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  In the Heart of the New Zealand Valleys

  Ieuan Evans

  A genuine legend in Wales, Ieuan is generally regarded as one of the best Welsh wingers of all time, quite some accolade when you consider the country has produced the likes of Gerald Davies, J. J. Williams and John Bevan, to name but a few.

  ‘He made his debut against France in 1987 and went on to gain seventy-two caps, twenty-eight as captain scoring thirty-three tries, at the time a Welsh record. He went on three tours with the British and Irish Lions, to Australia in 1989, New Zealand in 1993 and South Africa in 1997. His four tries in New Zealand made him the Lions’ top try scorer. In his club career at Llanelli he won every domestic honour available, so in 1997, seeking new challenges, he crossed the bridge to England and joined Bath. One year later he was part of the team which won the Heineken Cup, beating Brive 19–18 in the final. Deciding that was probably as good as it gets at club level he announced his retirement from the sport.

  ‘He now runs his own marketing and communications company and has become an established broadcaster, often seen giving viewers his expert opinion during televised international matches.

  The Welsh team have never been as successful in World Cups as they were in the inaugural tournament in 1987. Like so many teams we were not sure what to expect; the event had only been agreed about eighteen months prior to the opening ceremony, which perhaps worked in our favour. Ever since then we have had time to plan, which should have been a good thing, apart for the fact that so have all the other teams in the world. Statistics can sometimes give a false impression, but unfortunately not in this case. The facts demonstrate that since 1987 the top rugby nations have all done so much better than Wales.

  In 1991 we didn’t even get through the group stages of the competition when we suffered an unexpected defeat at the hands of Western Samoa (now Samoa). Similarly in 1995 we were in the same group as New Zealand and lost by one point to Ireland, which put the seal on an early flight home from South Africa. Most recently we suffered in 2007 when Fiji defeated us by the odd couple of points in a seventy-plus-point match. In the other two World Cups the quarter-finals have been the limit of Welsh achievement.

  So back to the glory days of 1987, where we arrived in Wellington, New Zealand, and had a few days to prepare for our opening group game against Ireland. We had one training session a day which lasted a couple of hours, plus a team meeting every two or three days to review things we’d done and plan for matches to come. Even though it doesn’t sound much (it wasn’t) there were still numerous players who moaned like hell (privately) about the amount of time they spent on the training pitches or in meeting rooms. Trips abroad, tours, had historically been regarded as a reward for a successful season or a reason to get together after a disappointing one, and we took our ‘tour mentality’ to the World Cup in 1987. We were not going to let a few games of rugby get in the way of a good time, and as we found ourselves sharing a hotel with the Irish team during the first week or so of the tournament we had our English-speaking Celtic brothers to play with. There were long hours to fill and we spent many of them fostering relations with the locals in pubs around the Wellington area. It seemed to work for us as we finished top of our group and then beat England, the old enemy from across the bridge, 16–3 in the quarter-final.

  Both semi-finals were played in Australia, where we were well and truly beaten in Brisbane by New Zealand, undoubtedly the best team in the world at that time. This meant a third-place playoff match against Australia, who had been defeated by France in Sydney following a wonderful try by French full-back Serge Blanco in the dying minutes of the game.

  Prior to the match we listened to an incredibly passionate team talk delivered by our team manager Clive Rowlands. Clive is a wonderful character who deserves recognition for what he achieved in the game. His first game for Wales was against England and unusually he was appointed captain – indeed he captained Wales on each of the fourteen occasions he represented his country. After retiring from rugby he coached the Welsh team from 1968 to 1974, becoming the youngest person to hold the position. Those of you with good memories will recall this was a successful period in Welsh rugby history and included a Grand Slam in 1971. In fact he’s the only person in the history of Welsh rugby to chalk up a grand slam of honours, becoming Welsh captain, coach, manager and Welsh Rugby Union president. He was and still is hugely respected and when he spoke we listened. You can’t win a match based on desire and passion, but it certainly helps, and Clive had filled us with both during his team talk.

  The only thing to surpass his speech was the level of support we received when we ran onto the pitch in Rotorua, not far from the Bay of Plenty in North Island New Zealand. I don’t think rugby was played regularly at Rotorua and the pitch had been prepared especially for the playoff match. It reminded us of Pontypool Park in the valleys back in South Wales, as one side of the pitch was dominated by a huge bank, and on the bank were a handful of faithful Welsh supporters complete with red rugby shirts, flags and the occasional plastic daffodil. Far too few to generate the level of support we were greeted with. On the same bank were literally thousands of Maori people, the indigenous population of New Zealand, each and every one of them cheering for Wales. It gave me and the team a huge lift. The Australians must have felt extremely flat. They were devastated at having lost to France five days earlier and had practically no backing in the match against us.

  The game itself was a very close affair and a touchline conversion from our full-back Paul Thorburn sealed a 22–21 victory in our favour. After the match we went over to the bank and applauded the supporters who had travelled from Wales to watch us play and also the tens of thousands of Maoris who had cheered and encouraged us from the first whistle to the last.

  We arrived back in our changing rooms where we opened a couple of bottles of champagne to celebrate our third-place finish in the World Cup tournament. It was whilst sipping champagne I heard our young twenty-year-old back-row forward Richard Webster asking second row Robert Norster about the incredible Maori support we’d received. He obviously didn’t want to appear foolish and quietly asked if there were historical links between Wales and the Maori population that he wasn’t aware of.

  ‘None that I can think of,’ replied Bob.

  ‘Well why were they all cheering us throughout the match?’ asked Richard.

  Bob started to laugh as he said, ‘They don’t like us Webby, they just hate the bloody Aussies.’

  Road Warriors

  John Hall

  John spent his entire rugby career with the famous Bath club. A formidable blind-side forward, he gained twenty-one England caps, a number which would have been greatly increased were it not for serious problems with the cartilage in his knees. Several operations during the latter half of his career resulted in lengthy spells on the sidelines.

  ‘When the All Blacks toured the UK in 1983, the visitors rated him as the best forward they had encountered and when constructing his “Dream Team” video, England skipper Will Carling stated that John Hall would be the first player on his team sheet.

  ‘I am absolutely sincere when I say it was fortunate for me that John was coming to the end of his career as I was starting mine, although he would have undoubtedly taught me a lot in a relatively short space of time had we overlapped more. Whenever you mention John Hall’s name to his peers in the rugby world you can tell from their response he was a man with immense talent and a “never say die” attitude towards the game.

  To be honest the inaugural World Cup was little different from any other international tour in the eighties. It didn’t seem to me we took the event very seriously and consequently the preparation was at best limited and certainly not very well thought through, especially by modern day standards. Having arrived at our destination, we were required to train for a couple of hours a day and attend the occasional team meeting. Apart from these minor inconveniences we were left to arrange our own entertainment to fill the bulk of
the day.

  The 1987 World Cup was hosted by Australia and New Zealand, with the England team starting their campaign at the Concord Oval in Sydney against Australia. We landed in Sydney and decamped into an exceptionally average hotel in Rushcutters Bay (the UK equivalent would be a Travel Lodge), sharing three to a room. In fairness we always shared rooms in those days (normally two to a room) but it highlights how things have changed when players today have individual rooms/suites. Within a few hours of landing we were required to board another flight to Brisbane for a training session and an official World Cup function. A great piece of organisation considering we had just completed the flight of thirty hours plus from the UK. When we arrived at the training ground most of the boys had to be woken up as we left the bus. Having participated in a piss-poor training session and shown our faces at the function, we were soon on the return flight to Sydney preparing to deal with the jetlag. In comparison, the 2003 England team landed in Australia almost four weeks before their opening game of the tournament; we arrived about four days prior to our first match.

  During my playing days I was 6ft 3in tall, weighing in at about 17st. I was sharing with Steve Bainbridge, who was 6ft 7in and a similar weight to me, while the third member of the happy trio was Peter Winterbottom, the legendary open-side flanker who was very much the baby of the group in terms of size, at a mere 6ft 1in and a slight 15st. As you can appreciate there was not a lot of room to spare, particularly once all the kit and clothes necessary for the long campaign (hopefully) had been unpacked onto the floor. Three guys lying side by side on a standard double bed trying to watch TV is not perfect, particularly when one of them (Bainbridge) was moaning constantly about the lack of a children’s TV channel. He had simple needs. To clarify, I should point out there was a pull-out bed under the sofa which was a great relief and meant we didn’t all have to sleep in the double. It didn’t take long for us to suss that it was important, vital even, for our sanity, to get out of the hotel and find some entertainment.

  The plan was to go and see a bit of Sydney and Steve had the great idea of hiring some mopeds so we could get out and about and really experience the great city. He knew how to ride a bike, as did I, and we were confident Winters would get the knack of it pretty quickly. We utilised the Yellow Pages in the hotel room and found the address of a hire shop halfway to the Blue Mountains. After a couple of bus rides and a taxi we arrived at the bike shop, and met an Aussie genuinely called Bruce. We told him we were looking to hire some mopeds and potter around Sydney for a couple of days. He took one look at me and led me towards a full fairing FZ Yamaha 1200cc, one of the fastest road bikes in the world at that time. It is worth pointing out he had not at this stage asked any of us if we even had licences (we didn’t). I was about to say that perhaps something a little smaller would be more appropriate, when Steve said, ‘That looks fine for you Hally, what do you have for me, mate?’ Bruce looked at Steve and decided as he was extremely tall he would be better off on an 850cc Honda or something equally ridiculous. Steve seemed pleased with his chariot and paid little attention to the Yamaha 125cc Bruce was sorting out for Winters, which in comparison to our mighty hogs looked like a child’s first pushbike minus the stabilisers. After a minimal amount of paperwork we were on our way, at least Steve and I were – Winters seemed to be experiencing some difficulty in keeping up.

  Whenever we arrived at a junction, Steve and I waited for our poor relation, who we later found out had never ridden a motorbike before. It was noticeable how little clutch control he had, which meant his apparent preferred method of leaving a junction was to pull a massive wheelie with a look of genuine fear on his face. We spent most of the day cruising around Sydney visiting the sites and occasionally making unscheduled stops when our Yamaha 125cc specialist was pulled over by the police. Later in the day we decided to return to the hotel and show the boys our ‘wheels’. Steve and I decided to race and see if we could get some of the touring party to witness the return of Peter ‘Evel Knievel’ Winterbottom. We were not far from our destination when a car pulled out of a junction, both of us slammed on the brakes, our respective back wheels locked up as we skidded to a halt inches away from the side panels of the car. My heart was racing as I got off my bike and walked towards the driver’s side of the car. As this was the first occasion all day when an accident or near-accident had not been my fault I was going to deliver a massive bollocking to the miscreant.

  I was about to grab hold of the door handle and yank it open when I saw the driver’s face; he was not smiling, he was roaring with laughter. It was none other than the England No. 8 Dean Richards, who had decided on a more conventional means of transport to get around Sydney. It was at this point Winters arrived at the scene. He didn’t (couldn’t?) stop but just took one hand off the handlebars and waved two fingers in the direction of the three of us whilst looking straight ahead.

  Minutes later we were at the hotel parking our bikes close to the entrance hoping the lads would see us dismount. Sadly the only person to witness our arrival was the England coach Martin Green, who informed us in no uncertain terms the bikes had to go back.

  In the modern era practically every minute of every day is planned during a World Cup campaign, but in the late eighties during the first tournament we were often left to our own devices. With the wisdom of hindsight it is fair to say we made some very poor decisions.

  As for me, I injured my knee a few days later and was sent home safe in the knowledge I was not about to be awarded an MBE for my services to rugby, or indeed motorbike riding.

  Green Dragons

  Jonathan Davies

  In the famous Max Boyce song “The Outside Half Factory” about a seam two miles underground where the outside halves are made, he describes a terrible tragedy in which one of the fitter’s mates inadvertently breaks the mould, made of gold no less, that produced the legendary Barry John.

  ‘Well, quite clearly they managed to repair the mould when they created a certain Jonathan Davies (“Jiffy”). He could control a game irrespective of whether his forwards had dominance or not. With most of his career played in the amateur era he soon caught the eye of rugby league clubs and controversially decided to sign for Widnes in 1988. He represented Wales and Great Britain in the league code of the sport before returning to union in 1995 when he signed for Cardiff. Eight years after his last rugby union cap he was selected to play for Wales against Australia, finishing his career in 1997 with a match against England.

  ‘All rugby followers will see Jonathan on a regular basis either as a match commentator or analyst with the BBC. With his extensive knowledge of both codes he is a valuable member of the broadcast team, often predicting moves or patterns of play before they occur. Having spent many a “quiet night” with Jiffy over the years I can reliably inform readers he not only has an encyclopaedic knowledge of the sport, he also has a fantastic sense of humour – a true living legend.

  Never having been one to keep quiet when there was an opportunity to do otherwise, before I launch into my World Cup memory as per Lawrence’s request, there is something I’d like to get off my chest. It concerns the relatively recent phenomenon of players who like to celebrate just prior to scoring a try and then, having grounded the ball, wait for their team-mates to congratulate them, slap them on the back, occasionally hug and sometimes even kiss them. This is one aspect of the modern game I’m pleased arrived after my own departure. In my day you put the ball down over the try line and depending on how far you’d run, you either jogged or walked back to your position praying you didn’t throw up, knowing this was the only time you could guarantee the cameras would be focused on you. On the odd occasion a team-mate may have summoned up the energy to say, ‘Well done’ or ‘Lucky bastard’ on your return trip, he certainly wasn’t going to run any unnecessary distance to congratulate you physically.

  England’s Chris Ashton made a few headlines in the most recent Six Nations Championship with what has become known as the ‘Ash Splash’.
One arm pointing straight ahead, the ball tucked under the other and a swallow dive Olympic hopeful Tom Daley wouldn’t sniff at. However, to prove that there really is nothing new under the sun, I draw your attention to a Zimbabwean centre, Richard Tsimba, who took part in the 1987 World Cup. His trademark try was to launch himself at full speed skyward with his arms outstretched holding the ball in both hands, arc towards the try line and touch the ball down before landing on his head and completing a forward roll, all without any noticeable loss of pace. Sadly as he touched down for his second try against Romania in their group match in 1987, he discovered his angle of trajectory was marginally off, landing on his shoulder which instantly dislocated, ending his participation in the match. He did however apply downward pressure on the ball prior to the injury and the try stood. As he sat on the bench wrapped in a blanket, suffering immense pain, breathing gas and air, he must have been delighted to see his side lose 20–21. If anyone wants my advice, if you get over the try line, just put the ball down. There are no extra points for ‘style’. There, lecture over. Now on to my story.

  Although 1987 was a few years before professionalism, the Welsh Rugby Union made all the squad sign a document to the effect that we would not participate in any commercial activity, including the writing of articles or books for a period of six months after the conclusion of the tournament. The first match was New Zealand against Italy and the Welsh team settled down in the team room to watch the one-sided affair on television. There were more than a few comments from the boys when during the commercial break we saw Andy Dalton (the New Zealand World Cup captain who had been forced to pull out of the team days before the start due to injury, leaving David Kirk to lift the trophy a few weeks later) advertising 4 × 4 trucks. We reached the only possible conclusion we could; he was at the end of his career, injured, and had probably decided to cash in while his name still carried some weight. In the next commercial break we saw the All Blacks winger John Kirwan, who seconds earlier had been carving up the opposition with some breathtaking displays of speed and agility, advertising ‘acne cream’. Dare I say he was ‘spot on’ in his delivery? Anyway, at twenty-two years of age he had his entire career ahead of him and unless he was promoting the cream for free (the Welsh boys did not subscribe to that theory) he was making money from his image eight years before the game became professional. It was obviously one set of rules for New Zealand and another for the Welsh.