by Peter Burns
Kirton was a favourite son of Otago rugby in New Zealand and it was much to the chagrin and bemusement of the Otago faithful that his talents had been only marginally recognised by the national sectors. A fast and creative fly-half who was elusive on the break, he had also been an excellent tactical kicker with an inventive mind for the game, particularly in attack.
After several bright seasons with the University of Otago and Otago province, Kirton had been selected for the South Island team in 1963 and performed so well against the North Island that the opposition captain Wilson Whineray (who was All Blacks captain at the time) announced during his post-match speech that he hoped that the national selectors had taken note of Kirton’s performance. It would prove prophetic and Kirton was selected for the All Blacks’ end of year tour to Britain and Ireland.
He made his New Zealand debut in a midweek fixture against Newport, but he gave an underwhelming performance and it has since been suggested that this coloured how he was viewed by the selectors thereafter. He played another twelve times on tour – but as the schedule included thirty-six matches in total, this was a relatively small number of run-outs.
He continued his good domestic form when he returned to New Zealand, playing for Otago, South Island, South Island Universities and New Zealand Universities, but was not selected for an All Blacks squad again until 1967 and for a return tour of the northern hemisphere. This was a much happier experience and he went on to become the leading stand-off on the tour, winning the playmaker role for all four Tests against England, Wales, France and Scotland and scoring two tries against England at Twickenham. He picked up further Test caps against Australia, France and Wales before finishing his career after the 1970 tour to South Africa, where he played twelve matches, including two Tests against the Springboks.
After the tour was concluded Kirton moved to England to take up a postgraduate course in dentistry and began playing for Harlequins. His playing career in the UK included appearances for Middlesex and the Barbarians and when he finally decided to hang up his boots, he was persuaded by the Harlequins hierarchy to take on a coaching position at the club. By the time the eighteen-year-old Clive Woodward turned up in 1974, Kirton was well established as the first-team coach.
Rugby in Britain and Ireland was in buoyant mood at the start of that season. The Lions had just returned from a twenty-one-match tour of South Africa in which they had gone unbeaten – the only blight on their 100 per cent record coming in the fourth and final Test against the Springboks when they were denied victory at the death thanks to a dubious refereeing decision and had to settle, instead, for a draw. The team, captained by Ulsterman Willie John McBride, would become known as the Invincibles and are roundly regarded as the greatest tour party ever to have represented Britain and Ireland. Both the 1971 and 1974 Lions squads had combined power and dynamism in the forwards with mesmeric back play out wide; it was a golden period, with the Welsh sides throughout the decade fielding some of the finest players ever to grace the world stage. While English rugby was some way behind their rivals across the Severn, the knock-on effect of the exuberance of both Welsh and Lions rugby was palpable. It was, in many ways, alien to the style so prevalent throughout England at the time, but it was inspirational to the new generation of players coming into the senior game – Clive Woodward among them.
After the oppression of his life at Conway, the feeling of freedom that Woodward enjoyed in London was seismic. He was young, independent, relishing the challenges and opportunities of his new job and expressing himself in the most wonderful ways every Saturday in a Harlequins shirt. The influence of Kirton, in particular, cannot be underestimated. He encouraged expression and creativity on the field and moved Woodward back into the fly-half position. If Woodward thought an attack was on, even if it was deep in his own territory, his coach backed him. And if it didn’t always work, it didn’t matter to Kirton – he would rather Woodward tried these things a dozen times each half to no effect, if it paid off once or twice a game – for those one or two moments could mean the difference between winning and losing. But he also instilled tactical awareness, game management and a kicking strategy in Woodward – classic New Zealand fly-half traits – and his experience of playing in the wild conditions so often found in Otago transferred easily to the harsh conditions of an English winter, and they were lessons that he passed on to his young protégé.
Rugby union was in something of a state of flux through the late 1950s, the 1960s and into the 1970s with the International Rugby Football Board constantly tinkering with the rules. Rugby visionaries like Jim Greenwood were not alone in lamenting the style of play that was dominating rugby throughout the world. In 1966 the RFU president, Gus Walker, voiced the feelings of many when he said, ‘The standard of play in top games in the last two or three seasons has been in general, but certainly not exclusively, disappointing.’ This was epitomised by the 1963 Five Nations encounter between Scotland and Wales in Edinburgh, which the Welsh won 6–0, but which will be remembered for the extraordinary statistic that there were 111 line-outs; at the time, the ball could be kicked directly into touch from anywhere on the pitch and a line-out would be held at the point where the ball crossed the touchline.
‘I played in that famous match,’ recalls George Stevenson, the Scotland winger. ‘Or rather that infamous match. The Welsh scrum-half, Clive Rowlands, just kicked to touch every time he got the ball. I think that was one of the first times I played on the wing for Scotland and in those days the winger put the ball in at the line-out. I touched the ball more that day than I had ever touched it in any match before, but it was only to throw the ball in after Rowlands had kicked to touch again. What a dreadful game. They changed the rules after that, making it illegal to kick directly to touch unless you were in your own 25.’
England won the 1963 Five Nations but in doing so scored only four tries throughout the entire championship. Rather than accept any criticism of this statistic, the RFU revelled in their team’s victorious tactical acumen and celebrated their success. In 1971 the value of a try rose to four points, making scoring a try worth more than a successful kick at goal for the first time in the history of the game. But this did little to change the general style of play in England at the time. England tended to produce one of the biggest packs of forwards in the world game, only ever matched for size by teams from France, New Zealand and South Africa. Winning was of such importance to the RFU that national selectors and coaches would encourage a limited England game plan, playing to the traditional forward strength of the team. Even with the increased value of the try, an expansive style was rarely, if ever, implemented.
But this style held little truck with Earle Kirton and the players that he coached at Harlequins. The club’s traditional player base tended to be men with high-flying but stressful careers and rugby provided a break from the rigours of working life – but only if it was played in a spirit of adventure and with freedom. This was a philosophy actively encouraged by Kirton and embraced by Clive Woodward, who started his career at Harlequins playing for the club’s fourth team, but quickly had a meteoric rise through the ranks and within a month of joining the club, and still aged only eighteen, was selected to start at stand-off for the first team.
Although there were no leagues in England until 1985, when the John Smith’s Merit Table was introduced, a national knockout tournament had been introduced to club rugby in the 1971–72 season. This increased level of competition complemented the existing ‘friendly’ matches that were traditionally arranged between clubs across the country and with the major clubs in Wales. While the new knockout tournament added a much welcomed structure to the season, it remained of secondary importance to the long-standing rivalry matches – particularly those played against the Welsh sides. The status of these matches was reflected in the club’s stadium choice; Woodward’s first start came against Cardiff and was played not at the Stoop but at the towering edifice that loomed over Harlequins’ home ground and which would
bear witness to some of the most significant matches in Woodward’s life: Twickenham Stadium.
Among the opposition that day was Gareth Edwards, the Cardiff, Wales and Lions scrum-half who has been regularly named as the greatest ever to play the game. Edwards was a central cog in the success of the all-conquering Wales teams of the 1970s and had been crucial to the Lions’ unprecedented success in New Zealand in 1971 and South Africa in 1974 (while he had also toured South Africa with the Lions in 1968). To be playing at Twickenham against such an illustrious opponent was a daunting debut for the young Woodward, but he took to the experience like a duck to water.
‘Playing for Quins was a real eye-opener,’ he recalled. ‘I was nervous at first, of course, but to play alongside a guy like Bob Hiller was such a help. He had confidence in me – or appeared to – and that gave me the reassurance of my abilities that I needed. I was playing against internationalists every week – mainly English ones, but there were Scots, Irish and Welsh players appearing for English clubs then as well, and of course when we played the Welsh club sides they were full of internationalists. To come up against someone like Gareth Edwards in your first senior game was quite an experience! But when I came through that – and the other games in my first season – and felt that I had played well, then I began to think seriously that I might have a shot at playing on the international stage alongside or against players of his calibre. It helped that I scored a try in that first game and it settled the nerves a little.
‘I loved the style of play that we were developing as a team under Earle Kirton. It was free-flowing and so enjoyable to be part of. But at the same time, I felt unsettled in my life; I was getting itchy feet with my job at the bank after just a couple of months. I had my A-levels and I still wanted to go to university – and even if law at Durham was beyond me, I wanted to study something.’
It was a Thursday night in early November. Training had not long finished and, as was customary, several Harlequins players had headed to a local pub for a bite to eat and a few fortifying pints after a hard session. As the veterans in the team insisted, it was always good to have a couple of drinks to ease stiff limbs in preparation for the weekend’s match.
Woodward returned from the bar carrying a tray of ales, handed them out to each of his teammates and then settled back into his seat beside his flatmate Paddy McLoughlin, a lawyer who played for the Quins fifth team, and David Cooke, who were in mid-flow as Woodward sat down.
‘He was a Lion, wasn’t he?’ said McLoughlin, gratefully scooping up his pint glass.
‘Yeah, and a bloody good one,’ replied Cooke.
‘Back-row?’
‘That’s right. One of those hard bastards they always seem to produce. Massive engine – he could run all day.’
‘Who’s this?’ asked Woodward.
Cooke glanced at Woodward. ‘There’s this Scottish guy, an ex-internationalist, up at Loughborough.’
‘What, the PE college?’
‘Yeah. He’s a lecturer. Coached me when I was there. He’s a genius.’
‘A genius?’ asked Woodward sceptically.
Cooke smiled. ‘Well, if you have an appreciation for thinking man’s rugby – yes. Earle’s mad for him.’
‘How the hell does Earle Kirton know some old Scottish bloke up at Loughborough?’
‘Like I say, he’s a genius. It’s bloody ridiculous, but hardly anyone’s heard of him here. They love him in New Zealand. And South Africa. All over the bloody world. He’s a pioneer.’
Cooke took a sip of his pint. ‘You know this Total Football that they’re always going on about. From that Dutch guy at Ajax...’
‘Rinus Michels?’ said Woodward quickly. He couldn’t help himself. Cooke had his undivided attention now.
‘Rinus Michels, right. Well this guy’s the rugby equivalent. He’s all about fifteen-man rugby – and I mean fifteen-man. He wants every player to be able to handle and kick, to see space, to run. The works.’
‘Sounds a bit much to me,’ laughed McLoughlin.
‘Sounds bloody fantastic,’ said Woodward. ‘And it makes total sense. Have you ever seen Ajax play? It’s incredible. The Netherlands were playing the same style during the World Cup in the summer.’
‘Yeah, I remember,’ said Cooke with a smile.
‘The fluidity is amazing. There are no fixed positions, everyone moves to use the space in the best, most creative way they can, interchanging where they are on the pitch, what they do. You can have strikers in defence, defenders breaking out into attack, the midfielders all over the place. As long as everyone buys into it, it can be unstoppable. Someone like Johan Cruyff is able to orchestrate those incredible attacks because he can pop up wherever he wants on the field, wherever he thinks there will be space – and everyone reacts to him. And why couldn’t it work in rugby? If all fifteen guys are able to play like stand-offs, then you could attack from anywhere. From set-piece, from broken-field play, from counter-attacks, it wouldn’t matter. As long as everyone was working hard to get themselves into the right positions you could spin the ball to wherever the space might be and then attack.’
‘I knew you’d like the idea,’ said Cooke, now breaking into a grin. He paused and raised an eyebrow. ‘So what are you going to do about it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Listen, I’ve not brought this up for the sake of a cheery little chat, Clive. A few of the other young guys at the club have applied to Loughborough. The colleges are being merged into Loughborough University next year and they’re starting a new three-year degree in sport science. And guess who’s running it?’
‘This Total Rugby guy?’
‘This Total Rugby guy. I know you want to get a degree – but you don’t know where or what in. You could do a lot worse than to have a look at this BSc at Loughborough. I had a great time there – and we had a hell of a team: me, Fran Cotton, Steve Smith, Louis Dick, Clive Rees and Dick Cowman all played. Loughborough is the best university for sports in the country. And if you want any more proof that it’s a good idea, I’d talk to Earle.’
At training the following Tuesday, Earle Kirton was standing by the touchline as the players filed out of the changing room to begin their warm-up. Woodward emerged from the warmth, his breath clouding around him in the chill evening air as he made his way across to his coach.
After a few minutes of conversation, Woodward hit him with the question.
‘Of course I bloody know him, mate,’ said Kirton. ‘The man’s a rugby god. Jeez, I can’t believe you haven’t heard of him.’ He fixed Woodward with a steady gaze. ‘So you’re thinking about Loughborough are you?’
‘Just thinking.’
Kirton nodded slowly. ‘A degree’s a good thing to have, Clive. Loughborough’s a good place to get one. And that man up there will teach you more than you could ever imagine about rugby and fitness, the science of your body and how it applies to the game. There’s none finer.’ He sniffed and looked out across the pitch. The grass was crystallising in the early-evening frost. ‘If I was you I wouldn’t even think twice about it. Yeah, if I had my time again, I’d give anything to be coached by Jim Greenwood.’
*
After an hour and a half’s journey from London, the train pulled in at Loughborough station. It was just over two weeks until Christmas and a group of carol singers greeted Woodward as he left the station and made his way towards a bus stop for the brief ride that would take him to the university campus. It was a beautiful winter’s day in north Leicestershire, the sky a brilliant blue, the air crisp and clear.
As he took his seat on the bus, Woodward glanced again at the sheet of paper that contained the information about his interview. He double-checked the time and then studied again the campus map that had been sent to him in the post a week earlier. He was buzzing with nervous energy.
When he finally arrived at the campus it took him a few minutes to get his bearings, but he soon found himself in the sports hall. He introduced himsel
f to the receptionist and was pointed to a line of chairs. He took a seat.
Ten minutes later the door to the hall opened and in walked a man in his fifties, dressed in a tracksuit. He had cropped white hair and a chiselled face which, despite his age, showed that he was still physically very fit.
‘Jim Greenwood,’ he said, with a soft rolling cadence. ‘Come with me.’
He led Woodward to his office and directed him to a chair before taking a seat on the other side of his desk.
‘How are you enjoying Harlequins?’ asked Greenwood, steepling his fingers.
‘Very much, sir, thank you.’
‘I’ve heard a lot about you. Not seen you play yet, but the reports are good.’
‘That’s nice to hear.’
All the nervous tension that had been building in Woodward’s body was melting away. In just a few words the Scot had put him totally at ease.
‘So tell me about some of the games you’ve played in. Give me some highlights.’
And so Woodward told him. They chatted for half an hour, with Woodward recounting his career highlights from Conway and then at Harlequins. He told Greenwood how much he enjoyed working under Earle Kirton and Greenwood nodded in appreciation.
‘So,’ said Greenwood at last, ‘what element of your game do you think you need to work on the most? What can’t you do?’
