It wasn’t supposed to end like this; this wasn’t part of the plan. So much for the grand finale, the coup de grace, the lifting on the shoulders, the bleached hair, the night out, the reunions in years to come, the trophy, the medals, the headlines, the glory...all dreamt of for over a year.
I don’t mind losing if it’s in the manner of the Roosevelt quote, having gone all out, given your all and come up short, come up against a stronger opponent; far better than those cold souls who know neither victory nor defeat. But that’s part of the problem. I never lived it today, I never took to the field. I lived the 80 minutes with my mates as much as I could from the stand but at the end of the day, I wasn’t a winner and not really a loser either, purgatory.
I failed the fitness test at the Saturday night run-through. The physio, in consultation with the coach, decided that I was at 60% (I said 70%), that I was operating on one leg, subconsciously protecting the ankle. The coach thought that not only was it stupid with regards to me and future games, it was potentially dangerous for the team if I was to be a liability. And deep down, I knew they were right. So I trudged off, with a sick feeling growing in the pit of my stomach and did my best to keep my chin up for the good of the team, as I’m becoming horribly famous for.
We got to 9-0 up inside half an hour. Then they scored for 9-7 at half-time. We were just about hanging in there. They were bigger than us, with the most solid midfield I’ve seen at this level. The French use the word ‘costeau’ which generally means strong and muscular in appearance, potentially explosive. Our scrum-half, heading to Brive in August, was having an absolute blinder, the petit general around the park, and also kicking the goals. He was all I expect in a French scrum-half, socks round the ankles, taking hit after hit. At 12-13 with 5 minutes to go we got a penalty from 40m out. But he was on the floor getting treatment for what looked like horrendous cramp. He pushed the kick, and Brive did enough in the final few minutes to pressurise us into coughing up the ball.
I haven’t cried like that in a bloody long time. I hugged my good ‘pote’, our captain and the guy wearing my 10 shirt for what seemed like 5 minutes. Some just lay on the ground. Our full-back had taken a knock to his chest and was having trouble breathing already, the shock and emotion of losing had the medics out as he went into some sort of spasm. But Eric Blanc got us all in together and said some lovely things, just the right tone. Didn’t help in the slightest at the time but on reflection it hit the right note.
I shared another huge hug and a kiss with the physio, we’ve spent a very intensive few weeks together and I knew it hurt him to pull me out of the match. I’ll be back on his table tomorrow in what seems like a futile effort to get the ankle fit. I've kissed so many guys today, hugged till my arms hurt, sung O Flower of Scotland on the bus speaker system, shouted too much at the ref, not eaten enough, given an emotional speech and it’s all catching up with me.
So that’s it, done, finished, fini – no more rugby for a while. Is there some perverted relief in there? Maybe... But in order of preference, I would rather have played and won, then just won, then played and lost. I’m left having not played and lost, surely the worst, to have not even given all in support of a worthy cause. But that’s sport and at the moment, sport sucks. I have two weeks roughly in Paris. Next Saturday I have my French written exam at 8.30 am which last 3 hours. Friday night is our final team night out which will be huge. I intend to just go straight from the ‘Rue de la Soif’ to the exam. Priorities, people.
Sod this for a laugh, I’m off to bed, whether I’ll sleep is debatable. I suppose the sooner I realise that life doesn’t have a script, the better.
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