by Owen Sheers
As Roger makes his way up St Mary’s, a river of rugby fans flows against him, the Welsh and the French patterning the street with reds and blues from side to side. Stalls selling scarves, flags and hats occasionally break the flow, as does the odd ticket tout standing motionless beside a lamp post, threading their repeated offer into the cacophony of the crowd. ‘Buy or sell tickets! Buy or sell tickets!’ Their prices, at this hour, are well into three figures.
Because of its cathedral-like position at the centre of the city, an international match in the Millennium Stadium triggers an intensification of Cardiff ’s population, rather than a dispersal. Like a roosting starling murmur tightening on the wind above a wood, so Wales contracts about the stadium on a match day. While a shopper on Oxford Street in London or on the Royal Mile in Edinburgh might be completely unaware of a rugby match at Twickenham or Murrayfield, it’s impossible to be on the streets of the Welsh capital and not know that a game is being played in its stadium. From early morning until late at night the resonance of those eighty minutes electrify the city. The streets pulse with an ever-inward movement as trains and buses from across the country bring the stadium’s crowd into Cardiff. Some will travel for hours to get here. The extra carriages added on the trains from the valleys, from Swansea and Bridgend, from Abergavenny and Cwmbran, will develop a spreading virus of red with every hour nearer the game. Today many of those arriving on them will not even have tickets to get inside the stadium. But they still want to be here, to watch on giant screens in the civic areas and in pubs and clubs, to be within sound and sight of the arena where it, whatever it may be, will happen. They want to be here to drink, to share and to feel themselves more than themselves, as if by being closer to the stadium they are somehow closer to an idea of Wales.
In her poem ‘Toast’, Sheenagh Pugh describes the recently built Millennium Stadium as
a mother-ship that seems to have landed
awkwardly in our midst.
And she’s right, there is something imposing and ‘landed’ about the way the stadium sits within Cardiff, its jointed masts angling their Concorde-like tips into previously unoccupied slips and pockets of air. While its West Stand floats above the river, its South abuts challengingly up against office blocks, the joint of the south-eastern mast protruding above Park Street like the prow of a ship. Viewed from further away, from the hills of Fairwater or the Grangetown link road, there is something kinetic about those jointed masts, as if at any moment the whole stadium might lift itself on them and, like a giant insect, scuttle away. At closer quarters, with the sun behind them, those skeletal masts seem to aspire towards spires, as if the stadium would make a claim beyond its location upon the spiritual needs of those who congregate within its stands.
As Roger makes a left into the crowds on Caroline Street, where drinkers are already spilling out of the Brewery Quarter, a woman in a red cowboy hat passes him wearing a T-shirt several sizes too small, its slogan printed across her chest: ‘Welsh Lamb @ the Grand Slam’. Further on down the street a Frenchman in a beret is having his cheeks painted with the colours of his flag. A group of boys from the Rhondda look on, all wearing dark wigs of white-bandaged curls in homage to Mervyn Davies, the great Welsh number eight who died yesterday.
For Roger the experience of this morning’s stroll is something like that of a director walking through his audience before they enter the theatre to see his play. No one recognises him as he makes his way down Caroline Street and turns left onto the Hayes. And yet, in no small way, this day for which these people have come into the city is Roger’s creation. As such, it is also the consequence of another match Wales played forty-six years earlier, when, as a twelve-year-old, Roger boarded a Brownings bus chartered by Cefn Cribwr RFC and travelled into Cardiff to watch Wales against Australia. Standing in the West Terrace of the Arms Park that day Roger had watched Gerald Davies, Barry John and Delme Thomas all make their debuts for Wales. Wales lost 11–14, but for Roger the match lit a passion for Welsh rugby, a passion which would, eventually, lead him to taking this walk today through a match-hyped Hayes as the CEO of the Welsh Rugby Union, on the brink of a game in which, as the Blims sang in the stadium, ‘We all hope Wales wins the Grand Slam.’
Every modern rugby union has two hearts: the players and the business. Neither can keep beating without the rhythm of the other. However disparate their worlds might be, success is rarely achieved without embracing the symbiotic relationship between the two. What happens on the pitch fuels the boardroom, and what happens in the boardroom fuels events on the pitch. Roger plays no part in the selection of the players or in their efforts on the field, in the tactics or methods of the coaches or in the medical practices which keep the squad at strength. But just as Warren has spent the last five years building up a team of players and coaches, so Roger, as CEO, has spent the same period building up his own backroom team to help lift the fortunes, both playing and financial, of the WRU. In his own way, within his own field, Roger has enabled today to happen, even though he was never meant to.
Rugby had always been Roger’s escape, not his career; a hinterland away from his work. His childhood home in Cefn Cribwr had looked over the village rugby pitch on Mynydd Bach, but he never played for the club. Similarly, at the local Cynffig Comprehensive, it was music, not rugby, that caught Roger’s attention. He played at wing-forward in the sixth form, and again as a scrum-half at Nottingham University, but from the end of his education music became his career and rugby its soundtrack, a private pleasure not to be mixed with business.
Roger’s first organisational role within a rugby club was as chair of a group overseeing the under-9s at Maidenhead RFC. His two sons had begun playing mini-rugby, so from 1993, for the next ten years, Roger became increasingly involved in the club, coaching, organising tours and heading up committees for certain age groups. Having worked as a composer, musician, head of music for Radio 1 and managing director of the classical division of EMI Records, Roger was then worldwide president of Decca. His schedule, however, was always made to revolve around the Sunday mini-rugby matches back in Maidenhead, even if that meant flying in from New York on a Saturday and leaving for Italy on the Monday. Rugby, through his sons, was moving closer to the centre of Roger’s life. But when they grew up, and Roger and his wife Chris moved back to St Hilary in the Vale of Glamorgan, it ebbed away again. Roger had debentures for the new Millennium Stadium and watched Wales play whenever he could, but he still had no idea about the internal dynamics or politics of the professional game.
Three years later, in 2007, Roger was walking into the middle of the pitch at Stade de la Beaujoire at the Rugby World Cup in France, discussing with Dai Pickering, chairman of the WRU, how best to sack the coach of Wales, Gareth Jenkins. The two men were looking for somewhere secluded where they could talk urgently. The match against Fiji was only just over. The stands were still full of celebrating Fijian supporters and devastated Welsh. The middle of the pitch was the most public place in sight, but as somewhere they couldn’t be overheard, it was also the most private.
Wales had just been knocked out in the pool stages by Fiji, beaten 38–34. They’d played an open game of running rugby, and in doing so had played into the Fijians’ hands. For the first time ever Wales were going home without reaching the quarter-finals. As Roger and Dai walked out into the centre of the pitch, they approached the Fijian players, who were gathered in a huddle, praying. Many of them were crying. As Roger walked past them he recognised that Wales hadn’t just lost the game, but something else too, something the Fijians still had. A fundamental spirit within the team’s culture had died, and their values and beliefs had been shaken. As a viewer writing into the BBC’s website put it, ‘Something is rotten in the Welsh camp.’ Roger knew that he and the WRU board had to act, and they had to act quickly.
John Williams, the WRU head of communications, joined them in the centre of the pitch and, after a brief discussion, the three men decided they had to send an immediate an
d unequivocal message to the rugby world. From this moment Wales was changing, starting over. Gathering the other board members, they called an extraordinary board meeting in the corner of the stadium, where it was agreed by fifteen to one that the Welsh coach, Gareth Jenkins, had to go. In twenty matches in charge of Wales he’d won only six. He’d inherited a squad still reeling from the resignation of their previous coach, Mike Ruddock. But he’d also asked the country to judge him on his performance at the World Cup. That judgement, as Roger and the board members left the stadium, was already coming in, from newspaper articles, from TV pundits and from fans on rugby websites and forums.
The next day Roger addressed the entire squad, dressed in their number ones – team suits and ties – at their camp outside Nantes. He’d already spoken with Gareth Jenkins and asked him to resign. When he’d refused, Roger told him he was no longer the coach of Wales. Which is what he also told the squad standing before him that day. ‘The process of rebuilding’, he said, ‘begins now.’
In interviews later that week Roger would use Oliver Cromwell’s phrase about the execution of King Charles I – ‘a cruel necessity’ – to describe the sacking of Jenkins. It was undoubtedly just that. But it was also a massive risk. Once that necessity had been taken care of, Wales, just four months away from the 2008 Six Nations, were without a coach.
It was the resignation of one Wales coach, Mike Ruddock on 14 February 2006, that had set Roger on the path to being the man who would fire another a year later in Nantes. Listening to the breaking news reports of Ruddock’s departure in his kitchen at St Hilary that day, it was clear to Roger, even from a distance, that the WRU had become ‘a distressed organisation’, in disarray both on and off the field. He recognised the scent of that disarray from having smelt it himself in other companies in which he’d worked. But on Valentine’s Day 2006, as he listened to reports about the disintegration of the WRU, Roger still had no idea he’d ever be involved in picking up the pieces.
That summer the job of CEO of the Welsh Rugby Union was advertised in the Sunday Times. Roger was approached to apply shortly afterwards, and it was then, as he considered the role, that he realised perhaps elements of his experience in the music industry may be transferable to the modern game of professional rugby. Both worlds, however different, were about dealing with elite performers – singers and players, producers and coaches – who provide content – teams and bands, songs and matches – which needs to be delivered through various mechanisms – venues and stadia, TV and media – and monetised – through audience and spectators, sponsors and merchandise. Just as in music, rugby had its elite and its grassroots concerns, each feeding the other. Roger had overseen the development of elite musicians often from their youth, from the same kind of ages as rugby players. Modern rugby was increasingly about entertainment and performance, about handling talent and harnessing passion, both in the players and the fans. Viewed from this perspective, Roger saw no reason why the lessons he’d learnt in studios and concert halls shouldn’t be applied to the training pitch and the rugby field; why his private interest shouldn’t become a public role.
One of the lessons Roger had learnt was that if you’re chasing the best producer or the best artist, you turn up. You don’t ask them into your office, but get on a plane and meet them backstage. You hang out with them. Which is why, within weeks of addressing the squad in Nantes, Roger, Dai Pickering and Gerald Davies, the three-man delegation tasked with finding a new coach for Wales, landed in an airport on the other side of the world.
In their initial research, speaking to coaches, players and commentators, it had become clear to the team that they would have to look beyond the UK for their candidates. Certain names kept cropping up, and nearly all of them were from the only other country whose national obsession with the sport rivalled Wales’s: New Zealand.
To an extent Roger, Dai and Gerald were looking for a quality of character as much as a coach. This was a search bound up with questions of national identity. When Roger had come into the WRU, he’d articulated a vision for the organisation that, tellingly, was couched in terms of self-expression and nation-building. ‘The WRU’, he said, ‘will take Wales to the world and, in our stadium, will welcome the world to Wales. Together we will play our part in defining Wales as a nation.’
And yet in their meetings in New Zealand Roger and the others would be considering foreign coaches, men who hadn’t grown up with the ethos of Wales running in their veins, to carry the precious but fragile vase that is the hopes of Welsh rugby. Whoever took on the position would need to have an innate empathy for Wales beyond national association. The WRU badly needed an outsider’s eye and influence, but they also needed that crucial note of understanding; a stranger attuned to the nature of the country’s culture, but who could also be clear-sighted about her qualities, good and bad.
Within twenty minutes of meeting Warren Gatland at Auckland airport Roger felt they’d found the next coach of Wales. There was something about Warren’s blend of emotional intelligence and blue-collar background that sounded the right note. He was also realistic, pragmatic and straight-talking, capable of detaching himself from the romance that both bolsters and hinders so much Welsh support for the national side.
Warren would meet some of that passionate support on his first night in Wales, when he came to stay with Roger at St Hilary. On taking him into his local pub, The Bush, Roger was in conversation with Warren when a man approached from the bar and tapped Warren on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me, Mr Gatland,’ he said. ‘I’d like to introduce myself. I’m one of the 2.9 million selectors in Wales. Good luck.’
It was a well-intentioned but premature gesture. Despite speculation in the media, Warren hadn’t yet accepted the position of Wales head coach, and Roger had yet to formally ask him. He had, instead, invited Warren to Wales to ‘just talk’, and to give him an opportunity to witness first hand the position rugby occupied within the country’s psyche and landscape.
The following morning, by way of beginning this process, Roger chartered a helicopter from Cardiff bay and flew Warren across South Wales, allowing the New Zealander to get a proper look at his prospective employer from the air. From Cardiff, following Roger’s instructions, the pilot flew along the southern corridor of Welsh rugby’s heartland. Tracking the unspooling M4, they passed over Newport, the ground at Rodney Parade and the Gwent valleys. Below them the long villages and towns of South Wales bled into each other, their roofs and streets frequently punctuated with the green of rugby pitches. Beyond their borders these towns gave way to hedged farmland or barren hillsides grazed by wild ponies. ‘It looks like New Zealand,’ Warren said, looking out of his window at the land spread below him. Turning west over Ebbw Vale they flew around the sculpted peaks of Pen y Fan and the Beacons before dropping south over Rhigos and heading further west to Stradey Park in Llanelli, then over the building works of Parc y Scarlets, Rhossili Bay and around the peninsula of Worms Head. Heading back east the helicopter flew over Swansea and the city’s new Liberty Stadium and the ground at St Helen’s where Warren had once played. Taking in the Knoll at Neath and the Brewery Field in Bridgend, they finally returned to Cardiff, making a pass over the Millennium Stadium and the pitch which would, if Warren accepted the job, be his new home ground.
But Roger didn’t want the tour to end there. Having landed, they got into his two-seater Mercedes and drove up into the Rhondda, through Tylorstown and Treorchy, before passing through the Bwlch and down the Ogmore valley to his mother’s house in Cefn Cribwr, where Roger suggested they stop for some tea. As Roger stepped inside the small terraced house that was his childhood home, he introduced Warren to his eighty-one-year-old mother. ‘I know who he is!’ she admonished her son in reply, before turning back to Warren. ‘Now,’ she said, taking his hand and leading him into the living room, ‘what you going to do about Gavin Henson?’
11.50 a.m.
As Roger emerges back onto Westgate Street, the Millennium Stadium rears
into view. The first fans are beginning to enter the building, flowing up to the gates in steady streams. Others are already taking up their positions on the corner of the street outside the Angel Hotel or along the castle walls, ready to welcome the arrival of the Wales team bus into the city. All of Cardiff is engaged in a single conversation, the crowds bonded by a shared anticipation. A group of French supporters pose for photographs with a mounted policeman. A young woman in high heels and a mini-dress pauses beside them to stroke the horse’s neck, her gold sequinned handbag swinging from her shoulder. From further down the street a hooter sounds. Another replies. Outside Gate 3 an S4C TV crew are interviewing the welsh boxer, Joe Calzaghe, asking him for his prediction on the match. ‘Wales will win,’ Joe says, ‘but it’ll be close.’
Looking over Joe’s interview is a statue of the late Sir Tasker Watkins, once deputy Lord Chief Justice and ex-president of the Welsh Rugby Union. In a couple of hours’ time the tide of spectators will have risen even further, with thousands flowing up the incline of Gate 3 to maroon the bespectacled Sir Tasker, his hands behind his back, in a sea of red and blue.
As an officer serving with the Welsh Regiment in the Second World War, Sir Tasker was awarded a VC for leading his men in a bayonet charge in Normandy. When Graham Henry was Wales coach, he sometimes pinned Sir Tasker’s citation in the team’s changing room before a Six Nations match:
