just over 4 million, New Zealand has long punched above its sporting weight. Over the years, it has spawned the world's best miler (John Walker), one of cricket's greatest fast bowlers (Richard Hadlee) and yachtsmen skilled enough to win the America's Cup twice. While all of these men knew how it felt to compete under a nation's expectation, the All Blacks are a case apart. Failure has never been an option for them. Their hardheaded coach Graham Henry sounds positively Nietzschean when he declares: "The success of our rugby team is important to the psyche of the nation — we understand that, we agree with that and we live by that."

And when they don't win? It's not pretty. John Hart had the misfortune of being the All Blacks coach when they were overwhelmed by France in their World Cup semifinal at Twickenham, England, in 1999. In the weeks afterward, he was vilified on New Zealand talk-back radio and spat on by patrons at an Auckland racetrack. Four years later, the All Blacks lost another semifinal 22-10 to Australia in Sydney. The coach that night, John Mitchell, was sacked, and now coaches in Australia. He declined to be interviewed by TIME on the All Blacks. "He baulks at going home," says a colleague. "He feels like a pariah."

Mitchell is a casualty of a failure that drives his country mad. For generations, the All Blacks have been the world's outstanding team, with a 75% win record against all rugby-playing nations, many of which have never beaten them. Yet the first Cup, of 1987, is the only one they have won. They're the rugby equivalent of Sergei Bubka, the Ukrainian pole vaulter who broke 35 vaulting world records but won only one Olympic medal.

"The truth is we do tend to fall over and we're sick of it," said former All Black great Frank Bunce on the eve of the sixth World Cup, which began on Sept. 7 and climaxes at Paris' Stade de France on Oct. 20. The World Cup is the big profit-turning event (the previous one made $37 million for hosts Australia) for a game that was played for love until turning professional in 1995. Since that time, players have grown not only richer but a whole lot bigger and faster. While that may sound like progress, the game has suffered, with creativity giving way to cold, hard athleticism. Under as much pressure as any team at this Cup is rugby itself, which can ill afford a tournament full of messy, dour, defense-dominated matches if it is to continue reaching new audiences.

It was a century ago that rugby ceased to be just a sport to New Zealanders and became a vehicle for national pride. In 1905, New Zealand sent to Britain a squad combining players of European origin with the physically imposing indigenous Polynesians. But for a loss to Wales, the tourists trampled everyone in their path. Later, rugby became the one sport in which New Zealand could be confident of beating "big brother" Australia, where the best athletic talent gets scattered between several football codes. It's rugby that allows New Zealanders to believe they matter in the world, says Douglas Booth, a lecturer in sport and leisure studies at the University of Waikato. If the squad fails in France, "the country will go into mourning," he adds.

The problem with hitching your identity to a sport is that it can drain the fun from playing it. And at the pointy end of recent World Cups, the All Blacks have looked clammy — which is how their supporters are feeling now. "My friends and I are rugby tragics, but no one's mentioning the Cup," says Auckland publishing executive Paul Gardiner. "Our mentality is such that when we watch these games we'll be too scared of losing to enjoy them."

Although the All Blacks are the Cup favorites, rivals are taunting them with predictions of another premature au revoir. It doesn't look likely. Under coach Henry, the Blacks have been potent, winning 38 of their 43 matches since the last Cup. But if it isn't to be New Zealand's time, who else can win? Probably only the big-occasion Australians or the grinding, brutal South Africans, whose ruthless preparations for this Cup signal their determination to lift it. On home soil, the always-stylish French are another possibility. Asia's sole representative, Japan, under former All Black John Kirwan, will try to turn around their lamentable World Cup record (which includes a staggering 145-17 loss to the Blacks in 1995), but victory is impossible.

There's one other certainty in the coming weeks, and that's schoolteacher Winterbottom continuing the family tradition by waking his daughter, 8-year-old Isabella, for the All Black telecasts. All over New Zealand, huddled families will be praying that a historical anomaly will be dispatched along with a nation's frustration. And yes, the kids may even be allowed to break a household rule or two.