However, before that's achieved, the dark night of body and soul must be endured in the gym, on the water, on the paddock, in the nets, etc. But all neophytes can be of good cheer because a team of worthy priests, pastors and preachers will dutifully hover, omnipresent, to guide and minister with stopwatches, massages, liniments and readings from the sacred text of good headspace and right nutrition to encourage the fearful and the unbelieving.
It's an arduous task, as every pilgrim knows, but at the end of days, after purification through struggle, the coach will be there to wipe away all sweat and tears from the eyes. And the blameless ones will gather at the river and become possessed of the promised land, while the losers will be cast into the fiery lake of disappointment and defeat. And the rest of us watching will cry out with a loud voice and pronounce, amen.
Those blessed with special sainthood, the All Blacks, were apparently given a sanctified send-off by no less than the Auckland airport ground staff in what has been described as a stirring haka, which everyone knows is simply a disguised form of prayer, invoking the warrior gods to help the boys "bring it home".
I was a little perturbed, however, regarding the venue for the hallowed announcement of the make-up of the team. It took place at Parliament, which to me comes dangerously close to dissolving the line that separates church and state in this country. A disturbing precedent.
I can see that sport in this new role gives meaning to people's lives in a world bereft of significance, where black holes and the threat of nuclear annihilation compete for our planetary demise. The game, of course, involves many sacred and meaningful elements like tribal rivalries (Kiwi versus Aussie – read Sunnis versus Shia, only a little less violent), symbolic rituals (the trying on of the holy black skin-tight jersey), fabulous legends (St Peter Snell winning the 1500), adulated heroes (Buck Shelford), martyrs (the stoning of Dean Buchanan) and aesthetic beauty (Lisa Carrington walking on water). On top of all that, it provides the believer with a profound and deep sense of belonging. I know that Danish theologian Soren Kierkegaard said that the crowd was "untruth", but was he ever at the Waikato Stadium on a wet Friday night when the holy cowbells were ringing, calling the faithful to prayer?
Sport, it could be argued, is actually a higher type of religion in that no wars, civil, sectarian or otherwise, have broken out because of it, or conflicts involved in arguing to the death over the shape or colour of the ball or the location of holy jockstrap relics. There's a bit of biffo now and again, a few handbags thrown, one or two pitch invasions by infantile parents, but no beheadings that I'm aware of. One guy did die from a bouncing ball and it pains me to say that the practice has not been discontinued. And sometimes the gods let you down with gross and indecent behaviour. But generally speaking, this new religion is a harmless drug if taken in moderation and only becomes problematic in cases where followers become fanatically intoxicated, like rabid zealots to the exclusion of all else.