Japanese disaster – viewed from the sofa
So that’s it, then.
Another World Cup – rugby’s this time – and “our boys” fall at the Final hurdle again. Global supremacy and immortality oh so near and yet also so far.
But that’s how it should be, isn’t it?
Wonder, vindication, elation and glory for one finalist – disappointment, dejection, even a degree of self-doubt and personal ignominy for the other.
The record books don’t credit the most popular teams, those that trained the hardest, made the biggest sacrifices, or wanted, or ‘deserved’ it the most: they list those that won it on the day.
On this ‘morning after the night before’ I shall leave the first-hand personal testimonies to our brilliant team out in Japan and the creative reporting skills of Fleet Street’s finest and instead concentrate upon the experience of watching yesterday’s Rugby World Cup Final here in the UK.
With anticipatory excitement growing exponentially all week, as usual the British public was buying into ‘glory fever’ as only it can.
On daytime television programmes since the weekend even Scots, Irish and Welsh former greats, celebrities and fans were dividing into those who could – or just couldn’t – reluctantly (tongue in cheek) bring themselves to will England to bring the proverbial bacon back home, as it were, vicariously on behalf of Northern Hemisphere rugby.
In my neck of the woods, the local pubs were laying on the ‘full cooked and pints of bitter or Guinness’ breakfasts and all the neighbours I consort with were gathering provisions and setting alarm clocks for the early ‘build up/preview’ start of ITV’s generally well-presented and quality coverage of the tournament.
The air of expectation was treacle-thick. The champagne was in the fridge, the flute glasses ready on the sideboard.
Yes, of course, it wasn’t necessarily going to be a walk-over. It was a one-off game and anything can happen on the day in question.
Yet, deep down – as night follows day – even as we watched them warming up before the kick-off, we sensed our lads (yeomen to the core, filled with the confidence of preparatory work well done, steeped in strategy and tactics devised by our maverick and chippy coach and his crew of specialist assistants, bedecked with senior player-leaders who could switch to Game Plan B, C or even D if required at a moment’s notice) were surely going to ‘do the business’.
Those Springboks were big, tough, strong but one-dimensional.
Once we’d weathered whatever early storm they could work up by means of our impenetrable defence and heavier pack, we’d come into our own and – okay, perhaps after perhaps a hiccup and scare or two – finish off the job with a bit of Barbarians-style entertainment as we went into overdrive in the final fifteen minutes.
That was the script, at least.
And then it would be a case of “home and hosed” by 11.00am latest and thereafter the remainder of the weekend – and indeed the next eighteen months, if not years – Brexit and General Election issues being left well behind where they deserved – to be spent basking in the afterglow of a brilliant performance (available 24/7 upon our airwaves and television channels) and the comforting knowledge that once again Britannia ruled the waves … and all was well in the world.
Plus, of course, taking the dog for his postponed walk, doing the weekend chores and then back in time for a late heavy-duty roast lunch with all the trimmings – in the knowledge that the edited highlights would be playing non-stop and that this morning’s Sunday papers would provide three hours’ minimum joyous reading of reporting, analysis and ‘how it was done’.
Well, in the event – not quite.
Referee Garces gives an early penalty to South Africa.
Our talismatic “runaway Rhino” [Eddie Jones always comes up with the best soundbites, doesn’t he?] Kyle Sinckler gets knocked out and rendered hors de combat inside three minutes.
And then (I counted them) no fewer than five England unforced errors in the first twelve minutes – knock-ons, wild passes aimlessly directed to nobody or into touch, an entry from the side duly pinged.
It was if our boys had been knobbled – like the All Blacks allegedly were by food poisoning in the 1995 Final, also won by South Africa – or hadn’t turned up.
Last week, in the Semi-Final (arguably a far bigger test) they were absolutely ‘on point.
Yesterday, well before the first quarter of the match was over, one could sense that this wasn’t going to end well.
With a view to adding some colour to my post today, on Friday evening I went to the record books and compared the average age of the England Class of 2019 against that of its 2003 RWC-winning counterpart.
Maths was never my strongest point, I hasten to add, but the answers were 26.4 years and 28.2 years … since you ask.
The trouble is that elite sport is the briefest of careers. For the England team of 2019, this was supposedly ‘their moment’. They gave themselves the opportunity, the chance, to ascend the summit of Mount Olympus. And failed.
Four years is a long time in sport. In an attritional physical contact one like rugby it can be a career.
Whilst it’s theoretically possible that some of the squad may ‘come again’, it’s statistically far more likely that – for at least 24 of the current England squad – yesterday was their sole shot at immortality ‘down the pan’ in just 80 minutes (not counting the half-time interval, of course).
I feel for those hurting badly this morning. Emulating the famous anguished words of Marlon Brando’s character in the back of the taxi in the movie On The Waterfront, they’d given everything they had, ridden their luck as well, for the chance to be “contenders”. And – unlike him – they’d made it that far. But then they never gained the bauble.
And now probably never will. (And after the game we drank the champagne anyway).
