The Best Laid Plans...

I’m normally a big fan of irony. But when I re-read what I posted on Friday, full of optimism and excitement about what might be in store in these final few weeks and compare it with how the last two days have gone... After all I wrote about all the work I have been doing on my ankles, particularly my troublesome left ankle who won’t play ball, the last thing I expected was to injure the right one. On Saturday morning, 5 minutes into our big hit up contact session, the last one of its kind before Toulon, I took the ball into contact, was on my way down to present the ball when my ankle stayed in place and my body turned. It was a sharp pain and I knew immediately I’d twisted my ankle.

The left was feeling great, the right wanted attention

My coach said, “we can’t even get you through 15 minutes of combat”. His joke had a serious edge to it to which I could only produce a cracking Gallic shrug. As the pain was coming and going, the ankle well strapped up and iced, I watched the rest of the session and took in the rather impressive surroundings.

La Boulie is indeed the Golf/Country Club of Racing Club de France. If the old French elite back in the day used to hang around Versailles then it seems that this place, appropriately just down the road from the Chateau, is where the new elite like to pass their leisure hours. You could sense the privilege and the smell of euros (or old school francs) hung thick in the air. And then I saw the car park...'nuff said. I’ve never been to Augusta National, but I imagine and hope that it will be on the same lines as La Boulie. The putting green was magnifique, our lunch was lovely and the wide-screen tv on which we watched Leinster v Toulouse just completed the place.

We headed up to Houilles, a long way from La Boulie in so many ways, after the rugby and got the BBQ going. As with most barbeques, a game of football broke out. I obviously had to sit at the side, just like I had been all day, not really part of it. We all ate very well and some drunk well. A short team meeting followed where one of the medical staff pointed out that 70% of us have some sort of minor injury and stressed the need to look after ourselves so we’re all still available for selection come the end of the month. My injury was a freak one. I’ve never had problems with my right ankle.

Then we put our sleeping bags down and got some much needed kip. Though anyone who has experienced a sleepover, whether at 12 years old or as part of an under 19 rugby team will know, you've got to have some tom foolery before bed. So one changing room attacked another; ours would have been flooded had we not put towels at the base of the door. Then, and only then, was everyone ready to sleep.

Another session of what the French call ‘circulation offensif and circulation defensif’ took place in the morning. I, as I will be for most of this week, was icing my ankle. It’s simply a race against time for the Toulon game. As it stands, chances are I won’t make it, as the ankle hasn’t progresses as it should have overnight. But I’m willing to put the work in to make it back as quickly as possible. I might have played my final game, what a horrible thought. Sadly, or not, depending on whether you’re me or my coach, our fate against Toulon will probably be out of my hands. I may be relying on the others to make sure this isn’t the end of the road for our season, never mind me personally. Our mercurial full-back will move up to fly-half to bring his running and stepping game into my shirt to replace my anglo-saxon conservatism. For now, I’m off to find some more ice.