There you go again, rugby union. Flexing your muscles in front of the bathroom mirror and telling yourself no one could possibly resist you. Mistaking the early season flirting of the loyalists and the top-of-the-town benefactors as proof you are the hottest thing in town.
Such pride. Such self-delusion. Such ego. Little wonder you haven't noticed no one outside your cosy inner sanctum falls over themselves to be with you. You haven't realised that if you want me, you have to come and get me.
Yes, I know you think that's beneath you. So gauche to shop yourself around like other sports. But, if you're smart, you'll start giving blokes like me the flowers and chocolates treatment. Because you need us more than we need you.
We are the ecumenical sports fan with impressionable kids, all the sports channels and very itchy remote-control fingers. The types the other codes are turning cartwheels to impress.
They don't care about our low demographics or the tomato sauce on our chins. They bombard us relentlessly with their infectious advertising campaigns. They look after our brats on Saturday mornings. They go out of their way to entertain us at the ground and, as importantly, through the plasma.
Gus Gould's passionate in-goal soliloquies. Mark Bosnich's endearing laugh and Craig Foster's truculent defiance. Dennis Cometti's wit and Bruce McAvaney's man crushes. Yes, these guys are paid spruikers. But there is something infectious about the way NRL, A-League and AFL sell themselves. Something engaging in how their most visible protagonists comment, analyse and excite. Something that makes you tune in because, if you don't, you might be missing out.
And rugby union? You haven't given me that feeling for a long time. Not just because Gordan Bray is no longer waxing lyrical about some "pig farmer from Waikato Bay". Because you got old and lazy. You looked in that mirror and saw dignified grey, while everyone else saw wrinkles.
Consequently, you gave the impression you didn't care. Others were tailoring their game, and their environment, to a spoilt-for-choice generation. You were making yourself ridiculously obtuse, adding oboes and bassoons when everyone else was pumping synthesisers.
Yes, I know mocking rules that can make the Talmud seem as demanding as The Cat in the Hat is a cliche. But what do you expect when, simultaneously, the referee, the scoreboard and the bloke wearing the nice jacket in the next row all have a different explanation of the same penalty?
I still can't work out why your Super Rugby teams don't have regional names. Not a big thing. But symptomatic of the way you cater for insiders, and thumb your nose at the world.
You are blessed – and cursed – by your generous friends. The sponsors willing to pay six-figure sums to show off to a few friends and clients their box seats at the big games have kept your head above water. Same with the old-school crowd. They give you yet another chance to put yourself back in the contest with other mainstream sports; to attract the broader audience that has been excited by you since Jonny Wilkinson wiped the smile from John Howard's face.
The window opens again on Saturday night when the Waratahs play the Reds. New coach, competitive line-up and, potentially, one of the great sports stories of the year (non-drugs, drinking, match-fixing category). The NRL lost Israel Folau, the AFL couldn't retrain him. But he could be the best thing that's happened to you since William Webb Ellis became the only handyman who has never been to Bunnings.
The problem is that, as always, your fortunes are results-driven. A few early season wins by the Waratahs and the odd full house at Allianz Stadium will create the usual back-slapping. Just as the fact tickets for British and Irish Lions games were sold out before most people had hit control-alt-delete will be misrepresented as a sign of your rude health.
Of course, rugby union, these are merely indications of your latent potential. You still need to get out there and sell yourself. To use the media to spread the word. Not arrogantly revel in a comfortable, insular world that pampers egos, but leaves outsiders cold.
Unlike David Campese, I'm even willing to read things about you written by the Herald's genitally inappropriate rugby correspondent. Even if she tends to be a bit too knowledgeable and articulate at times.
Who knows, if the Tahs can parlay a strong start to the season into meaningful engagement with the rest of the planet, they might attract supporters who don't rush to the bar when the opposition slots a third-minute field goal. Then you can really puff out that big chest with pride.