Читать книгу Phil Bennett: The Autobiography - Phil Bennett - Страница 7

There were no tears, no long, lingering, last looks back down the tunnel. There were no laps of honour, not even a trophy. Neither were there any emotional farewell speeches in the dressing room. I paused for a moment as I walked towards the dressing-room door, but that was just to catch my breath. I was exhausted. But I was also the happiest and most relieved I had ever felt in a Welsh jersey. We had beaten France and I had led my country to a Grand Slam.

I’d run off the field. Not because it was my last game for Wales, but because I always ran off the field when I was captain to make sure I could shake hands with the opposition skipper. The noise was deafening. There were supporters running everywhere with wild faces, trying to grab players as they made their way to the dressing rooms. I found Jean-Pierre Bastiat, shook his hand, and he congratulated us before I rushed towards the tunnel. We had done it, I thought. I was tired, my body ached and my head was pounding. But I felt no real pain – just pleasure and huge, huge relief.

I walked into our dressing room and the players I had been alongside for the best part of a decade followed after me – JPR Williams, Gareth Edwards, JJ Williams, Ray Gravell, Bobby Windsor, Derek Quinnell and Terry Cobner. They all looked as I felt, utterly exhausted but content. I walked over to Gareth and told him quietly, ‘That’s it. That’s my last game. It’s been a privilege and a pleasure to play with you, Gar.’ He smiled. ‘Bloody hell,’ he said. ‘You’re getting out, too. That’s my lot as well.’ Typical Edwards, he always produced the unexpected whenever anyone else threatened to steal the headlines. Both of us had spent the week reaching the same conclusion. It was time to go. But we thought we were alone in those decisions; neither of us suspected the other had resolved to do the same.

I had come to my decision after our previous game, in Dublin where we had beaten Ireland at Lansdowne Road to win the Triple Crown. It was the triple Triple. Three times in a row we had claimed the Triple Crown, but this was by far the hardest, the most demanding.

I had started the 1977–78 season too soon, but that was all the fault of Prince Charles. In the summer of 1977 I had captained the Lions to New Zealand and returned home feeling physically and emotionally shattered. I needed a break and the tradition then was for Lions to sit out the first month of a season after a tour. But Prince Charles was coming to Llanelli for a commemorative match and I had been persuaded to play. It was a mistake as it meant I began the season without a real break and by the time of the 1978 Five Nations I was feeling the strain. We had beaten England and Scotland but deep in my heart I could hear a voice telling me it might be time to get out. The commitments of an international rugby player seemed to be increasing every year. But I was playing quite well, so I was still uncertain.

Ireland helped make up my mind. The build-up had been incredible. The triple Triple Crown had never been achieved before but to read the papers beforehand you would have thought the result was a foregone conclusion. This would be the crowning glory for the team of Gareth, Gerald and JPR, they said, without much thought given to Ireland. But I knew where Ireland would want to stick our triple Triple Crown, especially on their own patch.

My worries were not misplaced. Ireland thundered into us for the whole game. There was a lot of blood spilt and it was one of the dirtiest Five Nations matches I ever played in. JPR late-tackled Mike Gibson and maybe should have been sent off. Either way, the crowd went ballistic but we somehow managed to keep our heads and win, 20–16, after JJ scored a late try in the corner. But what struck me more deeply than anything was not our achievement but the way it was received by the men who had delivered it. There was no elation or hysteria in the dressing room; the players were almost out on their feet. I looked around the room at the faces. Gareth looked worn out, but Gerald was ashen. I think he had been stunned by the physical ferocity of the game, the number of boots going in on the ground, especially from fellow Lions. That was one of the unwritten laws in those days. You didn’t stamp on another Lion. But that afternoon Gerald had witnessed a nasty physical edge to the game which he wasn’t familiar with, and which he didn’t appreciate. As a grammar-school boy and Cambridge graduate, Gerald had firm ideas on how rugby should be played. After coming through this match he looked ruffled, bemused and very weary. It hadn’t been pretty and if it had not been for the strength of body and character of our forwards – especially Bobby Windsor and Terry Cobner – then we would not have withstood the Irish ferocity and would have lost. Gerald was one of a number of Lions who took a good booting on the floor.

Later, at the Shelbourne Hotel in the centre of Dublin, we were greeted by hundreds of Wales supporters as we got off our team bus. They were cheering and singing but amid all the noise and congratulations I was stopped by one fan who looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘Great, Phil. Well done. But just you make sure you beat those French bastards in two weeks’ time.’ The prospect of another brutal battle after a long week of training seemed to wash over me in a wave of fatigue. I had just spent about half an hour enjoying winning the Triple Crown. Now I would spend two weeks worrying about France and the Grand Slam. That was the way of things as a Welsh international in those days. The success was intoxicating and made you feel during matches that some kind of force was sweeping you off your feet and allowing you to perform to the most incredible standards. But in between games the expectations of the whole country were sometimes hard to bear. They were there when you played or trained with your club, when you went shopping or down the pub. It felt like a heavy burden, sometimes too heavy. After each victory we would celebrate like any other rugby team, but as soon as some supporter mentioned the next match, and how important it was that we beat the English/French/Scots/Irish, I would feel a tightening in my stomach.

On the Sunday before the match against France we had our normal training session at Port Talbot. It meant another weekend away from my wife Pat and our two-year-old son Steven. For the first time since I got into the squad in 1969, I resented having to go and train with Wales. I hated every mile of that M4 journey between Llanelli and Port Talbot. To make matters worse, the training session was a disaster. We were awful, so bad that our coach, John Dawes, abandoned things and told us all to go home and have a rest.

The week dragged and I felt jaded. Whatever spark I had that kept me going felt as though it was starting to burn itself out. I told Pat I’d had enough and that the match against France would be my last international. I was 29 years old. As a keen boxing fan I’d seen enough fighters go on for one fight too many and I didn’t want to end up like that.

But this was a match for the Grand Slam. In the days before World Cups, the Slam was the ultimate and I didn’t want anything to distract us from our goal. So I told no one else apart from Pat about by retirement plans and I took my secret with me on to the field at the Arms Park. There was also one other feeling that kept nagging away. Maybe, just maybe, this team had reached its peak. We had gone through most of the seventies together and now a number of players were coming towards the tail end of their careers. If the team was going to be dismantled then I felt we, the players, should be the ones who removed the first bricks.

I was concerned that my own emotions in the build-up to the match might get in the way, but as it turned out I had more then enough to worry about. We lost Gerald Davies through injury and Gareth Evans of Newport came in to take his place. France were a very impressive side. They had Bastiat, Jean-Pierre Rives, Robert Paparemborde, Jean-Claude Skrela and a fine young scrum-half in his first season called Jerome Gallion. My own feelings and emotions got buried under tactical considerations and the sense of expectancy that surrounded our bid for another Grand Slam.

I always tried to pick out one flag during the anthems and I went through the same routine this time. I didn’t shed any tears, even though I knew this, my 29th appearance, was going to be my last match for Wales. Of course, there was an enormous amount of emotion. I felt it deeply. But I was so wrapped up in wanting to win the game that I kept all those emotions firmly in check. I wanted to savour my last match, but much more than anything I simply wanted to win. We had worked hard that season and 80 more minutes of effort seemed a small price to pay for the biggest prize on offer. If I needed reassurance then it was there in the shape of the players alongside me. I looked at Edwards, JPR, JJ and Fenwick. They were too good to lose this opportunity, I thought.

France scored first, though: a try for Jean-Claude Skrela. They looked good and Gallion was making breaks all over the place. But then Edwards took over and showed Gallion who was boss. It was Gareth’s experience versus Gallion’s youthful energy and the old master started to win the day. I scored our first try from a solid scrum. Quick heel, Allan Martin … pass, sidestep, easy. I’d scored near the corner, though, and as I lined up the conversion I knew I had to concentrate if I was going to level the scores. In those days, we didn’t practise our goal-kicking. Neil Jenkins would have been considered a bit odd for having more than a couple of shots at the end of a training session. It was all a bit hit-and-miss. Sometimes you were hot. Sometimes you weren’t. That one went over, though, and I felt elated.

Edwards dropped a goal and then JJ finished off a move by passing inside to me as he was forced out of play and I scored my second try. In the second half Steve Fenwick dropped a goal late on and that was it. Most of that second 40 minutes was just a case of hanging on. We weren’t playing well. We were clinging on, but we had the character to do it. We were staggering our way to the finish line and the crowd seemed to be aware we needed a gentle push to finally get there. Edwards, as always, kept urging the players on – ‘chopsing’, as we say in Wales. I was hoarse trying to do the same. The noise of the crowd’s singing seemed to intensify, and somehow we held on. I never normally noticed the crowd when I played for Wales. I blotted them out and kept my mind on the game. But that day, they refused to be blotted out. It was as if their noise, their desire, came on to the field as an extra force. They became part of our weaponry, part of us as a team. I’d never known anything like it.

We won, 16–7. It was a victory based on guts, spirit and a formidable support. Playing ability was way down the list that day, but it was enough to give Wales the Grand Slam – our third in eight seasons.

The night that followed wasn’t bad either. I’d taken a bit of good-natured abuse in the dressing room when my conversation with Gareth had been overheard by some other members of the team. Someone shouted, ‘Hey, those two bastards are getting out!’ Someone else chipped in that we should have to buy all the drinks that night, but even our celebrations could not have gone better. I was presented with a jeroboam of champagne to mark our achievement and we drank most of it even before they had finished the speeches. Then, Rives and Skrela brought more bottles of wine over from the French players’ table and joined the party. When those ran out I ordered more myself and told the waiters to put it on the bill of the Welsh Rugby Union. I knew it would mean an inquest on Monday to find the offender, but I didn’t care. By Monday I’d be a former international.

There was some talk of convincing me to stay on, but I knew it was the right time to go. Wales were off to tour Australia and the thought of another summer spent away from my family was not very enticing. But there was also that nagging feeling again. This was it. Our time was up. I had been in the squad since 1969, so had JPR, while some of the boys like Gareth and Gerald had been there since 1966–67. I realised that if we were a soccer side then any manager worth his salt would now start clearing a few of us out. It was best to leave through the front door, I thought, than be pushed through the back.

Besides, there was young talent coming through. Gareth Davies and Terry Holmes were the ready-made half-backs, and there were other good youngsters like David Richards pushing for a place. Other countries were learning from our success and I could see that Wales might not have it all their own way for a while until a new team was established. It might take a couple of years – in actual fact Wales won the Triple Crown again in 1979 – but the baton would be smoothly handed on. Now was the time to stand aside and let the youngsters take the reins. The talent was there. Wales was flooded with talent. Once a new posse had found their feet then I had no doubts whatsoever that the Triple Crowns and Grand Slams would continue to be the Welsh currency. The economy may have been heading into a deep recession, but rugby was our business and business was booming.

Fast forward 20 years. It’s 5 April 1998. Wales have just played France in another Grand-Slam decider. I am walking down Wembley Way on a Sunday afternoon and the weather is glorious. But all I notice is the litter and the debris on the ground – crushed paper cups and ripped flags. I also feel crushed because Wales, too, have just been ripped to pieces. France are champions and Grand-Slam winners, having beaten Wales 51–0 in what was supposedly a home game for Wales. And as the old gag goes, Wales were lucky to get nil.

That afternoon marked 20 years since Wales last won the Grand Slam. Five more years have passed since. If someone had said to me as I left the field in 1978 that Wales would spend the next quarter of a century looking for their next Grand Slam then I would have told them to lie down in a darkened room while I fetched the doctor.

I hated Wembley. I loved it as a football venue, as the home of the FA Cup Final and England’s internationals, but as a temporary home for Welsh rugby while they built the Millennium Stadium it was a pain in the arse. The first time I watched Wales play there it took me three hours in the car to crawl the final five miles and the same on the way back. By the time of the home match with France I had learnt my lesson. Pat and I drove up from Llanelli the night before, ready for my day’s work with BBC Wales and the Sunday Mirror. On the morning of the game we called in at a teashop in Gerrard’s Cross and then caught the train into Wembley. The sight of Welsh fans, who had come from all over Wales and England for the game, taking over the carriages with their colours and their singing, filled me with optimism. I spotted one young kid with a scarf and rosette who was almost climbing the walls with excitement as he sat next to his grandfather. Watching him made me feel good about Welsh rugby. It could still excite and inspire, convince a young boy and his grandfather it was worth getting up at the crack of dawn on a Sunday for an expensive 500-mile round trip to see what was meant to be a home game.

Then came the match itself. Wales 0, France 51. I just couldn’t believe what I was seeing. France were so superior to Wales it was like watching a training exercise where one set of players practise their attacking and the others half-heartedly pretend to try and stop them. The only difference was that Wales were actually trying to stop them. They just couldn’t. The gulf in class was a chasm.

Thomas Castaignede was simply magical for France that day at outside-half. He gave poor Neil Jenkins the worst runaround of his life and ran the show from beginning to end. It was one of the best displays I had ever seen from a No. 10 in a championship match. But France weren’t just better in one position. They were streets ahead all over the field. The body language of some of the Welsh players summed it all up. They were dragging themselves around the field with their shoulders slumped and their heads bowed, especially Jenkins who looked as though he was living out a nightmare. The pain of their humiliation at being so outclassed was agony to watch. They looked totally devastated. So did the crowd. I know that’s how I felt. France scored seven tries and should have had ten. Jean-Luc Sadourny, their classy runner at full-back, scored two, so did Xavier Garbajosa, one of their new boys. Stephane Glas, Thomas Lievremont and Fabien Galthie were their other try-scorers and Christophe Lamaison kicked five conversions and two penalties. Wales looked as if they wouldn’t get near the try-line if they stayed at it until the following Sunday and the final insult was when the French put on all seven of their replacements to reinforce the feeling that they were in a training session. The final whistle went and all I wanted to do was get out of there, get away from the shame and indignity of it all.

We walked down Wembley Way among hundreds of Welsh supporters, but in complete silence. No complaints or excuses, no rancour or accusations – not even any of the dark humour that had often followed some of the worst Welsh defeats in the previous years. They were all stunned at the awful magnitude of the defeat. There were no saving graces – absolutely none.

We waited on the platform, among hundreds of Welsh fans and this deathly hush. Incredibly, I spotted the same young kid I had seen before the match with his grandfather. All the bounce and energy had left him long ago. It struck me then how this kid had gone to the game so expressive and come away looking numbed and bored. If he was going to be hooked by rugby then he needed heroes, but Wales had nothing to offer when it came to heroics that afternoon. It hadn’t been a surrender, but the resistance had been brushed aside.

Pat and I were meant to meet friends for dinner that evening, but I couldn’t face them. I couldn’t even face food. I just wanted to get home and forget all about it. It was one of the emptiest feelings I’ve ever felt after watching Wales and I couldn’t even be bothered to fill my empty stomach. If 1978 provided bread of heaven, this was starvation rations for every Welshman there.

Kevin Bowring quit as Wales coach within a few weeks and I thought, ‘This is it. Welsh rugby cannot go any lower.’ I was wrong. Two months later Wales went to South Africa and lost 96–13.