#100 - Tracksuits, Egos and Aix-en-Provence V. Dundee....

Having realised that this is post #100, I've come back to edit it. My philosophy towards writing it is the same as Sir Ian McGeechan's is to coaching - I'll keep doing it so long as I have something to say. I would probably...probably still do it if no-one read it but it's nice that people do. There probably won't be another hundred, maybe I'll make it to another 30 by the end of the season. But I do get a tremendous amount of enjoyment from it so will plough on for now!


There is one bus driver of the 197 who has an overactive ankle joint. Not all passengers are aware of this moustachioed chap and so find themselves propelled forward every time the bus brakes. I am an old hand though, you see. This is the same guy who gives me an extra big smile and a kinder welcome onto his bus when I’m in full Racing tracksuit/bag. As a transport worker, employee of the RATP, I suppose he has a vested interest in Racing Metro 92 given that the Metro part represents the Paris transport workers.

Speaking of living in full tracksuit, I attracted some attention on Sunday when travelling into the pub from Colombes, not all of it pleasant. Though when a little boy, aged 5 max, comes up to you and in the politest way possible asks if you play for Racing, wide eyed and wide mouthed, it warms the heart! And the ego too, obviously...

Today I did a light weights session on my legs. Tuesday and Wednesday are hard training days and while it’s better to do something on a Thursday, there’s no need to overdo it. Afterwards I was chatting to the physical conditioning staff while watching the pros train. Francois Steyn had just finished his kicking practice where he nailed practically everything from a very tight angle – 5 metres out from the tryline and 5 in from touch, as tight as it gets. Watching the pros can be inspiring but also is a reality check. The levels of physicality that these guys operate at is another world.

One of the 50 odd people who turned up to watch this training session, one came for a chat. He started bemoaning the state of French rugby in that it is so difficult for youngsters to push into first teams in the Top 14. Of course, there is the odd exception, but the arrival of mercenaries is stifling French talent. He has a point. Many of the young players at the club who are getting to 21-22 years of age are still nowhere near the first team and have played a few years in the espoirs (u23s). Many of them are planning to move to Pro D2 clubs (2^nd tier) to get game time there and make their way up from there. Still, having a few years in an academy system like Racing’s is still an excellent formation and certainly looks good on the CV.

There’s a young Italian trialist at the club at the moment. He doesn’t speak any French and his English is really weak. I can absolutely sympathise with him. I’ve had to act as a translator couple of times, which gives me a nice indicator of how far I’ve come but also makes me realise that if he comes next year then he’ll have a tough time of it. At least I kind of had English...

The aforementioned physical trainers and I were discussing nice French rugby towns. Most of the ones I suggested were shot down. Perpignan? No, unpleasant. Aix-en-Provence? Too hot. This went on, I started just suggesting towns whether I’d been there or not. These French don’t know how good they have it. I was about to suggest that they should go and play rugby in Dundee, then they’d appreciate what lovely places they have to go and play rugby. Of course, some of our Border towns are ‘pretty’ but the abuse and inevitable kicking you get there outweigh a nice view. Perhaps that was the case with some of my non-suggestions. Anyway, our chat was cut short as a flying ball came our way signalling it was time for me to go home.

ps, to those to whom I boasted about the sun, some sun and some more sun, well, today it was dull, overcast and freezing. Your schadenfraude worked.