Pyrrhic Victories

On Saturday morning, Ireland beat New Zealand, in New Zealand, for the first time ever. It was the second Test of a three Test series. In the first Test, the All Blacks had won convincingly, on the scoreboard at least, and the commentator was ringing alarms bells about how badly this series could turn out for Ireland.

It was lazy commentary, in my view. He was commentating on the score, and not the game. In the game itself, Ireland made a few critical errors, and seemed to switch off for ten minutes or so in the first half. NZ also got away with some stretching of the laws of the games. They usually do. Most teams do, to a degree, but NZ are perhaps the most adept at getting away with it. They are also more adept than most teams in the world at punishing sides for mistakes, and clinically taking any chances that are presented, and they did this, and scored some good tries.

But aside from the lapses which cost Ireland a couple of tries, they caused NZ problems with the variety of their attack, scored three tries of their own, and were held up over the line on another couple of occasions. The final scoreline of 42-19 didn’t so much flatter NZ as it was harsh on Ireland, but was a true reflection of the ability of each team to take their chances.

In the second Test, Ireland were out of the traps quickly and scored first, as they also had the previous week, but this time didn’t cough up easy tries. What the first half was most notable for, however, was a lack of discipline from New Zealand. They had one player red-carded for a head collision with Garry Ringrose, which certainly looked accidental, but fundamentally was due to bad tackle technique. They had another player yellow-carded (which entails ten minutes in the sin bin) for connecting his shoulder with Mack Hansen’s face, and—frankly—he should also have seen red.

Ireland went on to win the game 23-12, quite deservedly, for an historic first ever win on New Zealand soil.

And although I was overjoyed with this result, I found myself wondering later if it was really worth it. As I saw Garry Ringrose departing the game, and various other players from both sides going off for head injury assessments (HIAs) throughout the game, I wonder at what cost are rugby match victories being bought?

The number of HIAs in this game was far from unusual. It’s a common occurrence in every rugby match—every international match at least. And so I have to ask—is it worth it? I love sport. I love rugby. But are the long-term effects on the players a price worth paying for sporting success/gratification in the short-term?

Jonny Sexton, an experienced and world-class player who seems to be pivotal to Ireland’s success, failed an HIA during the first Test and was taken off. He was declared fit for the second Test, and murmurs abound as to whether he should have been, given the time it takes to recover from a concussion. I wonder, personally, if the decision to play him was taken in the best interests of his health, or Ireland’s chances, or sponsors’ wishes.

In the middle of a Test series, that—because of Ireland’s win—has now taken on a greater degree of importance for both teams than it might have if New Zealand were 2-0 up, it’s perhaps hard to step back and look at the bigger picture. But the bigger picture, in this case, is the long-term health of guys who are repeatedly taking knocks to the head, and the long-term prognosis for that is not good. And the long-term importance of this series is, honestly, not that great. Sure, the squad that won the second Test will probably get together again for a commemorative dinner in ten years’ time. And if Ireland go on to win the series, the team will “always be remembered” for that accomplishment. In a sporting context, it would be an immense achievement, and worthy of being lauded. I just wonder if—because of the inherent violence of the sport—the result is worth the price being paid.

Because I fear NZ’s response in the third Test, with the series on the line. The “series” is not a Championship, there probably is some random silverware at the end of it, but it’s a bilateral series, and so—in the context of the global game—not that important. However, for New Zealand—a team and a country that is not used to losing—another defeat would be potentially catastrophic for the team coach and management. The ABs have now lost three out of their last four Test matches, to Ireland, France, and now Ireland again.

I fear not their sporting response, although it’s not impossible they will go up a gear and play Ireland irrepressibly off the park. This is what we have come to expect from the All Blacks over the years.

I fear the violence of their response. New Zealand are not sporting losers. The desire to win, and the desire to not lose a series to Ireland—a team who until only a few years ago they had never lost a game to—could provoke an ugly reaction.

In early November 2016, Ireland beat the ABs for the first time ever, in Chicago. Two weeks later, New Zealand came to Dublin, and “beat Ireland up” in a return fixture, featuring off-the-ball cheap shots and a high degree of thuggery. They prevailed on the scoreboard as well, which they may well have done in any case, but I lost a degree of respect for them that day.

I seriously hope that the final game of the series will be a fitting sporting climax—two excellent teams pitting their skills and wits against each other for eighty minutes. But I fear that instead we might see a cynically violent response, even more head injuries, and the very definition of a pyrrhic victory, for either team. 

Islands in the sun

The summer has faded here in Scotland, although not without a welcome September reprise of beautiful sunshine and warmth. Many of my off days these past months, and not a few lazy evenings of extended twilight, have been spent wearing out the Golf Coast Road to Longniddry, Yellowcraig and North Berwick. 

In August I made my now-annual pilgrimage across the Irish Sea to the Openskies festival, once again in the excellent company of Ickle Bef, on a ferry which charged £1.65 for a cup of tea and £2.00 for a cup of hot water. 

The weather forecast for the weekend was absolutely apocalyptic. We camped anyway, praying madly that the weather would miss us, which it did, and we came away with tents and belongings mostly dry and all intact. Even the fairy lights – a lovely set of plastic pink flamingoes generously donated by DL – survived. The deluge, it transpired, had been diverted towards Wales, where it landed with full force where my sister and her family were camping. Our diversion prayers were non-specific in a directional sense, and my conscience is clear.

Sports-wise, England won the Cricket World Cup, failed to win back the Ashes despite Ben Stokes’ monumental heroics in Leeds, and the Red Sox had a disappointingly average season.

Ireland appeared to be alarmingly ill-prepared for the Rugby World Cup, but still I approached their opening game against Scotland with hope and a degree of expectation.

Sunday 22 Sep | Ireland 27-3 Scotland

Later that day Ryan texted me from Nashville.

“What’s happening to Scotland?”

I was feeling slightly daunted at the prospect of figuring out what, indeed, was happening to Scotland in the current Brexit and IndyRef2 climate, not to mention how to condense that into a text, when a further message clarified that he was talking about the rugby. 

I reminded him of my Irishness, which is something I am happy to do for people when they are inclined to forget, and especially when Ireland are doing well and most especially when they’ve just beaten Scotland.

Six days later, Ireland faced the hosts Japan in Shizuoka. 

I woke up early. Like, 4am early. Three hours later I gave up on further sleep, and made my escape to Sainsbury’s, which I had discovered to my surprise was open at such an hour on a Saturday morning.

I returned home with bacon and croissants. The croissants were freshly-baked and still warm, and so good it sort of made me want to get up early on a Saturday morning more often. Sort of. 

Then I watched Japan puncture the hopes of an island, and I wished I’d stayed in bed.

Saturday 28 Sep | Japan 19-12 Ireland

The afternoon was sunny and breezy on the coast. A few friends joined me on a fast boat trip from N Berwick, which skimmed over the choppy waves to three islands in the Forth – the Lamb, Craigleith and the Bass Rock. The Lamb, we discovered, is now owned by Uri Geller, who is convinced that the ancient Egyptians buried treasure somewhere on it. Our guide explained that the Lamb was made of basalt, one of the hardest naturally-occurring substances known, and openly wondered how the ancient Egyptians would have buried anything in it.

Having completed a slow circuit of the Lamb, we sped through the sea spray to Craigleith and did the same, and then on to the Bass Rock, and its 150,000-strong colony of gannets. At this time of year their numbers are thinned out somewhat, but there was still enough to make a considerable din, and their guano was, well, fragrant. 

As we circled the island I discovered that it not only has a lighthouse, but also a 14th century castle. In fact, the lighthouse has been built inside the castle. This makes the Bass Rock, in my view, about as epic as it could possibly be. An island with a lighthouse AND a castle? I feel sure the Famous Five must have visited.