Читать книгу Gavin Henson: My Grand Slam Year - Gavin Henson - Страница 7

I was thankful it was a short week. Having played in Scotland on the Sunday, it basically left us with only five days to get things right before we met Ireland. That was enough. I don’t think any of us could have coped with more than that and a two-week gap between matches – as used to be the norm – would definitely have sent us all completely nuts. As it was, everywhere we went in those five days, everyone we bumped into at the Vale of Glamorgan Hotel, people around our training base, anyone who had an excuse to come up and talk … it was all, all about the game. The Western Mail, the national newspaper of Wales, was giving the match a level of attention I had never seen before. Day after day there were pages and pages of stuff about the players, the fans, the number of pints that were going to be sold, historical stuff about previous games between the sides and all the rest of it. I looked at the copies where they were left laying around the hotel. But I didn’t pick them up.

Two facts became unavoidable, though, however much I tried to ignore the newspapers and not listen to the radio or watch TV. Wales had not won a Grand Slam for 27 years and we had not beaten Ireland at home for 22 years. If we won this game, then the impact would be massive and the party afterwards would be awesome. What more incentive did we need?

For me, personally, there was an extra edge in this match as I would be up against Brian O’Driscoll. Like me, O’Driscoll is a centre and someone who seems to enjoy being the centre of attention on the field. Unlike me he had been a permanent fixture in his side for the past five years. He was their best player and although he was playing at outside centre and I would be inside, I knew that when our paths crossed I would have to be at my very best in order to contain him. He had scored an incredible try against France the week before and I knew from own experiences against him how difficult he was to play against. I’d been up against him twice before. The most recent time was earlier in that season for the Ospreys against his Irish province, Leinster, at St. Helen’s. I had suffered an absolute shocker with the boot, but felt I had handled O’Driscoll and his centre partner, Gordon D’Arcy, quite well. The time before, though, at The Gnoll, O’Driscoll had been the big difference between the sides. The Ospreys matched Leinster in most aspects that night but O’Driscoll was world class and he had won them the game. I wouldn’t say I was worried about O’Driscoll before that Ireland game; we were all trying hard to just concentrate on our own strengths. But I was aware of how good he could be and how we would all need to be fully alert.

Before the Scotland match a lot had been discussed within the squad meetings of what the Scots might offer. There was a different approach in the countdown to Ireland. It was far more about us, rather than them. We felt they were under far less pressure than us because they had lost to the French and their Grand Slam had gone. So our aim was to concentrate on ourselves and encourage each other to go out and play our normal games. We were not that bothered about Ireland. We were far more concerned about avoiding the effects of all the hype and expectation that built up during those five days. We felt that if we played with the same freedom and fluency we had shown at Murrayfield then the result would take care of itself and so would the Grand Slam.

I woke up at 7.30am on Saturday, 19 March 2005. Nothing unusual in that, it’s the time I always seem to wake whether it’s match day or not. I pulled back the curtains in my hotel room at the Vale of Glamorgan and felt the full force of a perfect sunlight. The sky was also a perfect blue and there wasn’t a cloud in sight. It was the perfect setting for a final match in the Six Nations championship; it was a perfect day for a Grand Slam.

As our coach advanced through the centre of Cardiff towards the Millennium Stadium it seemed to me as if the whole population of Wales was out on the streets. There were fans everywhere; far more, it appeared, than were out and about even on the day of the England game. Everyone seemed to be wearing something red, either a replica shirt, or a T-shirt, or else they had dyed their hair red for the occasion. There were banners hanging outside the pubs, put there by our shirt sponsors, Brains, featuring players from our squad, while people underneath them were walking along wearing the identical shirt. Young, old, men, women, when they saw our team bus they became frantic – waving and cheering and pulling on their mates to catch a look. I just gazed out of the window and drank it all in. We all did. Most of the players I spoke to after that day agreed with me that the journey to the stadium was one of the real highlights of the day. The buzz you feel from the fans’ cheering and clapping is hard to describe. It makes you desperate to get out there and play.

One of the stories that had appeared in the newspapers that week was about Charlotte and her role that afternoon. She had been invited to sing the anthem before the game, alongside Katherine Jenkins. The idea had come from Rupert Moon, a former player with Llanelli and Wales, who was now employed within the marketing operation of the Welsh Rugby Union. Most people seemed to think it was wonderful idea, but I had been angry and amazed from the moment I’d heard about it. This was a massive game and the stakes were about as high as you could get. If things had gone wrong, then I’m sure her singing beforehand would have been highlighted as a distraction. I didn’t want that to happen – for both our sake’s. Maybe, at the back of my mind, I felt it really was a distraction. It was an added complication at a moment of the build-up when I really like to go into my own little world and think purely about my performance. It also struck me as a strange decision on behalf of the WRU. On the one hand, the team management were doing all they could to play down my relationship with Charlotte and trying to get the media to stick to the rugby. On the other, they were asking Charlotte to take centre stage before the biggest match we had played for years – something they knew would be a huge talking point. It somehow seemed to undermine the management. Charlotte, though, was pretty excited about the whole thing so I decided it was best to keep my own doubts to myself.

When it came to it, I think I glanced across to Charlotte as she sang in front of 75,000 people, but only the once. Like everyone else in the squad, I felt well prepared for the task ahead and fully focused on what I had to do. My worries over being distracted didn’t materialise and the anxieties I had about the game itself turning out badly soon melted away.

Michael Owen, who had taken over the captaincy from Gareth Thomas after Alfie’s injury in Paris, gave a rousing team talk before we left the Millennium Stadium dressing rooms. Nothing too tub-thumping or over-the-top, but he just hit the right note by calmly reminding everyone that we needed to forget the prize and concentrate on our own performance. He told us that we were a good side … a fucking good side and we weren’t about to lose. He wanted us to play with the same sense of enjoyment and excitement we had shown against the Scots. Of course, there was massive expectancy but he reminded us that we needed to put that to one side and just play our normal game. In other words, ‘Go out and enjoy it.’ That’s always the best message you can hear as a player before a game.

I knew Michael pretty well even before I’d got back into the Wales squad earlier that season. I had played with him at Wales Under-21 level, although he was a little older than me. Mike is a top guy, very genuine but extremely dedicated. He takes the game exceptionally seriously and can remember every detail about every match he has ever played in – and some that he hasn’t. Quite often, two of the boys in the squad might be discussing a game and one will remind the other of an incident during the match. If they are struggling to remember some small detail then Mike will step in to remind them of the date, the result, who scored, and maybe even what minute the crucial try came in. He’s a walking encyclopaedia. With a bit of effort, I can usually recall most of my goal kicks – the ones that went over as well as the ones that missed. But Michael not only remembers everything he did in every game, but what all the other 29 players did, too.

So you don’t pick an argument with Mike about rugby and no-one would question his credentials as an international captain, either. He may have taken over the job because of injury but he wasn’t fazed by it and he had the respect of everyone in that dressing room. Rather like Martin Johnson, Mike leads by example. He is probably the most skilful forward out there and the way he enjoys playing a passing, running, handling game is perfectly in keeping with the way this Wales team try and play. He was absolutely the right choice to take over as skipper once Alfie was ruled out. Some of Mike’s offloads in the tackle are just stunning to watch – so athletic and precise. He may not be the most forceful back row forward in the world but he has fantastic hands. It’s noticeable to me that opposition backs are often caught out by Mike when he’s in the back line. They look up and see a 6ft 5 inch, 18-stone forward in front of them and think he won’t be too skilful. So they try and get away with rushing up to make the tackle, only to find he’s floated out a perfect pass to someone in space. England were guilty of that in the opening minutes of our match against them, when Michael set up Shane Williams for the try. Later on in the year, I would be sitting down chatting to England’s Mark Cueto during the Lions tour of New Zealand. He admitted he had been badly caught out by Michael in that match. He had seen it was a forward in midfield and thought there was no way Mike would do anything other than charge forward or throw a flat pass outside him. Mark said he rushed up to cut down the space and couldn’t believe his eyes when Michael casually floated the ball over his head and into Shane’s arms.

Of course, there are times when it doesn’t come off. On the Lions tour, in the final few minutes of the match we lost to the Maoris, Mike tried an outrageous pass behind his back and the ball was spilled. If he had thrown that pass for Wales then I reckon a team-mate would have anticipated it, but the Lions were locked into a much more pragmatic approach. The chance was lost and I think that cost Mike in terms of his future selection.

By the time the captain had said his final words, the knock came on the Wales dressing room door and it was time to go. We walked out of the door and turned left towards the tunnel entrance. Then, it’s a 20 yard walk along the windowless corridor to the mouth of the tunnel. You can hear the noise of the crowd long before you run down towards the pitch, but as you come out into the air it’s the noise that hits you first, right between the eyes, even before the sunlight. On this day, Grand Slam day, the noise was deafening. But it didn’t worry or unsettle us. We felt calm and we felt ready. I wasn’t nervous and I think that went for the rest of the boys. So many of them had been through the bad times, and I’d had my low points, too, just trying to get into this team, that we were just determined to enjoy this moment. Whatever was going to happen over the next 80 minutes, the outcome was not going to be as bad as some of the dark days we’d all been through. I honestly feel the fans were more nervous than the players that day. The bad omens of so many home defeats to Ireland weighed far heavier on their shoulders than on ours.