A Rugby Loser: Slippery Slopes: The Two Simons  

In 1958 I played in Thomond Park, Limerick, the bear-pit of Irish rugby.  It was the semi-finals of the Munster Junior cup. I owed my place to a boy called Nathan with a cranium like a prehistoric egg addicted to foul play. Joe Soap, the slippery coach, picked me as a hooker, rather than risk penalties against a team with an infallible kicker. The props, Tom Mac and Hazer, were twin Hercules with legs like Doric columns and backs like broad beans.

In those days the rules allowed hookers to swing into the opposite front row to strike. Though light weight, I had sturdy pumps. And so, Tom Mac and Hazer got me swinging between them on the scrummage machine, feet striking out like a lizard’s tongues. We practiced in the school basement between classes. Soon I could not only swing but also fly, the strong arms of Hazer and Tom Mac my wings, their weighing scales my ballast.

The game plan was not to show our hand. The final would be against Rockwell. St Munchins would be a pushover. ‘Just win at a trot’, said Joe Soap, ‘Play off the pace, and avoid penalties’. I marked a muscular block resembling the Mekong in The Eagle comic. My greatest fear were always boys with outsized heads (mine was birdlike, or so I thought. Too small for a brain, said my sister, the family phrenologist). He was said to be the cousin of Gordan Wood, Crescent College’s bulldozer. I was up against it.

A fist entered my mouth in the first scrum and stuck in my gullet. I hadn’t the teeth or breath to retaliate. Despite the gorge gouging I managed not to cough up my lunch, but as I was in free-fall I lost the ball. Our scrum collapsed, and at halftime we were down by the resultant penalty.

It’s a great mistake to play rugby holding back something in reserve’. The blood isn’t up, and you freeze. Moreover, constant drizzle that made the turf soft. Our rolling maul threatened but got stuck in the mud-bath. St Munchins isn’t a posh school like Glenstal Abbey. Rowdy supporters were so close you could inhale the spit in the air. Our winger, a lanky boy called Karl (later a bishop in Africa) had force but lacked direction. Being short-sighted, he crossed for a try, but touched down beyond the dead-ball line. Though somehow, we squeezed ahead by a point, but the last quarter was played inside our twenty-five. ‘Avoid penalties at all cost’, Joe Soap shouted from the bank. In extra-time St Muchins had a scrum in front of our posts. My much-practiced swing and fly had begun to work once Tom Mac immobilized my Mekong with a boot lace. Twice I hooked against the head, but the whistle blew for a repeat scrum. The third time I lost my props as I soared into their second row, feet first defying the fists. The whistle blew. The deadly kicker made sure we did not reach the final.

Lying low to rise again doesn’t work in team sports. Once you put yourself down the opposition get used to it and play above themselves. Recovering one’s force is compromised as by surprise. Joe Soap forgot we were only boys of fifteen with uncertain self-esteem. Returning on the bus, cheered up by whiskey, he tipped his clerical hat back and sang ‘You turned the tables on me’. It was the end of the 1950s. Benny Goodman’s Big Band, and the sarcastic female vocalist getting her comeuppance, made us hate him. Still fortified by the new drink ‘Seven Up’, thinking it was alcoholic, we changed the chorus to ‘You turned the table ON US’.

However, Joe Soap’s theory on the avoidance of injuries has not served me well. Most, he claimed, came from half-hearted engagement. ‘Fling yourself in wholeheartedly and you are invulnerable’. He liked to demonstrate with hurleys and a ball, throwing the nearest boy a stick and, once he caught it, the slitter. Then Joe Soap whacked into him as close as possible, making contact inside the elbow, and using his own until his stick arm engaged the midriff. At speed this full body tackle did not allow the boy room to swing and the ball was knocked out of his hand. The attack’s safety was in the closing down of the counter swing.

I fell for it and thought I had learned a lesson for life, throwing myself all out into everything, my stick disarming all before me. Or so I thought. But I discovered close physical contact achieved by a unilateral rush is for Slavic bears. The hug unbalances the pair and the earth opens. Keeping others at arms-length is the best way to dance out of danger, and protect yourself. Instead of flying in with a swing it’s better to keep your feet on the ground. Too often I have ended up in the air. The whistle blows. and I’m punished with a penalty. 

 
Skiing: The Slippery Slope

Up in the air has its sport of course. The stadium in Welwyn Garden City has an artificial ski slope made of brown high impact plastic. When my rugby days had ended and there was no waterway for rowing in the town where I had a research job in the local hospital. The better off residence practiced on it in anticipation of the easter holidays in the Alps.

I had a go and twisted my ankle and, on my recovery, I took up squash. My school’s rugby coach Joe Soaps’ advice proved almost fatal. I flung myself at the blank walls with fierce abandon in order to win at a sport I was not made for. I was a bad loser. And looking at myself in the mirror of the dressing-room, I saw my complexation was puce, and when my opponent, a banker called Battle, said you need to watch your blood pressure, I was on the point of hitting him, something I wouldn’t dream of in rugby or, indeed, in life.

Fortunately. I discovered cycling, a sport like rowing (which briefly replaced rugby at college), and all about cadences like music. I practiced on my racer in the hilly dirt-paths of the local cemetery and found I had a modest gift for climbing. I never looked back, except to write a poem.

Sporting in Kensal Rise

London cemeteries are made for cycling.
I ride round the paths. My bell goes bling-bling 
to warn the bereaved with their watering cans.
I'm training for the Dolomites. No hands!
I don't think the dead have any objection
and that's what matters. My cadenced spin
is respectful of the cycle of life.
Around and around we humans go. I've
stops for water, and read the odd gravestone,
and suppose we'll all one day die alone. 
At the tomb of a child, I especially like
to pause for a thought, leaning on my bike.
It always has fresh flowers. One day I met
the gran who told me, 'Karin met her death
on the Finchley Road. Got out of her pram,
and ran into a bloody cyclist’. I scram.

Meanwhile I noticed after Easter in accident and emergencies the skiers returning from the Alps with broken bones. I cut off all interest in skiing as a sport as I associated it with pain without gain.

Snow, no. Mud, in moderation. But on a bike gravel on descents can be negotiated by swanning your body position and avoiding brakes: up in the air and down to earth at the same time.

Rugby Winners: The Two Simons

I only saw Simon Geoghegan play once. It was in the England versus Ireland match at Twickenham in 1994 when he pirouetted and danced off on a solo run, blond hair trailing and only a last-ditch tackle prevented an eighty-yard touchdown. But a few minutes later his speed left the English players for dead. A unique Irish triumph in London for me. 

Simon’s pirouette damaged his big toe and led to his retirement. Although brought up in England he played for Connacht and Ireland. His family and mine are connected through marriage three generations ago. His grand

, a star hurler, married a Galway Hogan. The Geoghegan’s were often mentioned in table-talk in my childhood. Simon was more party to the migrant Irish who did well.

Decades later another Simon ran wild for Ireland.  Simon Zebo. His famous back-kick off a poor pass which led to a crazy try in the Six Nations is legendary.  He was brought up in the same parish as me, Blackrock. His mother was local and his father French African. He left Munster for Racing Paris having scored more tries than any player previously. He was loved there for his partnership with Finn Russell, the Scottish out-half. Both have what journalist call the X factor. I would say it is the A-to-Z factor. They are exceptional in everything they do on the pitch, and it included a joint joyousness that is rare in professional sport. Two years ago, Simon Zebo was voted as the best player in France. Unlike Simon Geoghegan his career won’t end early with an injury but a thirty-four in peak form. He will continue to bring his sporting surprises to life. How? I leave it to him.

PS I don’t want to admit whether I played rounders with Simon Zebo’s grandmother or mother.      

One of the more boring aspects of sports journalism is the obsession with top sportsmen that continue on when past their best. It isn’t necessary for the money. Pride comes after a falling off. And it is embarrassing, but makes for headlines.

In France it has been given a teasing name ‘la petit mort’, the ‘little death’ after a consummated career. Tennis seems to be particularly afflicted. Rafael Nadal at thirty-nine was hailed as he lost today in the first round of Rolands Garros. He who was famed for a crash bang game and biting into winning medals. His rival, the Swiss roll Federer, retired with dignity before he lost his touch. But France’s Monfils (‘That’s my boy’) lingers on, showing his age (38). If he wins a set without getting injured it is news. This is not sport but sadism.