Lawrence, I may have just wasted an hour of my life writing this, and if it proves to be the case I will catch up with you one day, my friend. But if your request was genuine I wish you every success with the book.
Touch and Go
Jerry Guscott
Described as a precocious talent, amongst other things, Jerry made some impact on his England debut in 1989 when he introduced himself onto the international scene with a hat-trick of tries. One of the best of his generation, possibly any generation, he seemed to have it all in terms of skill, which when added to his exceptional pace and vision produced a formidable player. Less than a month after his debut he gained selection for the Lions tour to Australia, where he produced a decisive “Boy’s Own” try in the second Test, collecting his own grubber kick to score next to the posts. In the third Test Australian “superstar” David Campese made a serious blunder behind his own line, allowing Ieuan Evans to score the simplest of tries and clinch the series. (Really there is no reason for mentioning this in a Jerry Guscott introduction other than to let you know how much I enjoy reminding myself of this mishap by the “great man” at any opportunity.) Eight years later he added to his extensive list of magical moments when scoring the winning dropped goal in the decisive second Test match.
‘Very few players can put three World Cup campaigns, three British and Irish Lions tours and thirty tries for England on their sporting CV. Jerry achieved this feat and thankfully is now of an age when he no longer feels it necessary to remind me how good he used to be when we meet up from time to time!
The 1995 Rugby World Cup was a tremendous advertisement for the game. It was an exciting tournament, often very entertaining. The fact that South Africa is in the European time zone meant it was broadcast during peak hours on network television throughout the continent, ensuring huge viewing figures. The sad aspect, however, was that very little of the entertaining and exciting rugby was played by England. Many will remember our quarter-final against Australia when Rob Andrew dropped a goal in the dying seconds to secure victory, but even this was not a classic game, just a good contest.
Having arrived in Durban, one of the things everyone was looking forward to (not) was the welcome lunch in Cape Town; every participating team had been summoned no matter where they were based. Just what we needed after a long flight was a 6.15 a.m. alarm call, a quick breakfast and a trip to a tiny airport where we shared the waiting room with the Argentine team (our first opposition) until our delayed flight took off. When we eventually got airborne, the plane proceeded to hop around the country picking up other teams. Perfect. At the function, held in a giant tent at the Groot Constantia Wine estate were 416 players, plus their respective management, all in a competition to see who could look the most pissed off.
The Australians were deemed to be the winners – in addition to the obvious reasons for being thoroughly unamused, they were kitted out in green and yellow blazers which would have looked perfect at Henley Regatta. I am sure you can imagine the stick they received from most of the other teams. The Ivory Coast squad were the only guys who looked genuinely happy to be there. They spent most of the time collecting autographs and posing for photographs with the better known players, illustrating how pleased they were just to make the final stages.
When the tournament finally started, we fulfilled to the letter Jack Rowell’s final pronouncement that England ‘must hit the ground running’. We were true to his words; unfortunately the direction in which we ran was backwards. We had trouble in the scrums, did not play at all well and were lucky to win the match 24–18. In fact, if Argentina had had a goal kicker that day, we would have lost. This was still the amateur era (just) and not all our preparation was as good as it could have been. To combat the heat and humidity we had been given salt tablets on a regular basis, but after two weeks we were told they combined badly with the isotonic drink we were also taking, causing some kind of reaction which made everyone feel lethargic. I dread to think what the result against New Zealand would have been if we were still taking the combination at the semi-final stage (they would have needed a cricket scoreboard).
On the eve of the quarter final against the boys with the green and yellow blazers, Austin Swain, our psychologist, gave us a mental exercise to complete. He produced a sheet of paper with the numbers 1 to 21 printed down the side representing the team and replacements. He asked us to write something positive about each name on the list. We then had to cut up the paper and put each comment in the relevant envelope. Later that evening he slipped the envelopes under the door of each player’s room. All comments were anonymous so I’m not sure who wrote, ‘You look very clean and tidy in your England kit’ as their comment for me. Equally, Martin Bayfield (our 6ft 10in second row) never found out who wrote ‘You are very tall’ as one of his affirmations, but Mike Catt or possibly Jason Leonard would get my vote. Joking aside, this was a genuinely useful exercise with the vast majority of comments very positive. It made a real difference knowing those thoughts were circulating among the guys you were playing with.
I will cover the quarter-final and semi-final very quickly, we won one in the last minute and to all intents and purposes lost the other in the first minute. I’m sure others will cover both games more than adequately.
I took my rugby seriously and disliked losing intensely, but I was not one to mope around after a defeat. You can look as sad and desolate as you like but it’s not going to change the result. Following the semi-final I joined all the other players in the dressing room holding my head in my hands, staring at the floor. From time to time I had a little peep to see if everyone was maintaining the same grieving posture. Almost to a man they were, with the exception of Jason Leonard, who caught my eye, winked, and raised his hand to his mouth indicating he was ready for a beer. Like me, Jason despised losing but knew shedding a few tears was not going to make any difference.
Following the defeat we had to return to Johannesburg and shared the same flight as the All Blacks. As we boarded the plane they had already taken their seats in business class as we turned right and made our way to economy. I remember talking to Eric Rush, the New Zealand winger, who said there was a huge amount of surreptitious piss-taking and hand signals as we took our seats. To be fair we would have done the same if the roles had been reversed.
Back in Johannesburg we prepared for the third- and fourth-place playoff match. I say ‘prepared’ but that is probably not a great description. We filled in time between the loss to New Zealand and our match against the French by playing a bit of touch rugby. Mind you, even that can get a little heated from time to time. Usually it starts off fine, until someone ‘touches’ someone else a little roughly and before you know it, it’s full-on contact. I remember one particular session during which things were most certainly heading in this direction; the session was potentially one incident away from getting completely out of hand. The ball was passed to our back-row forward Tim Rodber, not the best delivery I’ve ever seen because even though Tim is 6ft 6in tall even he had to leap vertically to gather it. I was on the opposition, directly opposite Tim, and saw this as an opportunity. With Tim at full stretch, I arrived at full tilt and drilled my shoulder into his rib cage, wrapping my arms around him as my momentum drove him back. At precisely that moment a scream of pain reminded me of something – Tim had quite seriously injured his ribs in the semi-final (oops). What flashed through my mind next was that I was potentially seconds away from a severe beating.
My only option was to hold on to Tim as tightly as I could, thereby reducing the distance from which he could land a punch on me. Less momentum, I reasoned, equalled less pain. If I could hold on for a few seconds a rescue party would surely arrive to save me. Fortunately this is exactly what happened. Tim managed a couple of ineffective blows on the top of my head as I hung on for dear life before a few of the lads piled in and broke up what would have been a very one-sided encounter.
I should have left it at that but couldn’t resist a partin
g shot at Tim (from a safe distance). ‘You were bloody lucky the boys turned up and saved you. Another few seconds and I’d have kicked your ass.’
Fee, Fie, Foe Fum, I Smell the Blood . . .
Phil de Glanville
Phil was a centre who played in thirty-eight internationals for England, a remarkable achievement when you consider he was on the scene at the same time as Will Carling (captain) and Jerry Guscott (one of the world’s best), neither of whom seemed to sustain any injuries or noticeable loss of form. When he first arrived in the England squad he was widely known as “Hollywood”, largely due to his film star looks. Thinking back now, I am beginning to suspect Phil came up with the name himself. Whoever did, I’m pleased to say after just a few seasons of rugby at club and international level the sobriquet became nothing more than a distant memory. In fairness this was always going to be the case as he was an uncompromising, tough player completely committed in attack and defence.
‘After Carling stepped down as captain, the honour was passed on to Phil, not necessarily everyone’s choice for the role but he conducted himself well and won many of his critics over during his spell in charge. He eventually lost his place to a certain Will Greenwood, who became a mainstay in the side for several years to come. Our international careers overlapped for a couple of seasons during which time I witnessed Phil’s ability from close range and became a big fan of his determination and tenacity.
One memory that has remained with me ever since our semi-final at Newlands, Cape Town, against New Zealand in the 1995 World Cup concerns the All Black phenomenon Jonah Lomu. Several other English players have lifelong memories from that game, but for different reasons.
During this period of my international career I was frequently selected to sit on the English bench and the semi-final was no different. Whilst it’s still an honour, and there’s always the chance you’ll make an appearance during the game, it’s also very frustrating because deep down you feel as though you’re good enough to play from the start. I played in the centre, as Lawrence has kindly pointed out, the same positions as Carling and Guscott, so it was always going to be difficult to break that particular partnership. However, it didn’t stop me having a heated discussion with our team manager, Jack Rowell, about my inclusion, or rather lack of. Jack had been my club coach for several years at Bath and had therefore seen me play often enough to know exactly what I was capable of. Unfortunately, as Jerry Guscott was a team-mate at Bath he’d also seen just as much of him and knew about all his obvious talents. As usual, Jack listened intently to what I had to say, and then ignored it completely. I was on the bench, end of story.
After a quarter of this game, however, there was only one place I would rather have been than on the bench, and that was in the stand with the rest of the England support. We were being absolutely steamrollered by Lomu. He’d shown in previous rounds he was a threat and someone who would require close marking, but no one expected the one-man demolition he produced that day. The contest was as good as over after twenty-five minutes, as Lomu made a mockery of every Englishman who tried to get in his way. Most famously, he swatted away Tony Underwood, tore past Will Carling and bulldozed Mike Catt on his way to his first try. Jonah, at just twenty years of age, crossed the English line four times during the game, demonstrating his immense power and pace. It was a classic case of ‘a man against boys’. The game became even more farcical when the New Zealand No. 8 Zinzan Brooke dropped a goal from nearly fifty metres out. In those days replacements were only allowed if there was an injury on the field of play – it would be a couple more seasons before tactical substitutions were sanctioned (thank God). For forty minutes, as I sat and watched the most one-sided match imaginable, I prayed there would be no injuries.
At half-time, there was little Jack could say to the team other than talk about personal pride. Every player needed to ‘stand up and be counted’. There was no place to hide.
During the second half the England performance improved, which I accept may have had something to do with New Zealand taking their foot off the pedal as victory had been all but assured. However, we scored a couple of tries which if nothing else made the scoreline a bit more respectable, and suddenly I wanted to get on to the pitch, although of course I certainly wasn’t wishing for an injury to one of our players. That aside, I genuinely felt I could make a difference to our performance, briefly even convincing myself that I could do in the second half to New Zealand what Jonah had done to us in the first. I can only assume the sun had got to me by then. Only trouble was, I was so excited at the prospect of playing, coupled with over-hydrating while sitting on the bench, that I had an almost uncontrollable urge to go to the toilet. I spent several minutes squirming in my seat and ‘holding on’ but with just a few minutes of the match remaining I couldn’t last any longer and I decided to rush back to the loo in the changing rooms.
When you leave the pitch at Newlands there are a series of steps leading down into the bowels of the stand where the changing rooms are situated. The steps are extremely narrow, not something you’d expect in such a big ground. In fact, there’s barely enough room for two people to pass without some expert manoeuvring. I completed my business and ran back towards the pitch, still hopeful I might get on if only for a minute or two. I took the stairs three at a time and about halfway up everything went completely black. It was as if all the lights had been switched off. I looked ahead towards the top of the stairs and could make out the silhouette of Jonah Lomu virtually blocking out all the available light. He looked like a giant standing there, baying for English blood, and I realised instantly that the match must be over and the players leaving the pitch. Clearly Jonah was keen to be first back to the All Blacks changing room. And all that was standing in his way was me!
Assuming my end was nigh, I took a deep breath and continued up the stairs towards the massive frame looming ahead. Having taken a few steps himself, Jonah noticed me on my way up and incredibly backed out of the narrow tunnel allowing me to continue. I reached the top and shook his hand, congratulating him on his performance. He nodded his appreciation and disappeared into the tunnel and down the steps. The next person I saw was Jack Rowell, who had seen Jonah reversing out of the tunnel. ‘Bloody hell, Phil,’ Jack said. ‘Not only have you managed to stop Lomu, but you forced him to take a backward step! And I didn’t even select you. Sorry about that.’
I’d like to think he meant it, but in reality that was typical Jack Rowell humour.
‘Mr Ambassador, with these Stories . . .’
Jason Leonard
Jason is Lead Ambassador for the children’s charity Wooden Spoon which is a beneficiary of this project, and has kindly supplied a couple of tales for this book (with which, as the title above suggests, he is “spoiling us”). He also features in several others.
‘Anyone with a passing interest in the world of rugby will know the name Jason Leonard. For a period of time he was the world’s most capped player (119 including British and Irish Lions) and is currently the world’s most capped forward. He won four Grand Slams and a World Cup with England and was a member of the victorious Lions tour to South Africa in 1997, all of which doesn’t begin to tell you anything about the man. He straddled the amateur and professional eras and always retained some of the important social values of this great sport. Beer has always been synonymous with rugby and Jason was never going to allow the link to be severed during his time in the game. He would always take new members of the team under his wing and share a few stories and drinks with them – in his words, “To make them feel as though they belonged.” All very admirable, but on more than one occasion the newcomer would arrive back at the team hotel draped off the shoulder of the great man, completely incapacitated.
‘He was my training partner for years and my room-mate on more occasions than I care to remember. To be fair we were perfectly suited as roomies, dovetailing well. Invariably he would be on his way out as I was coming in (well, perhaps not “invariably”). Hi
s rugby record is available for all to see; regarding the man, he always seems to find time to speak to everyone – and I mean everyone. Jason is one of life’s good guys, prepared to lend a hand if he possibly can, particularly if he can be holding a drink in it at the same time.
On Thin Ice
When Lawrence asked me to become involved in this World Cup memories book, I was delighted to help out. I took part in four World Cup campaigns and have several stories which I’d happily commit to print, together with a few which will definitely remain out of the public domain! If only he hadn’t told me one of my favourite charities, Wooden Spoon, would be benefiting financially from the book. I was appointed as Lead Ambassador to the charity in January 2009 and according to their website my role is as follows:
More Blood, Sweat and Beers Page 13
