SPECTATOR SPORT
Tears without fears
Frank Keating
THE SECOND most raucously ecstatic cheer at the end of the palpitating rugby international in Cardiff on Saturday fol- lowed the public address announcement that the England XV at Twickenham had come a cropper against Ireland. The din was more heartfelt than mere routine delight at a fellow underdog having its day; there was more of an edge to it than that, for these recent England teams, captained by the preening public-schooled smarty- pants Will Carling, have long got up the nostrils of the Celtic fringe for their seem- ing strut and swagger. Also, of course, Welsh enchantment this time meant they would be playing a suddenly bedraggled England on 19 March, with the season's Grand Slam clean sweep as their prize.
It is 16 years since Wales tasted the grandeur of the Slam. Then, as on Satur- day, the crucial deed in 1978 was the beat- ing of a powerful French side at Cardiff. Most of that gold-leafed team which gar- landed the 1970s 'decade of the dragon' Was there, in radio booth or press box or even royal box, and at the final whistle only seconds after the new generation had sealed the thing with an incandescent final try I counted them with their handker- chiefs out, surreptitiously dabbing away moist memories of their own vibrant prime and athletic boyhoods.
Gerald was there, and Phil and Gareth and Ray. I didn't catch sight of JPR, but he was down there with the young team in their concrete dungeon: and you could smell the presence, too, of the four-square trio of legend, the Pontypool front row — the once so teak-tough, now plump and cuddly 'Viet Gwent'. Most understandably tearful, paternal pride flooding in on sepia memories, was Derek Quinnell, father of Scott, the immense man-child who had just played the game of the family's life. I asked another battered old warrior of the scrum, Bob Norster, if he'd been able to contain his blubbing. `No need to ask, boy,' said Bob, 'you know me, I even weep buckets in front of The Little House on the Prairie.'
And older gnarled hands as well — like the octogenarian grandee of games, Wilf WooIler, who first went to Twickenham to put it across England all of 62 years ago. Just across the press box from still straight- backed, straight-talking Wilf was Clem Thomas, as delicate a purple prose man now as he was an indelicate tackler over 40 years ago when he came up from Swansea by train on the morning of the match to take on the All Blacks on this same famous field. No squad system purdah then, nor diet sheets nor enigma-coded lineout calls.
In the carriage, a man was boasting to his mates about his true and certain and life- long friendship with Clem. Our hero kept mum. On arrival at Cardiff, Clem reached for his boots from the luggage-rack. 'What? Not playing today, are you?' said the boast- er. 'I am,' admitted Clem. 'What's your name, then?' I hate to tell you this,' said Clem, 'but it's Thomas, Christian name of Clem.'
Here's a tale which lies snug in the next bed to Alan Watkins's dear one about the late and still much missed journalist John Morgan, like Clem also from Swansea, but of necessity more of a romancer when it came to rugby. John once told Alan he had played against South Africaat St Helen's in 1951. 'That's funny, John, I saw that match and I can't remember you in the Swansea side.' I never actually played,' John inter- jected quickly, 'but I was asked to play.' 'Why didn't you then?' Too scared.'
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