Sport Sport

Land of my father

What rugby means to the Welsh By Dan Davies

The author, aged four (front row, third from right), with the Wimbledon Strollers rugby team, 1975. His father, Clive, has the ball

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his is great stuff.” The game hymn to flowing rugby, Welsh rugby, are sentimental race, you forever milk the “ is less than four minutes old delivered in the distinctive sing-song highs but suffer terrible troughs when when a high ball lands in of the . things go wrong,” he says. “But in the Barbarians’ 22: “Phil In the crowd is Clive Davies, a a nutshell, it’s a passion, or hwyl in Bennett covering.” The 29-year-old Welshman and father of two. Welsh, something I think only Tdiminutive outside-half of and He is locked in a wild embrace with the and New Zealand have.” Wales is facing his own posts, shepherding men around him having just experienced Through my young eyes, rugby, and the erratically bouncing egg towards the what he still describes as one of the its place in the soul of the , is try line. He is being pursued by onrushing greatest moments of his rugby life. what defined my father. When I was just All Blacks and enveloped in the rising din hours old, he led a procession of his of a packed Arms Park. teammates through the spare room of our Bennett adjusts his feet, plucks he poet and novelist Owen small house in south-west London where the ball off his bootstraps and wheels Sheers recently spent a year as my mother, still discombobulated from sharp left into a small expanse of open T the writer in residence at the the rigours of childbirth, was propped up field. A step left (off of which foot it’s still Welsh . At the beginning in a single bed. These were men I would impossible to tell) neutralises two of his new book, Calon [Heart]: A come to know well in the years to come: New Zealanders: “Brilliant.” Then Journey to the Heart of Welsh Rugby, the vehicles they arrived in at the club car another more extravagant step, this one he asks, “Why should the Welsh, a park, the smell of their kit bags, the executed with a glance right, a dip of the predominantly working-class nation, numbers on their backs, their naked body shoulder and a shimmying of feet that have chosen to identify themselves shapes through the steam of the showers launches him abruptly in the other through the lens of rugby union, a in the changing rooms. These were men direction, sends four more opponents predominantly upper-class sport? my father repeatedly told me he would do down a blind alley: “Oh, that’s brilliant.” What is it about the game that speaks anything for once he crossed that chalky The ball is fed to JPR Williams, who so powerfully to the Welsh psyche?” white line on a Saturday afternoon. , after scoring what many consider rugby union’s most famous try ever, is carried aloft at the end of the Barbarians’ shakes off a high tackle and passes it on to It is a question I put to my father, A few months later, in the January of 23-11 victory over the All Blacks, , January 27, 1973. All Black captain Ian Kirkpatrick is seen far left hooker , the only Englishman 40 years after he witnessed Edwards 1971, Wales recorded their first Grand to be involved in the move. Pullin finds crossing the line to confirm Wales as the Slam in the Five Nations Championship Welsh club for two seasons or more. feeling Welsh. Like him, I did not play the , former Welsh captain and centre of the rugby universe. “Being a for nearly 20 years. With , The majority were Welsh speaking. game until I was older (aged 12), although the man who 18 months earlier had Bennett’s predecessor (and an outside-half “The atmosphere was quite magical,” Many of my there was a doomed plan to introduce me led the British Lions to a historic first of such sublime talent he was nicknamed he recalls. “It would not be unusual to to the mini-rugby set-up at London Welsh series victory over the All Blacks in “The King”) suffering the effects of be in the same drinks round with a British earliest memories when I had barely learned how to walk. New Zealand. The elegant centre from “In a nutshell, it’s concussion, it was left to bearded Lion and a sixth team reserve player.” My mother still has the tiny boots and the the London Welsh club makes it to just wing-forward John Taylor to attempt One night, four of them piled into a bubble feature the smell red shirt with the club’s badge, a dragon short of the halfway line before feeding a passion, or a last-minute conversion from the car, leaving Old Deer Park and heading to flying a pennant, sewn on the chest. Tom David, another Welshman, on his touchline to clinch victory over Scotland. the Saturday hop at the London Welsh of liniment, Instead, my rugby education was inside. Reaching out of the tackle, David ‘hwyl’, something Improbably, it sailed between the posts, club on Grey’s Inn Road. Improbably, achieved via osmosis, listening to my slings the ball on in hope and it is being described later by one journalist as given the size of their transport, one of heifer-like thighs father telling his teammates they were gathered mid-stumble by the onrushing I think only Wales “the greatest conversion since Saint Paul”. the passengers was Geoff Evans, the unbeatable before we jogged out of the , also of Llanelli and Following the Triple Crown win of 1969 British Lions’ second row forward. and the sound of changing rooms and down to the pitch in Wales: “Brilliant! Brilliant by Quinnell!” and New Zealand and the shared Championship with France Born in Pencader, a small village in the far corner. His was like any other Emerging from a channel to a year later, it opened a glorious era of rural Camarthenshire, my father moved studs on concrete amateur rugby team, made up of builders, Quinnell’s left, Gareth Edwards, the have,” my Welsh dominance. to London with his parents when he was teachers and small business owners. imperious Welsh scrum-half, is now Taylor, like , the five years old, arriving for his first day at There was even a burglar, one who approaching top speed. “Ei roi i mi,” father says winger whose try he converted that day, a new school speaking not a word of led the Lions in two Tests against memorably possessed a Kojak-style police [Give it to me] shouts Edwards, head played his club rugby for London Welsh. English. His father, the man I was named Australia in 1966. It was at school that he siren, which came in particularly useful back and stride lengthening, and Based at Old Deer Park, bordering the after, was the youngest of eight and the struck up friendships with boys who when the convoy of cars to an away game Quinnell duly shovels it to his Wales gardens at Kew, it was a club studded with first to make the break from home, a became the men he would share rugby was being held up in traffic. teammate, who accelerates past three Welsh internationals. Many, like Taylor two-bedroom worker’s cottage in fields with for years to come. The rugby club was a safe place where chasing All Blacks before diving over and , were teachers; or Glangwili, securing a job in the menswear Many of my earliest memories feature sons spent afternoons chasing after balls in the corner: “What a score!” trainee doctors, like JPR Williams, the department of Harrods in 1949. The the smell of liniment, heifer-like thighs kicked into touch or playing games of Cardiff in the mid-winter of 1973, and club’s full-back who sported a distinctive store was a Welsh stronghold, populated and the sound of studs on concrete in the their own on the scrubby five-a-side pitch the final flourish has just been applied to mane of shoulder-length hair. Taylor, by the “Taffia” whose tentacles reached squat block housing Wimbledon RFC’s with its shrunken wooden goalposts. the defining masterpiece of the second Davies and Williams would be among across swathes of west London. changing rooms. He had joined the club Sensing the importance of rugby in my “Golden Age of Welsh rugby” (the seven London Welsh players picked London was a shock at first for an in 1969, reuniting with some of the faces he father’s world, I watched more than most. previous had come to a close more than for the triumphant Lions tour to only child from the sleepy farmlands of knew from school. It was a world that I was If nothing else, I wanted to be able to talk 60 years before). The greatest try in the New Zealand later that year. west Wales, and rugby did not become part of every Saturday from the age of to him about the game in the car home. history of the game has seen the ball My father played a handful of a factor in my father’s already-defined five, wondering at the vernacular of the The memories are like crudely spliced travel the length of the field in 23 seconds, first-team games alongside some of these sense of nationality until his teens when pre-match banter, the assortment of sequences of cine film: being on the edge passing through just seven pairs of now legendary names, having joined the he joined a rugby-playing secondary strappings and bandages, and soon of a circle of snorting men clutching hands, six of them belonging to club as a 17-year-old in 1961. Back then, school in Wimbledon. My father says his afterwards, absorbing the game from my a paper plate of orange segments at Welshmen. “That really was something,” the long clubhouse was packed on earliest heroes were players such as Cliff patch of muddy ground near the touchline. halftime; his sly slaps to the back of the cries a breathless in the Saturday nights with young men who, Morgan, the great Welsh fly-half of the Unlike my father, I was not born in props’ heads and the whispered lies commentary box. Bill McClaren’s “Imperious” Welsh scrum-half membership policy dictated, had to be of Fifties and latterly a commentator, Wales, though through this formative about their opposite numbers being

illness means even the lyrics to this Gareth Edwards, pictured in 1971 Welsh parentage or have played for a colorsport winger Dewi Bebb and Dai Watkins, who and shared experience of rugby, I grew up responsible; the chipped kicks to the >

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corner for his wingers to run onto; grass, the rising panic that he wasn’t street outside his office by a Thames It was soon my turn to play. Like my penalties and conversions launched from getting up and the arrival of an News camera crew. father before me, I joined a rugby-playing his mud-caked right boot. Most ambulance on the pitch. He was taken secondary school in Wimbledon and memorable of all was the day he sank to to hospital, me riding in the back with discovered the game was something that his knees and kissed the mud after his him, with what was wrongly suspected he hwyl that coursed through my came naturally. Within weeks, I had been Wimbledon team finally achieved what to be a ruptured spleen. father on the pitch was equally made scrum-half and captain, and was had previously been beyond them, Blood was spilt. His best friend Owen, T evident in his fervour for Wales singled out for playground punishment beating a side from London Welsh. a whippet-like winger and fellow London on Five Nations weekends. During his by the boy I’d deposed. I also witnessed the darker arts. In Welsh alumnus, suffered a sickening playing days, Wimbledon matches were Despite having never lived in Wales my mind’s eye, I can still see my father compound fracture of his arm that made morning kick-offs, meaning we and not speaking the language, my faith and an opponent trading punches as finished his playing career. In 1979, either headed to the clubhouse at London in the power of blood, the apprenticeship he prepared to run up for a kick at goal. another of his teammates snapped and Welsh or, more often, home to watch the of those Saturday afternoons on Surrey They were both sent off and the fracas landed three punches that reduced the great Wales sides of the Seventies touchlines and the desire to make my continued on the touchline before the face of an opponent to a blood-splattered continue their domination of the Five father proud combined to briefly imbue red mists suddenly cleared and they mess. It led to a court case and a jail Nations Championship. In later life, the me with abilities no boy my size had any were shaking hands. He considered it sentence, the first ever for an offence sitting room would be his for the day. I right to possess. For a short period, my a game to be played to the limits, and committed on the rugby field. My father, can remember falling out with him from school reports gave hope to my dreams of sometimes beyond, but any enmity was the team’s captain at the time, was time to time but all differences, however one day playing for Wales, and running always forgotten in the bar afterwards. initially thought to be the culprit. He keenly felt, would be forgotten come the out at Cardiff Arms Park knowing my On the way home, the familiar reminder wasn’t. Later, he was pursued down the national anthems. father was in the stands. of our oath of omertà: “Don’t tell your Six Welshman featured in the On Wednesday afternoons, he’d mother.” By that time, she was at home Lions Test side that clinched the 1974 leave work early and arrive at playing looking after another son, one my Series in South Africa. They were fields across London to impart the Dan, with rugby ball, his sister Lisa, father Clive and pet dog get father had tried, and failed, to name In my mind’s eye, members of a truly great Wales side, one passion and pride that he once carried in some tackling practice on Putney Common, 1976 Gareth Edward Davies. gilded by the half-back pairing of onto the field. He kicked every ball and It was a man’s game, played by men I can still see my Edwards and Bennett, fortified by the sold every dummy and my friends loved back in the top-flight, albeit with far fewer who seemed huge to me at the time. My front row of Charlie him. Our games teacher was less Welsh speakers in the ranks. These are father was big, far bigger than the 5ft 8in father and an Faulkner, Bobby Windsor and Graham enamoured; after one defeat, he told the It was a man’s successes that have been earned in the Gareth Edwards, his idol and then the Price, and given wings by Gerald Davies hapless man that he was clueless and era of professionalism, a natural prototype for a scrum-half. Occasionally, opponent trading and JJ Williams, the wizards out wide. wouldn’t coach a decent rugby team as game, played progression, but to my eyes, one that has it was frightening. At one away game, Leading them in his familiar white long as he had a hole in his arse. diluted some of the joy, poetry and I can recall being aware that play had punches as he headband was Mervyn Davies, the In 1984, we went to Twickenham to by men who parochialism of what came before. stopped on the far side of the field and the totemic number eight who died last witness a Welsh victory over England. It I was too young to be taken by my familiar outline of my father’s wide torso prepared to run up year. Another was completed was a flash in the pan, much like my early seemed huge to father to watch the legendary Welsh sides and thin legs were nowhere to be seen. in 1976, followed by the Triple Crown a promise. Wales spent the first part of the of the Seventies, but in 2009, I got us I can still recall the sickening moment of for a kick at goal year later and a third Grand Slam in 1978. decade in a state of transition, which me at the time. tickets to see Wales play England at the realisation that it was my father on the All our school holidays were spent mirrored what was happening in my own in Cardiff. It was his in Wales, visiting my father’s relatives life. My friends were all becoming men. Occasionally, it first visit to the new cathedral of Welsh and fishing the rivers of his childhood. I, on other hand, was still a boy. It is ironic rugby that rises like a national monument At the Pembrokeshire County Show one that the incident that underlined this was frightening from the heart of the capital, and a rite year, he pushed me forward to meet painful truth still ranks as possibly my of passage for us both. I met him off the members of the 1978 Grand Slam team, finest hour on a rugby field. Late in a train and we walked through the city, who were guests of honour. I still have the game away to our main school rivals, our minutes left. I did what I was told and drinking in the pre-match atmosphere dog-eared poster signed by Derek opponents were awarded a five-yard we scored two late tries to win the game, while trying to find somewhere for a pint. Quinnell, and , penalty. It was tapped and taken by a both scored by a winger who looked old Later, as the Welsh national anthem not to mention the mental souvenir of my prop forward at least three times my size. enough to have boys my size of his own. reverberated around the ground in the father dabbing at his eyes as they As he launched himself at the line, I threw “Don’t tell your mother,” my father said minutes before kick-off, I glanced to my scribbled their names. whatever I had at him, nearly chopping on the way home, but there was not a lot side and saw him crying. A fourth consecutive Triple Crown him in half in the process. It was the I could do about the gaping wound in my I only played rugby for four years, arrived in 1979, but the end was in sight perfect tackle, other than for the fact that mouth, or the fact rugby was becoming a but through my father, and the example for that wonderful team. Edwards, when our heads met each other my health hazard. he set, the game has instilled many of Bennett and Gerald Davies retired at the tongue was lodged firmly between my the qualities I hold dearest in life. end of the series, leaving an eight-year-old teeth. Like my father before me, I never Camaraderie and friendship, is how boy in shock. Not long afterwards my wore a gum-shield. live Davies will be 70 later this he describes what it meant to him. To father followed suit, at the fifth time of His face was the first thing I saw year, although to me he will that he could add pride. Men such as asking from my mother. The Eighties when I came round from the collision. C always be the bearded firebrand Jonathan Davies, Ieuan Evans and would prove to be an altogether more The lower half of my face was numb and from those Saturday afternoons of my Gareth Edwards, the scorer of that try sobering decade for Welsh rugby, one it felt like all my bottom teeth had been childhood. We have enjoyed the “Third 40 years ago, have all said the same, and that opened with Paul Ringer being crushed. My mouth was filled with thick Golden Age of Welsh Rugby” together, these are the players who stirred the controversially sent off for a late tackle gobs of blood. I had bitten clean through celebrating over the phone the three hwyl in the hearts of a nation. On the in a match against England at my tongue, a fact evidenced by my Grand Slams of the last seven years and occasions I’ve been fortunate enough to Twickenham; a game that full-back inability to formulate words. Taking a the run to the World Cup semi-final. After enjoy drinks with such Welsh rugby Dusty Hare sealed for the home side with quick look, my father told me to get up an equally long period in the doldrums, heroes, I’ve made a point of telling them

Dan Davies on his seventh birthday, wearing his miniature Wales a late penalty. davies dan and play on. There were only five he is as delighted to see London Welsh all about my father. rugby kit with pride, in the family’s back garden, Putney, 1977 162 163