The Conclusion to a Year - The Final Post

I write this final post looking out the window at the Perthshire countryside with a full belly of home-cooked food and a full day at home which I’ve spent doing nothing very much at all.

Actually, that’s as far as I got, so I have returned to it now back in Edinburgh, a very cold and empty Edinburgh. Trying to write a conclusive post is a big ask, but I want to finish it all off with something that brings it all together.

Does it feel all of 10 months? Truthfully, yes.

It hasn’t been 10 months of smelling the roses, around half of those months were not enjoyable at all. I spent the months up to Christmas very unhappy. I fell out of love with rugby. Whatever the appeal was before: being the captain, representing the school, playing with your mates, being one of the best...all crumbled away. I got down on myself – how sad, a classic case of withdrawal symptoms from Scottish private school rugby, what a loser... The desire to improve at rugby, to go to training happy, to finish a session better than I started, disappeared. The most depressing thing was realising what rugby had become to me, effectively nothing. When people casually passed a ball around I didn’t want it, told them not to pass it to me. I came to hate the shape of the ball, everything about it, the running around, the tackling and the endless drills. A sport which had meant so much to me, had defined me (in certain people’s eyes), had left me. The idea of Fraser Gillies, rugby player, made me recoil.

It got to the stage where I didn’t even care that I’d lost my ‘mojo’, it didn’t matter to me. But though I came close to quitting, I never wanted to be a quitter. I never wanted to have ‘couldn’t hack it’ it tag hanging over me for the rest of my life.

And now, I couldn’t be happier I stuck out the hard times and waited for the good times to roll in, and they did. I became integrated in a wonderful group of guys and the most patient coach I could have asked for. I eventually rationalised being a ‘professional’ trainer. I accepted that I didn’t have to improve every session, I didn’t have to be on top-form every day and therefore found a sort of peace. Yes, the injuries always plagued me and I never really dealt with them very well.

Until young Scottish players have had to play rugby with people you feel no affinity for, cannot understand, in places you can’t pronounce, feeling very lost, they will always shine in cosy environments. The road to international rugby is full of step-ups which will be, at first, out of most people’s comfort zone. Those who can deal with that, not let it faze them, and continue will be the ones who make it. That might not necessarily be the best players. I now have the experience of being completely and utterly lost on a rugby pitch, something I had never experienced before and probably never will again. But I’m a far stronger player for that experience.

Training five days a week has been a new experience which has given me an insight into the ups, downs, knocks of the professional game where not every day can be perfect and rugby, paradoxically, has to be put to the back of the mind when possible. Training has always been of a high standard, especially arsing around with some of the most gifted 3/4s I have ever seen, coaching has been top-notch, I think, when I understood it.

I’m now in better physical shape, stronger, faster and, crucially, I know my body better than before. I am a far better goal-kicker having had a dedicated coach all year who was a psychologist as well as swing mechanic. I can control a game of rugby in two languages, playing 2 different styles.

I have put rugby in its proper place in life, one which opens up many opportunities to see the world. Men’s rugby in Gala or Heriots or Boroughmuir might have been a higher standard, bigger hits – without a doubt. But it wouldn’t have been that far out of my comfort zone. But give me a team of boys my own age, many of them French junior internationalists, good guys and take me to Clermont or Bourgoin or the hated Stade Francais any day.

Whether I want rugby to become my life is unclear to me. Maybe that says a lot in itself and gives an indication. I’m glad I’m going to university where I’ll get the chance to continue my rugby to a high level if I wish. I have learnt a lot from my Fijian friends this year, one is Isaiah 40:31 but the other is “you just got to do what’s best for you, bro”.

Writing the blog has been hugely enjoyable, very cathartic and has maybe led me down a road that I might want to pursue. It’s nice that people read it and let me know that they enjoy it. Hopefully I can get it printed up or something along those lines. Get in touch if you want a copy.

Thanks to all those at Racing Metro 92 for giving me this opportunity in the first place, Racing Club de France, all those who I played and trained with, those who coached me and put up with me, those who put me back together, my flatmates who history will record as being complete pricks, all those who sent me a text or an email – you have no idea how much it probably lifted my mood, and my family who put up with endless skypes along with putting up with so much else.

Hemingway did write: “If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.” I left Charles de Gaulles Airport two days ago with a stiff ankle, a sense of satisfaction and a sense of immense relief, but already I think he may be right.

Top 14 Semi Final, Racing v Montpellier, Marseille

We were up by 7, out the house by 8 and chilling in the Gare de Lyon around 9, ready to go. We were literally quite chilly in just our shorts and t-shirts as every other Racing fan was in jeans and jumpers – by Marseille it was us who was appropriately dressed though.

The TGV was very fast indeed. To travel all that way in 3 hours is impressive and we arrived at the Gare Saint Charles  on good form. We started walking in the direction of the Old Port. Given we were the first Racing fans out of the station, and therefore the first that Marseille had seen, we bore the brunt of the abuse. “Careful with the sun!” several mocked, clearly a classic gag. We also came into contact with the first Montpellier fan bus, which had them all banging on the windows at us and inviting us to join them. To be fair, we were inviting this sort of banter with our 4 flags (between 2) and hats...

Marseille is not a very pleasant town. It has a hotch-potch feel, the underlying aggressiveness of a bandit frontier town, which of course it always was. We found our way to the old port and had our lunch in a restaurant filled with fresh rugby fans looking forward to today’s match as well as Toulouse/Clermont fans who had clearly just woken up and were taking their first tentative steps into the midday sun, nursing their heads.

Cars were flying into the town with their blue Montpellier flags hanging out the windows, horns tooting creating quite the atmosphere. We then took the metro to the Stade Vélodrome. On the way we dodged a typically French demonstration/strike/mob protesting about something and the ensuing smoke bombs. In the metro the Montpellier fans found their voice, “Ici, ici, c’est Montpellier”. And it could easily have been Montpellier. Then one Racing Metro fan piped up to great amusement, “Ici, ici, c’est le metro”. He was of course far more factually correct.

On our way into the stade we came across a man with a microphone followed by a cameraman. He poked the microphone in Callum’s face. He panicked, told him he didn’t speak French and pointed them to me. He asked the sort of open question these sorts of reporters ask, “You’re just arriving into the stadium, how does it feel?” I told him that the atmosphere in the metro was superb, we had come all this way and we were ready to win. Allez le Racing... The reporter thanked me for my time, clearly hoping that the weird foreigner didn’t get broadcast and wondering what two foreigners were doing there, one carrying so many flags he looked like he was selling them.

The stade was impressive and built in such a way that could only work in the south of France, with 3 stands open to the air. We were burnt before the kick-off. I won’t give a match-report but Racing lost 25-26 in the end. Having allowed Montpellier to get to 23-6 early in the second half, they got back to 25-23. It was like the Heineken Cup Final all over again. Suddenly we took to our feet and the Montpellier fans (actual Montpellier fans and Marseille neutrals, south loving, Paris hating ignorants) weren’t making noise. The couple of thousand Racing fans silenced the 54,000 others for a few minutes. Could Racing see out the final few minutes? No, Montpellier kicked a penalty and then the Racing stand-off missed a last-minute drop-goal. It was nearly as heart-breaking as the defeat to Brive. I vowed to return next year to see a victory.

The train home was livened up by trips into the bar where the Racing players were drowning their sorrows with sycophantic fans. We bought our food, I said a few hellos, commiserated then went back to our seats. We both agreed that it had been a fantastic day, with one of the finest rugby occasions we had been to, never mind the extraordinary match that left us with no voice, sun-burn and that gutting feeling.

Chez Blanc

Friday evening was without a doubt the best ‘social’ event I’ve been to. The opportunities to just hang around with friends haven’t been many in number. As a team, it’s difficult to organise social events given everyone is so scattered around Paris. This is not a short walk across Edinburgh to watch the rugby.

So it was up to the 17^th arrondissement. We ate our evening meal at McDonald’s – before you recoil in middle class horror out of fear for my health, McDos are much nicer in France. We ate outside as if it was a café on one of the Grands Boulevards. Then we walked to chez Julien. The lift was full so we walked all 6 floors to the top of this classic Parisian building, big wooden door, big entrance hall. The apartment was mighty impressive, I tried not to be too much of a tourist. There were around 9 of us and we plonked ourselves in front of the huge TV, ready for Toulouse/Clermont, the first of the Top 14 semi-finals. The smokers, who seem to grow in number every time I see these guys, positioned themselves by the window. Our full-back was happy to smoke his hashish right behind me, and I can’t say I was particularly fussed. The chat flowed, I gave some stick, got some back and loved it when they mocked my pronunciation of certain words – it was one final sign that I was integrated.

The rugby was poor so I had no qualms about taking photos of the Eiffel tower from the window. Such a tourist, even after all these months, but to see it lit up like that  from the window was an amazing sight.

Some were heading off into town, most were heading home so I said my goodbyes. Bisous all round, promises to come back and visit, to come to Edinburgh, everyone certain this wouldn’t be the end. 

The Final Week

On Sunday I was still recovering from Friday night’s excesses and the mental strain of the French exam. But given that I didn’t want to let the day slip away in my room, I headed into Paris. I didn’t have a destination, just took a couple of metros and got off at a stop which I liked the name: La Motte Picquet Grenelle. This was a good, if random choice. The Eiffel Tower rose above me and Napoleon’s alma mater the Ecole Militaire was behind me. I spotted a Paris velib (the bike scheme) station and was tempted. I gave in and was haring off through the 8^th arrondissement before you could say ‘sacré bleu’. Sure I got myself into several compromising positions at traffic lights, put a few Parisian noses out of joint, but on the whole it was brilliant fun. The video I posted a couple of days ago is by way of proof.

Monday I begun the immense operation of tidying my room. It would have to be tidied before packing could begin, so I worked away with my woefully inadequately small black bags. The late afternoon saw me getting cabin fever so I packed a rucksack with some water, digestive biscuits and my French textbook (oral exam the next day) and headed to the Parc de Sceaux. The afternoon sun was still fighting for its existence and so I found a spot, kicked off my flip-flops and took off my t-shirt, causing many small children to be called back to their parents out of fear of this unhealthily pale creature who had just set up camp on the grass. After about 5 minutes of lying around I got bored so got up for a stroll. I then bumped into my flatmate (the one I still speak to) and his girlfriend which took awkward to new levels. I think the Parc de Sceaux is more beautiful than the gardens of Versaille. I traversed the whole park and went home via a short walk through Sceaux, possibly the wealthiest Parisian suburb and therefore home to the club president and Seb Chabal.

My oral exam took up 5 very pleasant minutes at 8.15 on Tuesday morning. I speak much better French than my classmates. This is because they spend their afternoons sitting in pavement cafés chatting about Oprah and internships at the Huffington Post (in either English, Spanish or Chinese) while I swear and banter my way through training. I read the Midi Olympique in a café and chatted to the owner about rugby in the south. He gave Beziers as an example of a great club, fantastic little town whose two passions are the bullfights and the rugby, but who are being left behind as French rugby changes.

Wednesday was spent at Roland Garros on the main court Philippe Chatrier. I turned up very early like a hyper-active, excitable 12 year old and nothing happened throughout the day to change that. I saw 4 matches on the main court. First, the umpire struggled to differentiate between Mademoiselle Wozniak and Mademoiselle Wozniacki but we got there in the end. The came the two Frenchmen Monfils and Rufin – the crowd just got behind whoever was winning, an easily contented, fickle bunch. Then Djokovic won his 41^st on the trot against a hapless opponent who eventually retired hurt. The talk around me was about what the Serb was wearing; and I was forced to agree that he looked like a remnant from Top of the Pops in the 1980s, though no one else understood that. In the evening I trekked across Paris, from south-west to north-east to join my French class ‘gathering’ in a pub in a park. There were only about 6 people there and not the 6 that I would have hoped. We got along fine, sipping on dodgy French beer, making polite, grammatically incorrect conversation about our futures... It was quite amusing but I don’t know why I went.

The packing is nearly there. My room is looking awfully empty. Marseille tomorrow for the semi-final of the Top 14 – Racing v. Montpellier. Apparently it’s to be around 32/35 degrees which will do my sun burn from the tennis no good at all.

I gave Serge his Famous Grouse yesterday, which set him off on a story about when he ate Grouse in a restaurant once. He gave me this letter. Written by a 19^th century aristocratic harlot, mistress to many, including Chopin, it’s quite a tame love letter. Now read every 2^nd line. Even if you speak only the most basic French, it’s quite amusing. At the bottom, Serge wrote “esprit francais!” which harked back to a conversation we had about the French a couple of weeks back. I thanked him for his friendship, his conversation and not least the ability and knowledge he has invested in getting me into a decent physical shape. He retires this year and heads off to the World Cup in a caravan where I’m sure he will find many rugby fans keen to listen to his tales. Whenever I heard, “Hello my dear boy, how are you?” in an attempted posh English accent, it lifted the mood. I hope that isn’t the last I’ll see of Serge.

Cher ami,
Je suis heureuse de vous dire que j'ai
bien compris l'autre jour que vous aviez
toujours une envie folle de me faire
danser. Je garde le souvenir de votre
baiser et je voudrais bien que ce soit
une preuve que je suis aimée et désirée
par vous. Je suis prête à vous montrer mon
affection toute désintéressée et sans cal-
cul, et si vous voulez me voir ainsi
vous dévoiler, sans aucun artifice, mon âme
toute nue, daignez me faire visite,
nous bavardons finalement entre nous ;
je vous prouverai que je suis la femme
sincère, capable de vous offrir l'affection
la plus profonde, comme la plus étroite
amitié, en un mot : la meilleure épouse
dont vous puissiez rêver. Puisque votre
amour me sera doux car la solitude qui m’ha-
bite est longue, bien dure, immense et bien
insupportable, et mon âme en est fortement é-
branlée, venez vite, vous pouvez me la
faire oublier et à vous, je pense me sou-
mettre entièrement.

-          George SAND (pseudonym) (1804-1876)

Goodbye Injuries.

I went into the club this morning to collect my remaining medical exams from the Doctor. I know this man far too well, and he gave me the same look this morning that he has every time I’ve walked into his room, a raised eyebrow and a wry smile. He half feels sorry for me, curses fate and curses the sport. The fact that I’m even writing this is symbolic of the problem I have had this year. I have paid far too much attention to injuries – I have let them get to me, get me down, knock my confidence, hate my body, curse my luck, pine for the days when I could slash through a defence coming off a right and hand-off on the inside to make the half-break. But for much of the season I was playing without the ability to do that due to an ankle problem and a wrist problem. I now see that I should have just accepted that my game wouldn’t be the same, that I would have to adapt, and instead of moaning about what I can’t do and used to be able to do, just change my game.

Maybe it’s just the fallout from a first year with such an added training load and a step-up in standard, maybe it’s the hard ground, maybe it’s bad-luck. Probably a bit of each. And like Kevin Pietersen walking out of the cricket World Cup, each of those reasons was probably made worse, at least up until Christmas, by the idea that injuries always seem worse when you aren’t on top-form or aren’t very settled or comfortable. I hereby lay the medical exams to rest in the bottom of my bag, consigned to history as I take a summer of yoga, stretching, minimal weights and good company to hit season 2011-12 running. Maybe I'll use the multitude of x-rays and MRIs as wallpaper next year...

Release the Pressure

As always, the time just before going home is a very happy time. But given this is the final time I’ll be going home, it’s tinged with sadness. I have officially said I will be leaving the club. After the defeat against Brive I convinced myself that I couldn’t leave on that, my work wasn’t finished and so on. Various people at the club encouraged this view and for a few days I agreed with them. But sense prevailed, I realised my heart wasn’t in it and having lived it for a year, it is time to move on.

The final whistle in that quarter-final left me distraught, totally wrecked. But it also served as the ultimate pressure release valve. It didn’t feel like it at the time – at the time it was the most painful defeat I’ve experienced, signalling the end as it did. But I also felt a huge amount of relief. I enjoy pressure just as much as the next stand-off but I feel I have been more aware of it this year. So I’m relieved in a way that it’s over. That’s not to say I haven’t enjoyed myself, it’s simply been a very long, challenging season – not just any rugby season. So I welcome the end, the arrival of a chilled summer with no weights sessions to go to, no kicking to improve (for a couple of weeks at least), no contact sessions, no buses, no commuting. I desperately would have preferred all this to arrive after the final on Sunday, but it was out of my control, and so be it.

The final will be between Brive and Clermont Auvergne. That’s very hard to take given the level we are in relation to both these teams. The other quarters and semis look like this... Note the margins by which Brive have reached the final by, 1 point in each of the final phase matches – this is a very tough competition to win.

Quarter-finals

Racing 12 – 13 Brive

Toulouse 6 – 9 Clermont

Grenoble 27 – 13 Pau

Bayonne 22 – 10 Montpellier

Semi-Finals

Bayonne 18 – 21 Clermont

Grenoble 15 – 16 Brive

Posts left to write:

The Final week

Scotland v France

Thank-yous

The Conclusion

Stade de France vidéos

Here are a couple of videos of a fine stadium. Apparently it has nothing on the Parc des Princes but I think it does okay. The first is Scotland v France in February when La Marseillaise got going and the other is Racing v Toulouse in March.