David Pocock cannot be said to be a hero for his chosen sport of rugby, a sport which has served him well. “There’s much more to life than chasing a rugby ball” he explains. That is the talk of a broken spirit, a tortured soul.
What does Pocock find more important than rucking and mauling his opponents for a fat pay check?
He has found religion. He'll take another bruising on the pitch then retire and wreak revenge against every citizen via his own guilty conscience for being human. As self-flagellation, David redirects his unearned guilt against supporters by siding with thieving politicians and Eco-lunatics who prefer caves to luxurious changing rooms.
To be charitable, it is probably nerves causing “the breakdown king” a breakdown. He is certain he is to be humbled by the All Black tsunami, and seeks to make himself acceptable to his countrymen by nailing his altruist colours to the mast, as a Gaia-worshipping, humanity-deriding, Earth-saving Eco-warrior.
How has this “World Cup superstar” lost his marbles? Monotonous gymnasiums, stadiums, same guys in sheds? Time on the team bus has been put not to best use. David’s sanity is perilous through not sifting through propaganda in papers, and poor advice.
Not a good look David fronting for Green humanity-diminishers. “You see guys retire from rugby and they fall apart a bit because that’s all they have” and all David has is delusion.
He doesn’t have the facility to realize that each man has differing abilities, and to excel is not something for which to feel guilt. Pocock lifts his head from the sports section: “If you live on earth, which all of us do, climate change is a pretty big issue,” not quite dementia his acknowledging he’s on the same planet.
“We need action and we’re not seeing action. Our politicians aren’t going to do it and it’s all of our futures.” His future is to be King Canute! Fighting a chimera! Assuaging his self-hate across the planet vastly improved by human activity.
He deserves to lose what remains of his self-respect, beginning tomorrow.