Pedro’s Ticket for The Match
(2/2/2024)
Green-white-and-gold thoughts in a
red-white-and-blue
shade
Watching Ireland unravel France’s
rugby-men on
Friday night made me feel small and big at the same time. Small in
Marseille’s
Velodrome, the largest football stadium in Europe holding
ninety-thousand
people. And big because Ireland was playing on its green carpet with
seemingly
effortless speed and intelligence The Velodrome is an awe-inspiring
domed
monstrosity and it echoed with a rugby mad crowd chanting La
Marseillaise: ‘Come
on children, your day
of glory has arrived’. The anthem ends with ‘Cut
the throats of those who would
cut your son’s/ so impure blood waters our fields’.
As the south of France has
been in drought for the past two years it had a heart-felt edge.
Getting there
Tickets had sold out the day before they were
due to go on sale. Clubs had their allocation in advance, and the black
market
the rest. I had given up when Nicholas, the patron of the restaurant
where I
eat twice a week, took pity on me, and Pedro, his son, an apprentice
electrician
in Marseille, managed to get me one. The trick, I have been assured,
didn’t
need a gun. I wondered at my age (four score) would it be provident to
go
alone. But I was damned if I was going to miss this encounter between
the two
best teams in last year’s World Cup even if it killed me.
My day began with a three-hour train journey
from
Port-Vendres with two tightly timed changes. The schedule was risky
but, despite
armies of patriotic French fans piling on at Narbonne and Sete, it went
without
a hitch. I got there four hours before the kick-off. Hotel
staff told me that taxis would not get
me far with the match-bound street mob, and advised taking the metro
two hours
before the nine-o’clock start.
The
queues
for tickets and, then, the trains were congested as tinned sardines.
The squash
moved intermittently while the French fans sung the refrain of the La
Marseillaise
with increasing venom, ‘Take up arms. March,
march’. Confidence of a French
victory had been building up all week. Un jour de gloire was promised,
and their
blood was up. I was
glad I couldn’t find
my Irish scarf and had only a green pipe-lighter, kept safely in my
pocket not
to identify me as an enemy. I needn’t have. Two tall young
women dolled up in
green-white-and-gold and tottering on glittering high-heels attracted
amazed attention
as they mounted the escalator confidently. One of them had crutches.
They
raised a cheer.
The ticket and security checks to enter the
Velodrome was a massive body-to-body crush, and up steps too. It moved,
but
only just. The singing was deafening and increasingly slurred with
beer. Smart phones
held high flickered in the growing dark. The mood in fact was
light-hearted and
banter filled the air. I became aware of a hand gripping my wrist and I
caught
my broken watch strap in time as a fellow sardine kicked the
pick-pocket
away.
Once in the stadium there was fifteen minutes
to go. My seat was so far up. I knew I couldn’t possibly
reach it by kick-off. I
passed the press box and noticed a row of empty seats beside it. I made
myself
all small and took one next to the journalists. Despite the numerous
officials
in dayglo jackets, nobody bothered me. I wore an old UCC rugby scarf,
and the
nearest journalist to me gave me a wave. I sported the green lighter
and he
laughed complicitly. He was the first Irish supporter I had seen so far
in the
Velodrome. My ticket was French.
The Match
Not having been at a live international for
over twenty years, at first, I found myself watching the giant
television
screen rather than the game. As I’m always castigating others
for regarding on
a smart phone what’s before them for real, I felt ashamed. And
religiously turned a blind eye on
the screen for the rest of the match.
Total concentrating had the effect of speeding
what
was happening on the green to such an extent I felt the play below was
happening
to me. That I was part of the match and would have to read
tomorrow’s
newspapers to catch up on the exact details.
The game was one sided from the start. And in
Ireland’s favour. France was supposed to steam roll Ireland
with their giant
pack. And so, the surprise inclusion of Joe McCarthy, the mammoth
twenty-two-year-old
in the second row, was a masterstroke. His uninhibited lunges, ably
ballasted
by the knowing Doris and Josh von Flier, had the French pack in retreat
in
rucks and mauls. The French call such
attacking
tackles ‘caramels’ (bon-bons/ sweet doubles).
And so, with possession, the Irish backs could play their fast and
furious inventive
game.
The French fouling began out of frustration.
And
when the Irish dominance extended to line-out steals it got out of
control. A
red card was inevitable but didn’t occur until the half-hour.
And after it, apart
from a rare bit of French flare from the winger, Damian Penaud
(sheepish by
name, but wolfish on the try-line), Ireland merely carried on as they
began. France
could have had extra players and it wouldn’t have made any
difference other
than getting in one another’s way.
At the start I feared for the untried out-half Jack Crowley (aged 22).
Before kicking
off, he looked lost in the deafening cauldron. But thanks to a word
from
captain Peter O’Mahony (who would have known his Cork rugby
family, and possibly
him from birth), he launched the match with a kick favourable to an
Irish
follow-up. Crowley gradually took command as the play-maker, and came
into his
own when he had a grubber kick charged down. Instead of falling back
defensively,
a move or two later he threw himself at the ball receiver, a one-man
blitz. And
what seemed like a clear run for the French winger became an Irish ball
when a
following up forward made it a caramel (a bon-bon double
tackle). In
rugby (as in business, according to Henry Ford), making mistakes can
play to
your advantage.
Jack had learned from one of his ex-Munster
heroes,
Felix Jones, whose blitz attack gave South Africa the last World Cup,
and how
go beyond defence from watching O’Gara as a boy, and replaced
the great Sexton
seamlessly. and in a more referee-friendly manner. His apotheosis was
having
missed a kickable penalty a few minutes later he cleverly caused
confusion in
the French midfield that magicked Tadhg Beirne’s saunter
under the posts for a
humiliating try. French heads slumped as he converted it.
What followed continued because it began. The French are rich in
talent.
but it didn’t show as though their minds were
elsewhere. Maybe they are with
their little genius, scrum-half Dupont, playing the same evening for
Toulouse before
joining the Sevens team for the Paris Olympics (he had a blinder
scoring two
solo tries). Leadership by example is best and captain
O’Mahoney was in his
element. All Irish minds like his were on the ball. Or more
specifically their
eye. Brain research on improvisation in music has shown that the visual
cortex is
the dominant part activated. Keeping the eye on the ball and not the
player is
not just a coach’s clique. It is how the brain plays
split-second improvisation
in rugby.
The second half passed in a pleasing blur. Even
when O’Mahoney got himself a yellow card, I half believed he
did it to show the
number of players made no difference. All was going like a dream. Fears
that the
French pack giant replacements would upset the balance proved
unfounded. Lineouts
were stolen, rucks and mauls were embarrassingly lost. Scrums were
something
else. France had the edge with them. In the first half the ref twice
penalised Porter’s
packing. However, Irish discipline kept scrums to a minimum. They were
so rare
I thought I was watching rugby league. Most were Ireland put ins which
made
them easier.
I watching all this on a wave of disbelief
given expectations, much like the French supporters, who, nevertheless,
continued singing but with an ironic undertone. They had lost the
faith. In the
last quarter the Irish contingent (estimated at ten thousand) made
itself heard
and drowned them out with ‘Olays’ (‘The
Fields of Athenry’ wouldn’t have been heard
in the Velodrome’s cross-fire acoustics and maybe just as
well as it’s a sad
song about a lover sent to a penal colony).
Disbelieve lost its ‘dis’
and with three
minutes to go I made for the exit knowing the score - 37/17 - made it
impossible for France to catch up. Surprisingly
few French supporters left early.
And so, I got out with the wind of a great Irish cheer behind me. I was walking on air as I
caught the metro.
I had a flask of cognac and a can of Guiness.
If France won, I would drown my sorrow in cognac and give the Guiness
to the
nearest French fan. If Ireland won, I would reverse this. So, I offered
the
cognac to some French supporters who no longer sang. They didn't
decline. The
Guiness was good.
Six Afterthoughts
1. The French jerseys were emblazed with the
name Alrad. Last year the Courts condemned Bernard Laporte, the
Federation
president, for doing a corrupt deal to advertise his friend the lorry
billionaire Mohad Alrad, and had to resign. Alrad owns Montpellier
rugby team.
Last year this once top team struggled and he has brought Laporte in to
advise.
But it hasn’t worked. They are last in the premier
league. Rough justice.
The Alrad insignia is only allowed as the Courts haven’t got
around to
cancelling the contract. The absence of urgency could be a metaphor of
the
French performance. But not the fans. Their good humour did not lack
passionate
urge.
2. Unlike at soccer matches, I’ve
never
witnessed aggression between opposing supporters at rugby
internationals. In
England and Ireland this was probably due to the class basis of the
sport (the
brutality on the pitch is bourgeois catharsis). Not so in France where
traditionally clubs rather than schools in paysan (country) communities
are the
grassroots. And since professionalism the banlieues (council estates in
the
suburbs) contribute a high proportion of players. However, with the
new-fangled
bunker decision-making and action replays on the large screen, the
referee is
not spared. Moreover, when penalties are taken, despite flashed
messages to
respect the kicker, unlike in Ireland certainly, off-putting pigs and
whistles
are now the norm. This may well be counterproductive. Sexton claimed it
steeled
the nerve. He rarely missed.
3. It will probably be my last rugby
international
match. I’ve been to at least twenty. At four-score years I
don’t think
travelling to London, Paris or Dublin by plane would be advisable.
Thanks to
the Olympic games the venue was almost local. It proved to be the
highest
possible note to end an experience often dispiriting (Ireland lost) but
always
thrilling (just being there).
4. It was only the fourth Irish victory on French soil. Three were in
my
lifetime. The first was in Paris in the snow. I was six and a half and
as clear
as day saw Jackie Kyle's double dancing tries on radio! He was
untouchable. I
never saw Ireland live playing better. Yet the old saw taunts me:
Ireland’s
moment of glory is followed by its moment of ignominy. I
wouldn’t mind if that
was true against a lively, not-so-little Italy, but not against
boringly dogged
England at Twickenham where I suffered thirteen losses and only two
wins.
5. Rugby in my life has been poetry in motion
and emotion. In my youth when playing it I was only fit for doggerel.
At CBC
Cork and UCC inter-factuality matches I played with a few future
internationals. I dearly wished I could match them and broke bones
trying to
prove it. At seventeen I reached five-foot-eight but didn’t
grow more, and so I
was reduced to scrum-half. And now I have no neck. I took up rowing.
Agreeable
exercise like playing the violin (the only sport I had a natural
aptitude for
but didn’t love enough to practice). During a spell in bed
with fractured ribs
writing poems became my sport. There is an analogy with my true love
rugby
The eight forwards are syllables that for
line-out vary the metres in order to keep on their feet and, by not
showing
their hand, defy expectations. Scrums are stanzas with perfect
end-rhymes to
trump referees. This solid octosyllabic basis serves the seven backs,
freeing
them to give the epic meaning. Jackie Kyle, my all-time rugby idol,
might well
agree. He was said to read ‘The Rubaiyat of Omar
Khayyam’ in the dressing room
before a match:
‘I came like water, and like wind I
goes…
The
ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes.
But
Here and There as strikes the Players to impose… ‘
6. During the
weekend the usual bobos that go
with age were forgotten. They disappeared into the excitement. On
return I had
a routine health check and my blood pressure was said to be dangerously
high. I
wasn’t surprised. But during the week, though the blood
pressure came down, I
was old again. I began to think my Marseille rugby trip was going to be
a swan
song, and I composed a flighty epitaph:
I
may not have kept on my feet in life’s rolling maul,
but
I was always calm under the high dropping ball.
18/2/2024