Talk of the Toony: The Autobiography of Gregor Townsend. Gregor Townsend
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nostalgically: my focus at trying to get my pass away while being dragged to the ground, and Gavin’s look of astonishment as he is about to grasp the ball in both hands.
In the twelve years since that wonderful spring day, the memory of that instant is still strong – the move off my left foot after drifting across the field, the effort to get my elbows high and free from the two tacklers, and finally the almost blind pass as I struggled to look over my shoulder to find where Gavin actually was. One rugby writer commented that it had been the day that I had finally delivered – and I suppose he was right. Paris was my breakthrough match and put an end to feelings of self-doubt that had prevented me from playing to my potential.
It was only once we were back in the changing room that what we had achieved began to sink in – especially for the older players. We had accomplished something special, something that had evaded all the great Scottish players of the Seventies and Eighties. I looked around at the faces of my team-mates and saw unrestrained rejoicing. This elation was illustrated in different ways with groups of players singing ‘Flower of Scotland’, others hugging each other and even tough competitors like our prop, Peter Wright, crying uncontrollably.
The word quickly spread around the team that most of our supporters were still in the stadium so we went outside to join in the celebrations with them. There were over 7,000 Scots at the ground and we threw our socks and shorts into the crowd as we sang our anthem together one more time. Our team that day – a mix of youth and experience – is worth noting: Gavin Hastings, Craig Joiner, Gregor Townsend, Ian Jardine, Kenny Logan, Craig Chalmers, Bryan Redpath, Eric Peters, Iain Morrison, Rob Wainwright, Damien Cronin (Doddie Weir), Stewart Campbell, Peter Wright, Kenny Milne and David Hilton.
Inevitably, the dressing-room festivities carried on right through the weekend. The after-match dinners in France usually involved a lot of drinking as we were always placed together at a long table without the distractions of the management or the opposition. We started by smashing all the plates that were placed in front of us. The temptation was too great – they came out piping hot and only needed a tap from a spoon to crack in two. The champagne was flowing and not even a ticking off from our manager could stop us from having fun.
Gavin soon became the focus of our frivolity as we told the French players to approach him every five minutes with a strong drink. As captain, he was duty bound to knock them back. Worse was to follow for big Gav as, naively, he had allowed Damien Cronin (who was playing for Bourges at the time) to write his speech in French. Gavin didn’t realize that instead of talking about the match, he was describing to the whole French team and the numerous dignitaries present, the sexual acts he was going to perform later that night with his wife Diane.
Of course, the French found this hilarious and gave him a standing ovation. Gavin looked very pleased with himself. It wasn’t until the early hours of the morning that someone eventually told him what he had actually said!
In reply FFR president Bernard Lapasset was magnanimous in defeat. His words were very prescient and I hope his sentiments stand the test of time: ‘Rugby is not for the country that is stronger or richer, it is for the country that shows greater courage, discipline and teamwork over eighty minutes.’
After the dinner I went with some of the squad to search for our partners who were supposed to have been at a function with the other WAGS. I had been seeing Claire for almost a year – we had met at university – but this was her first experience of accompanying me on an away trip with the Scotland team. I thought I’d better leave our dinner early, just in case she wasn’t enjoying herself. I shouldn’t have worried …
The girls had disappeared. The only people left at the ladies dinner were the wives of the SRU committee. After a quick search, we moved outside – in time to see our partners flying past clinging to the backs of the same motorbike outriders that had taken us to the match earlier in the day. Claire and the girls were buzzing with excitement. In the satisfying glow of the day’s magical events, victory in Paris felt like we had won a Grand Slam. And it suddenly began to dawn on us that we were on course to achieve that feat if we continued our good form.
A fortnight later we beat Wales 26–13 at Murrayfield, although I thought our win could have been even more comprehensive if we had moved the ball as we had done in Paris. Nevertheless, we had won our fourth game on the bounce and, more importantly, had a real chance to win the Grand Slam. Our next game, away to England, meant both sides would be going for the Slam – a scenario that had famously occurred back in 1990.
Since their loss five years before at Murrayfield, England had returned to playing a very restrictive game plan. It had brought them success with Grand Slams in 1991 and 1992 as well as being runners-up to Australia in the 1991 World Cup. Yet, they had never fully utilized their awesome attacking potential. For the 1995 Five Nations finale, their backline included the Underwood brothers, Mike Catt at full-back as well as centres Will Carling and Jerry Guscott.
However, stand-off Rob Andrew adopted a kicking strategy, safe in the knowledge that his gargantuan pack of forwards could dominate the game. With a back five of Martin Johnson, Martin Bayfield, Tim Rodber, Ben Clarke and Dean Richards, the English forwards strangled the life out of us and the match as a spectacle. It was ironic that their hooker, Brian Moore, complained afterwards that ‘Scotland’s spoiling tactics had ruined the whole game.’ I suspect that he had been upset by the fact that we hadn’t submitted meekly to the English juggernaut.
Although we managed to stop England from scoring a try, I can’t say we deserved to win as we hadn’t played to our potential. Our work-rate and defence had been exemplary, but we never attacked with the same skill and ambition that we had done in Paris and we missed the direct running of the injured Ian Jardine. However, the 21–12 scoreline flattered England, and we were aware that we hadn’t been too far away from winning a Grand Slam. We had built up some great momentum and we were resolved that our belief wasn’t going to be affected by the defeat. The squad had real belief that if we developed our attacking edge we could perform well in the upcoming World Cup in South Africa.
From a personal point of view, I felt that I had finally shaken off my previous inhibition when playing for Scotland and, although I would have probably preferred playing in the number 10 jersey, I was now comfortable in the Test match environment. I felt I could beat my opposite number when I got my hands on the ball and I was looking forward to the World Cup on the hard grounds in South Africa. Craig Chalmers had played well that season and I noticed at close quarters that he had an undoubted big-game temperament. There were times against England when I was glad it was him and not myself who was kicking to touch. I was learning more and more with each international and I decided I could wait until next season to make a challenge for what I was convinced was my best position of stand-off.
There was just one more club game to negotiate before the World Cup squad left for a training camp in Spain prior to our departure to South Africa. The rearranged fixture – the last club match of the season – was against Hawick, Gala’s traditional rivals. With both teams safely ensconced in mid-table there was nothing but local pride at stake. Little did I know at the time but it was to be my final performance in the maroon jersey. And it was an occasion I was to remember for all the wrong reasons.
After recovering my own chip kick late in the second half, I received a stinging blow to my knee as I attempted to beat the Hawick full-back Greig Oliver. I knew immediately something wasn’t right as my leg was very painful and felt unstable when I tried to get back on my feet. The Gala captain, Ian Corcoran, was telling me that I’d be able to run it off, but I knew I would have no chance of finishing the game.
My mind went back to two years previously and the only other time I’d suffered a similar injury during a match. Although I was forced to miss the first game of the Five Nations, my medial knee ligament tear in the 1993 national trial had only kept me out of action for three weeks. With Scotland’s opening match in the World Cup almost two months away, I convinced myself that it must be a comparable injury and there was no way it would prevent me from going to South Africa.
Looking back now it was obvious that I was in denial. The following day, despite the fact that I struggled to get in and out of the car, Claire and I left for a four-day break in Ireland that we had already