Читать книгу Phil Bennett: The Autobiography - Phil Bennett - Страница 11

Rugby union went professional in 1995, but Phil Bennett had beaten them to it by around 19 years. I’m not talking about illicit payments or even rugby league; after much consideration I eventually rejected the two big offers I received to go north. This particular foray into the ranks of paid sportsmen was something even more secretive, more unsuspected and more alien to my own world than the other code. This was pro-celebrity darts!

My agent, Malcolm Hamer, and a pal of mine, John Lloyd, had arranged for me to take part in a tournament in Leeds. A number of celebs from various fields had been invited to pair up with some of the big names in darts at the time, a sport that was just starting to attract major publicity and lots of cash. There was the Crafty Cockney Eric Bristow, the ice-cool Englishman John Lowe and two Welshmen – the big man Leighton Rees and the larger-than-life Alan Evans. I had been drawn to play with a very friendly guy called Cliff Lazarenko, although I’ll admit the main attraction was the £200 I was told I could pocket for taking part. For a steelworker from South Wales, even someone playing rugby for Wales and the Lions, 200 quid was not to be sniffed at.

There was a packed hall and the beer had already begun to flow when I met Cliff backstage and explained that I was to darts what Leighton Rees was to downhill skiing. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Just try and hit the board rather than the wall.’ His humour must have calmed my nerves because we won our first round without too much trouble. Cliff was throwing really well and we won our second-round match, too. The quarter-final was also safely negotiated and by now Cliff was on fire. Our semi-final was against Eric Bristow and Fred Trueman. Fred was a bit of a star when it came to pub games and he actually presented a lunchtime TV show at the time that featured darts, skittles, bar-football and arm-wrestling. It was obvious he’d played a lot of darts and it was also apparent that the local audience wanted Fred to win, to defend the honour of Yorkshire.

But Cliff hadn’t read the script and in a moment of inspiration, the Lazarenko-Bennett dream team put Fiery Fred and the Crafty Cockney firmly in their place. There was uproar. Punters were screaming and booing the place down. Fred and Bristow were at each other’s throats, each blaming the other for the catastrophic defeat. ‘You’re bloody hopeless, Truman,’ said Bristow. ‘I’m the celebrity. Cricket’s my game, lad. You’re supposed to be the expert darts man,’ argued Fred.

The storm had hardly died down by the time we had beaten John Lowe and the actress Liz Fraser in the final. A few more drinks had been consumed by this stage. If I missed the board and hit the wall, then Liz’s darts weren’t even finding the wall. Cliff threw the winning darts and punched the air in celebration before giving me a huge handshake. I assumed that Cliff’s joy owed much to the fact that as well as a nice trophy, he was soon handed a big cheque for his night’s work. I was given a smaller trophy and an envelope, as well as the dartboard, which Cliff had kindly autographed.

Once I was sitting in my car I opened the envelope. Inside was a cheque for £1,000. I was stunned. I’d never seen so much money. I put the envelope on the dashboard and drove out of Leeds before anyone had a chance to change their minds.

For the next few weeks after I had banked the cheque I walked around the house in fear. My anxiety had me breaking out into a sweat every time the phone rang. Surely, it was only a matter of time before the WRU got wind of my crime, I thought. They had their spies everywhere. They never missed a trick. My winnings would reach the ears of WRU secretary Bill Clement and I would be summoned to hand over the cash before being branded ‘a professional’ – a term of abuse in rugby union in those days – and kicked out of the game for good. But a miracle came to pass and I never heard anything from Bill or anyone else at the Union.

If you think I was overreacting then you obviously have no idea of the level of paranoia and pompous hypocrisy that ran through the administration of rugby union in those days when it came to the notion of payment. International rugby was booming and matches were played in front of huge crowds with millions more watching on television. But if you were paid a penny for playing you were ‘professionalised’ and banned. If you were paid to coach, scout, talk or write about rugby while you were still playing then the same applied. Not only that, but being in the mere presence of professionals, such as attending a rugby league trial game and gaining no payment, could taint you and again lead to a ban. You had been professionalised. If you then came back and played rugby union then you could professionalise others.

Professionalism was like a disease. And the four Home Unions of Wales, England, Scotland and Ireland saw it as their job to prevent you from being infected. I don’t know how Bill Clement used to spend his day, but it must have involved reading a lot of newspapers and watching a good deal of television. Any signs, however small, of the corrupting influence of professionalism, and Bill would be on the phone. In those days a few of us would sometimes be asked by the BBC to make a guest appearance on the show A Question of Sport. It was always nice to be recognised as successful in your particular sport, it was good fun to go up to Manchester for the filming, and you might have thought the WRU would have welcomed the publicity. Instead, the Union used to send out dire warnings that any money earned must be handed over immediately to the WRU to be put into its charitable trust.

The boys at the Beeb knew this and were sympathetic to our cause. We used to be given a cheque for £150 and £100 in cash. The cheque was sent on to the Union. The cash was put in your pocket. The show got its rugby players, the Union got their cheque, and the players kept a little cash. Everyone was happy. Well, everyone it seemed except Bill Clement. Bill was a nice man but he was as tight as a duck’s backside. He phoned me three days after one appearance and reminded me to send him a cheque. I did. About six months later, the programme happened to be shown again. Within a couple of days he was on the phone. ‘Phil, I noticed you did another A Question of Sport, this week. I trust you’ll be sending us the appearance fee.’ I lost my cool and shouted, ‘Bill, mun, it was a bloody repeat!’ ‘Well, don’t they pay you for those, too?’ he asked.

If ever a man was well named it was Bill. Even getting legitimate expenses out the Union’s coffers could still leave you out of pocket. Early on in my international career, I had yet to come to a generous arrangement with my bosses about time off from the steelworks and spending a weekend in Dublin to play for my country was leaving me around £40 out of pocket. Delme Thomas, Norman Gale and I travelled from Llanelli up to Cardiff Airport together in one car in order to fly out for the game. But since the mileage rate entitled us to about £3.50 each we all decided to put in individual claims. Almost as soon as we had checked into our hotel in Dublin, we were summoned to see Bill for the Spanish inquisition. ‘I know you all shared the same car, so why are there three claims? Either you rip up this claim, or else this will be the last Wales match any of you are involved in.’ I was young and prepared to let them put the cuffs on me there and then, but Norman had been around a bit. ‘Listen, here,’ said Norman. He then listed how in debt he was to friends, family, work colleagues, the bank manager and a few others who had helped in different ways to allow him to play for Wales. Grudgingly, Bill backed down.

The best Bill Clement story, though, was told to me by my old mate Bobby Windsor. He insists it’s true. Having given sterling service for Wales and the Lions all over the world in the furnace of the front row, Bobby decided that the WRU should at least help him with the hire fees for the dinner suit he was obliged to wear at official dinners. So he went to see Bill Clement. Bobby explained how times were hard in the steel industry in Gwent, and, like many others, he had been put on short time. His wife and family were feeling the pinch and every bit of extra cash could help. ‘So, if maybe the Union could help me out by hiring the dinner suits then that would be appreciated,’ said Bob.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Bill. ‘That’s against the rules.’

‘Well what about my shoes?’ said Bobby, getting a bit desperate. ‘Surely, you could help me out and allow me to buy a decent pair of shoes to look smart in? These ones are falling apart.’ At this point, according to Bobby, to emphasise the point he took off his shoe and showed Clement across the desk how the sole was flapping at the toes. Bill thought about it for a few seconds and then quietly opened a drawer on his desk marked ‘Ticket Money’. He took out a huge bundle of notes and untied them from their tightly wound rubber band. As Bobby was waiting for him to count out the cash, Clement chucked the rubber band over to Bobby and said, ‘Here, that should sort out the problem with your shoes.’

I never had to wear rubber bands to hold my shoes together, but neither was I was ever paid to play rugby. I had 16 years of first-class rugby – 10 of those were spent at the very top level. But until I decided to write a book near the end of my playing days in 1981 it was all done without reward. I’m not bitter and I don’t begrudge current players the money they earn nowadays. In fact, professionalism should have been accepted years before it was and good luck to those who can make a career out of rugby union. I loved the opportunities rugby gave me and I would hardly change a thing. The sport had its own freemasonry. It gave me respect, and meant I travelled the world for nothing. Thousands of boys who grew up near me never saw anything of the world, but rugby gave me a passport to explore. I met the emperor of Japan and the king of Fiji. I saw wonderful countries like Australia, New Zealand, South Africa and Canada. And, as an amateur, I had the freedom to take a week off from the game on the very rare occasions when I felt tired.