SPECTATOR SPORT
Lion or leprechaun?
Frank Keating
AFTER Australia's victory in the rugby union World Cup final at Twickenham in 1991, David Campese announced his retire- ment from the game. Since when, his farewell performances have been as numer- ous as his compatriot's, Nellie Melba. Doubtless he will wave another moist-eyed, heavy-hearted cheerio this weekend after the tourists' swansong against the Barbar- ians at Twickenham. This time, one fancies, it really will be his last shout in front of a packed house in Britain. No other rugby player in history, of, either code, can so noticeably have revelled in the roar of the greasepaint and the smell of the crowd, or however it goes. That is quite mutually fair enough, for no rugby player down the whole century and beyond has been such an opulent, one-off wizard at the game. Can't his long goodbye get longer, please. Tony O'Reilly, no mean touchline tram- pler himself, once spoke of rugby's joy in the wing-three-quarter — 'for there is hard- ly a more stirring sight than the lonely foray of a solitary figure striding to death or glory into the gathering gloom of a winter's evening'. Such was the sight of Campese in Cardiff on Saturday against Wales — a 60- yarder in the final minute to ice the cake. It had the vast throng in the famous old stadi- um on their feet, to a man, garlanding the Australian with a din of acclamation throughout his almost sheepish trot back to the halfway line.
An hour later, I gawped like the groupie I am with a jostle of Welsh autograph urchins as the Australian squad embarked on their hotel coach. All but one of them were dressed in badged, green regulation blazers and free-issue outback brogues. The onliest 'Campo' carried his blazer, as well as a beautifully cut Italian raincoat; his shoes, slacks and haircut obviously bespoke Milan. He likes to chew a toothpick, as young Italian dandies do.
His game has the flamboyance of the Latin-Celt. Which he is. His mother is a Murphy, whose family sailed from Kinsale to New South Wales at the turn of the cen- tury. His father, a carpenter, was born at Montecchio, a village between Venice and `fair Padua, nursery of the arts', who left for Australia the day after his 21st birthday. David was born at Queanbeyan, NSW, 30 Octobers ago.
Wingers, in my lifetime anyway, have come in all shapes and sizes — and from every segment of the speedometer. There have been explosive, straight-track sprinters such as Ken Jones, Pat Lagisquet, or J.J. Williams. Or thunderous, scary, ground- rumblers, like Doug Smith, Ted Wood- ward, B.G. Williams or John Bevan. Or full-pelt, wings-on-their-heels swervers such as David Duckham, Grant Batty and Rory Underwood. Or red-hot all-rounders with rugby 'brains', like Mike Slemen or John Kirwan. And a handful of unclassifiable one-offers like Chris Oti, Roger Baird and Simon Geoghegan.
And then the Nijinskys — the darters, the dancers, the side-steppers, the intricate top-lick weavers of spells: Peter Jackson and Gerald Davies.
Campese has most affinity with the Nijin- skys. But the nonpareil also carries in his kitbag of tricks a slice of every other style and facet and quality. And opponents never know which rabbit he is going to pull out next. On which zoological metaphor the great O'Reilly expands: 'Wingers can be lion or leprechaun, greyhound or tortoise, prancing circus horse or pampas bull.'
What is Campese? 'I've no idea,' drawls the marvel himself. `I'm just me, I guess.'
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