RUGBY Union has come a long way since the days when, as a schoolboy, I used to loiter palely on the wing hoping to be left alone. Later, I loitered at full-back where, sadly, I was never short of company. People kept coming at me like trains. Now, with players being launched like rockets from line-outs and referees nagging incessantly throughout games (give some people a microphone and they'll go on for ever), the sport is well-nigh unrecognisable.
Some things never change, however, and on Saturday, the meeting between Leicester and Leinster provided a piquant basinful of the old mixture which evoked many fond memories of by-gone days – memories of the foot in the face, the ritual burial under
piles of bodies and the healthy all-out assault. A highlight was provided by Leicester's Julian White, who, having battered a swathe through the Leinster ranks during a melee, emerged to carry on the good work by sloshing – in full view of the referee, a linesman, thousands of spectators and the cameras – an Irishman called Kelly.
Shortly before this joust, I had watched a super-bantamweight boxing match which ended with the defending champion doing his best to decapitate his gallant challenger. It is doubtful, however, if any punch thrown in that punishing bout carried any more oomph than the right-cross thrown by White at Kelly – and White wasn't wearing boxing gloves. Footage of this incident should be shown to footballers who swoon away when lightly grazed by the back of a languidly waved hand. Kelly took the punch with the stoicism of an Easter Island statue. Far from falling down, he didn't even quiver.
Even the hardened commentators were moved. There were, they conceded, definite signs of petulance among the players and they thought that some animosity existed between the two sides. Most neutral observers would have gone along with that and there were more signs of petulance and animosity almost immediately afterwards when a high tackle prompted a spot of bother which, outwith the realm of sport, would have been classed as a riot.
Not that justice wasn't meted out. White was shown a yellow card for his indiscretion and, in company with the high-tackler, was sent to the sin bin to cool off before returning to the fray. There was no red card, no sending off, no sine die suspension, no night in the cells. He was substituted before the end of the game and ran off, proudly waving the offending fist. Meanwhile, the indestructible Kelly, who hadn't missed a beat, played on. It had been one of those episodes which left in its wake a welter of conflicting emotions. For my own part, once the dust had settled, I didn't know whether to cheer, cry, or consider taking myself off to a monastery.
The confusion was increased when, over in Abu Dhabi, a group of professional golfers finishing their third round in the European Tour championship event, doffed their hats and shook hands with their fellow competitors, the caddies, the scorers and anyone else who happened to be hanging around. I realise that golf and rugby are very different games, but there are times when it's difficult to believe that the human beings involved are all living on the same planet.
Though golf, thus far, has been spared many of the little local difficulties rife elsewhere in sport, it has had its moments. Norman Von Nida, the small, volatile Australian who figured prominently on the world scene in the years after the Second World War, had played before the war in the Philippines, where caddies apparently go to considerable lengths to safeguard the interests of their employers.
In the final round of the Philippines Open, Von Nida, the eventual winner, was playing the 17th, when his partner, Chin Seisui of Japan, with whom he was tied for the lead, hooked his tee-shot into some particularly severe rough. Seisui's caddie dropped the bag and shot off in the direction of the ball. As he did so, all suddenly became clear to Von Nida's caddie, who dropped the Australian's bag and set off in hot pursuit, drawing, as he did so, a knife of serious proportions.
As he ran, he called out to his prey, informing him that if he even thought about dropping another ball, he'd be carved up. This diplomatic approach proved effective, Seisui took 6 at the hole and Von Nida won by two strokes.
I had an early brush with danger when, as a lad, I played the old nine-hole championship links at Musselburgh. At the fourth hole, which runs down to Mrs Forman's pub, I sliced my second shot on to the adjoining main road. The ball bounced with some velocity into a row of terraced housing and cracked back off a wall between two open windows out of which a couple of ladies were leaning while locked in conversation.
There was a silence – you could have silences in those days – and I progressed up the fairway with never a backward glance, trying to look as if the ball and its erratic progress had nothing to do with me. The eyes of those ladies, as they drilled into my back, were as threatening as any knife.
The full article contains 886 words and appears in The Scotsman newspaper.
