Anyway back to All Black celebrations. In 1991 we played a quarter-final match against Canada, on paper a relatively easy and not too abrasive match for us. But as we all know, matches are not played on paper and the Canadians had clearly decided they were going to make history by beating us and reaching the semi-finals. It was a brutally tough match and the final score of 29–13 in our favour was flattering. I’m not saying we deserved to lose, but they were much closer to us than that score suggests.
Following the match, which was an evening kick-off in Lille (about seventy miles from Calais), we had a quick court session to pass sentence on all the player misdemeanours brought to the attention of the ‘judge’, which happened to me on this occasion. I was particularly harsh on all the miscreants, while at the same time being sure to keep the non-offenders drinking steadily throughout the proceedings. Once the final sentence had been handed down the majority of us went to our rooms and changed into our drinking gear, which consisted of casual clothes and an All Blacks blazer. This latter item was essential as it seemed to contain certain magical properties which meant queues at busy bars and clubs would miraculously disappear as we approached. Very handy.
It was now around midnight and several of us were outside the team hotel waiting for a taxi to take us into town. Unfortunately there were also about a hundred other residents milling around with the same idea in mind, and not even the blazer was going to get us to the front of that queue. I won’t name the other guys but I was certainly one of those who spotted a maintenance van to the right of the main entrance. We’d seen these vans from time to time during our stay and they’d always been parked at the rear of the hotel. This one was obviously on a flying visit to either drop off or pick something up, because as we approached the little Citroën we noticed the engine was running, and on closer inspection it was empty apart from a dog in the back.
Seeing an opportunity, four or five of us piled into the van. I made sure to sit in the passenger seat, only to be confronted by a steering wheel. I had forgotten that while we have right-hand drive in New Zealand, France clearly doesn’t. By default I was therefore on driving duty, so as the boys in the back introduced themselves to the dog, off I sped into the night. A few minutes later we pulled up outside a nightclub. I asked the doorman to look after the vehicle for us and showed him the dog in the back, explaining in my pidgin French, reinforced by hand gestures and vivid facial expressions, that it was a ferocious guard dog that should not be approached under any circumstances. We entered the club and continued our celebrations, oblivious to the phone call being made from the owner of the van reporting it stolen to the local gendarmerie.
It would seem they had put the great French detective Inspector Clouseau on the case, as it took almost two hours before the doorman approached me inside the bar to explain the arrival of the gendarmes, accompanied by flashing lights and sirens, and their desire to have a word. As my fingerprints were on the steering wheel my fellow team-mates generously decided I should go out and face the wrath of the local police while they continued their celebrations. I exited into the cold night air and instantly realised this was potentially very serious. It is hard to miss three police cars and a riot van all on full alert. After a cordial discussion, a lift back to the hotel and a generous distribution of All Black ties, shirts, training kit and some silver ferns, we were released from their custody with a stern warning and a slap on the wrists.
Thinking back, I was an All Black playing in a World Cup, drunk whilst driving a stolen vehicle in a foreign country, obviously with no insurance – and a kidnapped dog. I was extremely lucky, and am certain that if the events of that night had occurred in the professional era I would have been front-page news, my international career over and facing a probable jail sentence. I noticed last year that the Welsh back row forward Andy Powell celebrated their last-minute win over Scotland in the Six Nations Championship by driving a golf buggy (on a motorway, mind you) whilst intoxicated and was fined £1,000 and handed a fifteen-month driving ban. On reading the news report I gave thanks for the leniency and understanding of the French police back in 1991.
This is just one instance of All Black celebration; believe me there were many more and they still go on today, although the current squad are probably not quite as stupid as I was in my playing days. Or perhaps they’re just more discreet?
Collective Responsibility
Simon Halliday
Simon was a product of Oxford University where he achieved Blues in both rugby and cricket. In fact he scored a first-class century (113 not out) against Kent in 1982. He played twenty-three times for England from 1986 to 1992. Many people feared he would not play top-flight rugby following a serious break and dislocation of his ankle when playing for Somerset against Middlesex in 1983. However, twelve months of intensive rehabilitation, coupled with his immense personal drive, saw him return to his club side Bath and go on to play in five successful Cup finals at Twickenham, before moving to Harlequins and pursuing a career as a merchant banker in the City at the end of the decade. He played predominantly in the centre, but with Carling and Guscott occupying those berths in 1991 he gained a place on the wing during the World Cup tournament.
‘You will have recognised by now, most players I asked to contribute World Cup memories or stories have proceeded down the humorous or heartfelt route. Having read Simon’s valued contribution, he clearly wanted to vent his frustration following twenty years of pain since England’s defeat in the 1991 final. I’m glad this book has been of some assistance in his “anger therapy”.
Who could ever forget that wet November 2003 evening in Sydney, when England’s rugby team became champions of the world? People who were there still describe it as the top sporting event of their lives. When it comes to achievement at the highest levels of sport, 2003’s victory is up there with the best of them – Alf Ramsey and the boys of 1966, Steve Redgrave’s haul of Olympic gold medals, the odd Ashes series victory, in 1981 or again in 2005.
Frustratingly I was stuck in my City office that week in 2003, but I watched the match at home with a select gathering, my son Alexander, my godson Matthew Luddington and his father Richard. It was fantastic to see the looks on the boys’ faces at the moment they will always remember, when their hero Jonny Wilkinson landed the winning dropped goal.
Text messages came through thick and fast from mates of mine who were in the stadium, and later on I had a few words with Andy Robinson, who berated me for not being there. He briefly described the scene: ‘Here I am at Manly Beach, which is covered with drunken English rugby supporters either in the surf or barbecuing. What a sight!’ I was mildly gutted, to say the least.
Those were moments of a lifetime, and brought back memories of a similarly cold November day in 1991 when I was a member of another England team contesting a World Cup final against Australia. Most of my City clients were there, as were work colleagues, one of them in fact acting as a steward for the day, dressed up in fluorescent yellow and marshalling the crowds. He was doing it purely out of the goodness of his heart and certainly not because he had failed to get a ticket!
Despite a valiant effort England just failed to conquer possibly the best Australian team ever to take the field, boasting the likes of David Campese, Nick Farr-Jones, Michael Lynagh, Tim Horan and Jason Little. Not a bad quintet for starters. That said, there is no excuse for losing a game we should have won. The Australian changing room in the immediate aftermath resembled the finishing line of a marathon, with players strewn across the floor in states of exhaustion. Notwithstanding the cynical play of Campese, when he seemed to deliberately knock the ball on to prevent us from scoring, the game had been a heroic piece of Australian defence. They grabbed an early lead, and then simply hung on. Farr-Jones was their extra defender in the back line, instead of in his usual position around the fringes. He, like the rest of the world, spotted we were suddenly playing an expansive game, whereas in the lead-up to the tournament (away games in France and Scotland), and
indeed in the 1991 Grand Slam season, England had played tight, controlled rugby. So why the big change? And did it account for our failure to go down in history?
Some well-known figures thought so. Brian Moore, Peter Winterbottom, Mike Teague and Jeff Probyn have all pointed the finger in their own way, criticising England’s tactics. And I thought rugby was a team game. More importantly, all four of these English heroes were never short of a word on, or off, the pitch, and they had been an integral part of everything we had achieved. It was collective will which had taken us from being an underachieving bunch of no-hopers to the crest of world domination.
Many years ago I remember reading a line from a sports book, the name of which sadly I cannot now remember so please accept my paraphrasing. ‘The gap between accepting things the way they are and wishing them to be otherwise is the 1/10 of an inch of difference between heaven and hell.’ Never were wiser words written.
The passing up of a great opportunity, on home ground, still feels unacceptable twenty years after the event. It is particularly hard to take when considering the incredible scenes of jubilation surrounding the 2003 triumph. In comparison, being described as a participant in the 1991 Rugby World Cup final reeks of failure. And of course that’s what it was. But was all the criticism from within justified? Were all the senior players disenfranchised and as powerless to effect change as they have intimated? Were they victims of a conspiracy of events beyond their control and influence, such as having no ‘plan B’, Will Carling’s leadership, intransigence, the half-backs not mixing the game up etc., etc.?
I hope my version of events may just clear up some points of ‘confusion’. In the week leading up to the final, we had talked for hours about the best way to beat Australia, who had a near-perfect mix of youth and experience and were arguably more talented than us. It should be remembered we had played them in Sydney that July, and had been roundly beaten. I was on the bench that day, to see David Campese give Chris Oti the complete run-around. As a result the scoreline was one to make an Englishman wince, turning defeat into a rout. But the video showed England had cut open the Aussies whenever they moved the ball wide. Guscott, Webb and Underwood had all looked like world-beaters. Time and again the outside gaps appeared, whereas we were getting no reward from the exchanges up front.
It was this experience that caused Geoff Cooke and Roger Uttley, England team manager and coach respectively, to consider a tactical shift. I say ‘shift’ rather than ‘revolution’ because the previous year we were the most attractive side to watch in Europe, as demonstrated by the record away win in France and the record home win against Wales. We knew how to do it. The change in tactics was not an alien concept. It was just that throughout 1991 we had chosen to play tight rugby, with two big away games in the World Cup at hostile grounds not surprisingly keeping it that way in the campaign itself. But in the final the stakes were at a new high. Could we win a World Cup playing ten-man rugby? Everyone asked the same question, and the answer was no. So there we were: Alea jacta est. (‘The die is cast’, as Caesar said crossing the Rubicon, in case you were wondering.) We all bought into it, we practised it all week, and we went out to implement the agreed strategy. But we failed. Our execution was poor, and, incredibly, the passing of the ever-reliable Will Carling and Jerry Guscott was just not good enough on the day. Rob Andrew and Richard Hill were seemingly bewildered by all the possession, so much so they forgot about flexibility. The back row played like headless chickens (I always thought Mick ‘The Munch’ Skinner had chicken legs), and had to take their share of the blame along with the half-backs. I felt sorry for the front five because they did all that was asked of them. They even ran about in the loose, a great sight, Paul Ackford and Wade Dooley on the rampage.
As for Australia? They played a blinder. John Eales, a second-row forward no less, caught Rob Andrew from behind in full flight. Rob was no Rory Underwood, but the adrenalin coursing through the young Aussie lock must have been incredible. Otherwise how else could he have done that? According to Jeff Probyn, Will Carling was urged to change tactics at half-time. Well, not in the game in which I was playing. I am not exonerating Will. He was the captain, and he could have shouted the odds at the most experienced English side ever to have taken the field. Perhaps it was a bridge too far for the twenty-five-year-old, who had melded together an improbable bunch of players into a great team? Maybe there was a lack of tactical experience in a man who had played just fifty to sixty first-class games in his entire career at that point, despite three years as England captain? But I would challenge anyone to have made themselves heard in the heat of this particular battle. My conclusion is that, no, it was not Will’s fault. He had brought us to the brink of glory. It is said that a leader needs the wisdom to serve and follow, as well as to lead. On a day when none of us could hear each other speak, the self-appointed critics might do better to look within. We all participated in our defeat and individually contributed towards it. What I do know is that it was the greatest rugby adventure, a glorious, typically English failure, but we were a world force, with a rightful place at the top table.
When the nation awoke on the Sunday, the reality was that we had fallen at the last hurdle to exorcise twenty-five years of English sporting underachievement since 1966. One client later revealed to me that in the aftermath of defeat he simply gazed at the ground, unable to speak. It meant that much to everyone, supporters and players alike, all left with a feeling just as empty as the Grand Slam defeat against Scotland the previous year.
My wife Suzanne and I returned to our Putney home, reunited with Sophie our two-year-old, me clutching a loser’s medal. The story goes that Brian Moore threw his in the river in disgust – well, mine is framed on my bedroom wall. And why not? It was a monumental effort, and we had made a nation proud. I will celebrate that fact for ever and will never forget the crowd as we left the Rose Room at Twickenham to go to the post-match reception. There were hundreds of them waiting for us outside, and they broke into song as we boarded the bus. I recollect they gave us a rendition of ‘Jerusalem’. Perhaps I am wrong, but it doesn’t matter much. What does matter was that they were there, acknowledging our mutual disappointment and offering us all a sense of companionship. That is what sport is about and that is what should be remembered.
In the financial world, we discount events and move on. The entire game had been dissected by coffee time on the Monday morning – yet the impression of the tournament was long-lasting and indelible. Football-mad market-makers found their sons wanting to take up mini-rugby. The Five Nations tournament became a persistent topic, and days out to Paris, Dublin, Edinburgh and Cardiff were feverishly planned. My ‘team leader’ took me into a meeting room to discuss my return to work. I was reasonably scared of him because he was bright, very demanding, and didn’t tolerate fools. It came as a surprise, then, when he said, ‘Take your time getting back into it. You must feel gutted, we all do. What a traumatic experience; don’t worry if you don’t feel like working.’ I was nonplussed, and had no idea how to react. He was very emotional, and reality suddenly dawned on me. Even hardened City men realised we had been on the verge of something special and felt the disappointment themselves. My boss even suggested that I take another two weeks’ holiday to recover. What, after twelve weeks away? My immediate colleagues would have been well impressed! I politely declined.
Not only had my long absence from the office failed to bring back the World Cup, it also provided an excuse to say I couldn’t possibly expect a bonus having been away for so long. Fair, but still depressing, and it grated on me that I was losing out financially while playing to full houses all around the country. Nobody ever did the sums on how much revenue was being collected by the RFU. All I knew was that it certainly failed to come in the direction of the players.
That said, would I change a thing really? Yes, only the result. But I played for my country in a World Cup final. I am not going to gripe about that.
Friends in High Places
Tim was consistently one of the best centres in world rugby throughout the nineties and is one of a small number of players to have won the World Cup twice, in 1991 and 1999. In fact he was voted Player of the Tournament in 1999, an award he combined with scoring the fastest try, which won him a year’s supply of Guinness. I can only think how thankful Guinness must have been to present the prize to Tim Horan and not Jason Leonard. Think of the damage it would have done to company profits if they had been obliged to supply twelve months at Jase’s rate of consumption. Mind you, I don’t think the shareholders would have been losing much sleep over the potential risk. The words “fastest” and “Jason Leonard” rarely come together. By the end of Tim’s international career he had amassed eighty caps for Australia scoring 140 points.
‘He made an impact from his very first game in 1989 against New Zealand, when he impressed his opposite number, Joe Stanley, so much that Stanley gave Tim his Test jersey and told him to keep his own as it was his first. In 1994 his career nearly ended with a horrific knee injury in the Super 10 final, which resulted in over a year of rehabilitation before making the squad for the 1995 World Cup defence in South Africa.
More Blood, Sweat and Beers Page 10
