More Blood, Sweat and Beers

by Lawrence Dallaglio

  What made the situation extremely awkward for the hosts was that both teams were to be introduced to the Irish President Mary McAleese, and a forty-metre red carpet had been laid out either side of the halfway line. Ireland had three options: they could either stand in front of us (which would have been a great opportunity for each Englishman to have a word in the ear of the guy in front), they could stand to the right of us just behind the red carpet (where the visiting team would normally stand), or they could move to our left-hand side where there was no red carpet. They chose the third option with several of their team members standing on the far side of the twenty-two-metre line. From that moment we knew it was going to be our day. It was a brilliant piece of sports psychology by Johnno, upsetting practically everybody apart from the England team. We had an edge even before the whistle had blown to start the match.

  Following the victory there was some celebrating to be done and another, not so public, memorable moment occurred. That night I found myself in a Dublin nightclub called Annabel’s with my great mate, the England second-row forward Simon Shaw, who I should point out is not the ‘fizziest drink in the fridge’, is definitely ‘a sandwich short of a full picnic’ and without question is ‘not the sharpest knife in the drawer’. We were standing at the bar listening to the music when Shawsie said to me, ‘Richard Dunwoody has just arrived.’ King Kong could have walked in and I wouldn’t have been any the wiser. A height of 5ft 9in in a packed nightclub offers, at best, a view of a writhing mass of dancing bodies but no more. Shawsie’s 6ft 8in gives him a distinct advantage over me when it comes to people spotting. ‘Richard Dunwoody is my idol,’ he went on to say. ‘I’ve won so much money over the years backing him I’m going to go and say hello.’ For those of you who don’t follow horse racing, Richard Dunwoody is a three-time champion jump jockey and winner of the 1986 and 1994 Grand Nationals on West Tip and Miinnehoma respectively – a racing legend.

  We walked over to Richard and introduced ourselves. Shawsie asked if he could buy the great man a drink and within a couple of minutes we were having a natter about the match. Well, when I say ‘we’ it was really just Richard and I. Shawsie was oddly distracted, which to be fair is not an unusual state to find him in, but when given the opportunity to chat with his idol I thought he might have been a touch more animated. He’s probably desperate to steer the conversation away from rugby and on to horse racing, I concluded. Not unreasonable, I thought. How I wish I had been wrong.

  Just as Mr Dunwoody and myself were beginning to struggle a bit to find further topics of interest, out of the blue Shawsie bailed me out in spectacular fashion. Looking down at his hero from his great height, he produced an immortal line that I will never, ever, forget. Nor, I suspect, will Richard Dunwoody.

  ‘I would be honoured if you would ride me around the dance floor.’

  Now, I’m not known as the most perceptive of fellows but even I could tell this request had caught Dunwoody by surprise and was likely to receive a negative response. He looked up at Shawsie in amazement, ‘Excuse me?’

  Shawsie repeated, ‘I would be honoured if you would ride me around the dance floor,’ confirming what Dunwoody prayed he had misheard.

  Thinking about it for less than a second Dunwoody simply replied, ‘No.’

  So 6ft 8in looks down at 5ft and a bit and says, ‘You will ride me around the dance floor.’ In defence of Simon Shaw, I think he’d had a beer or ten by this stage, and in defence of Richard Dunwoody, he probably recognised this fact and decided it was not the moment to deny the big man’s request. So Shawsie got down on all fours and in something of a daze at the turn of events, I helped Dunwoody onto the big lump’s back and off they went trotting around the dance floor. Needless to say, seconds later the whole place came to a standstill, the music was stopped, the main lights switched on and everyone tried to get a vantage point to watch the two sporting superstars cantering around the nightclub. After a couple of laps Dunwoody guided his mount back towards the bar where I helped him dismount. Shawsie then stood up and thanked Richard, who was understandably keen to move on before an even more bizarre request came his way. As we leaned against the bar, Shawsie turned to me and in a voice exuding genuine reverence, said, ‘I can’t believe that,’ to which I replied, ‘If I hadn’t been here I wouldn’t have believed it either. You’ve just had a champion jockey on your back riding you around a Dublin dance floor.’

  ‘No, no, not that,’ he said, as if I had just described an everyday event. ‘I can’t believe that when he slapped me on my arse with his beer bottle and squeezed his knees together, I actually felt as though I wanted to go a bit faster.’

  If I had only suspected it before, that was the moment I knew it was time to make our way back to the hotel.

  Pay Dirt

  Frank Sheahan

  Frankie played for Munster on 154 occasions from 1996 to 2009 and was capped by Ireland twenty-nine times during a seven-year period ending in 2007 after the World Cup. As a hooker it was unfortunate for him that his first three years in the Irish squad were as understudy to the great Keith Wood. I have no doubt he would have gained many more caps had this not been the case.

  ‘I have spent a few nights out with Frankie and am not in the least surprised his story has references to drinking and looking after team-mates who needed a drinking partner. Frankie founded Front Row, a company specialising in sponsorship and sports management, and has established an impressive client list, although it’s interesting to note The Crowne Plaza Melbourne is not amongst them. Read on.

  I was involved in two World Cups with the Irish team, 2003 and 2007, and my story comes from 2003 when I didn’t play a game! I was what’s commonly known as a ‘dirt tracker’. For generations this title has been bestowed on members of a touring party who do not make the first team. On a regular tour the bigger matches take place on a Saturday and the dirt trackers play in the midweek games. A World Cup is different, however, with the management tending to field their best team, or as near as dammit, for every match as each one is critical. But even so, us dirt trackers are not just there for the ride, although I concede that this story may suggest otherwise. We also provide useful opposition to the primary team during training sessions. Honestly.

  As I didn’t make it onto the pitch for a single match in Australia, I selflessly assumed the role of unofficial captain of the trackers, a position I took very seriously. To my mind it was vital for squad harmony to ensure my fellow trackers were well occupied during the evenings when the main team was resting and focusing on the next match. Prior to our quarter-final against France in Melbourne my ‘vice-captain’, Anthony Horgan, was promoted to the bench so had to leave us behind, while at the same time Anthony Foley (‘Axel’) was dropped. As a Munster colleague and friend I took him under my wing and out for a couple of pints to ease the pain. I was only doing my duty. It was three days before the match, and Axel and I hooked up with former internationals Mick Galwey, John Langford and a couple of friends from back home. By 3.00 a.m. we were feeling no pain and my charge had forgotten all about losing his place in the team.

  We were almost done for the night, when Axel decided he needed something to eat to round off his evening. The Crowne Plaza Hotel seemed the ideal solution as we knew it had a burger bar, which just happened to be situated on the same floor as the casino. I’d like to say we had a burger, but the reality is we had several in an effort to soak up the beer. So with stomachs full, batteries recharged and Axel only swaying slightly, we decided the night was still young. It was time to hit the poker tables. A dangerous decision given the vast quantities of alcohol we had consumed? Our fellow revellers certainly thought so, abandoning Axel and me in favour of a couple more drinks at the bar.

  As we arrived at the table two people stood up to leave – so we took their seats and prepared for the first hand. The game was Caribbean Stud and I put down an opening bet of AUS$15. I also placed a AUS$1 bonus bet after it was explained to us that if I did so, provided I ha
d at least a pair in my hand, I had a chance of winning the ever-increasing amount of money displayed in bright lights above the table. So with the cash down, the cards were dealt. I picked up my hand, looked at it and put it down immediately. I was more pissed than I realised. I couldn’t have seen what I thought I had. Pull yourself together, Frank, there is serious money riding on this. I picked up the cards again and this time studied them more carefully, but the more I stared at them, the more confused I became. I was in a state, somewhere between high excitement and bewilderment. I put the cards down one last time, gave myself a moment and picked them up again. I wasn’t hallucinating after all. I was definitely holding a Royal Flush, the best hand you can possibly be dealt.

  Unlike normal poker, Caribbean Stud is played against the house (the dealer) and not the other players. If you win your hand you double your stake. I was set to pocket AUS$30, $15 of which was pure profit. Not too shabby for a minute or so’s work. (There are other intricacies and forms of betting in the game but it’s not necessary to go into these for the purposes of this story.) I was naturally excited and although you are not meant to, I couldn’t resist sharing the moment with Axel. Leaning over I whispered to Foley, ‘You’re not going to believe what I have,’ and was somewhat nonplussed when he replied, ‘You’re not going to believe what I have.’ Still whispering I said, ‘Seriously, you are not going to believe this hand.’ He looked at me knowingly. ‘Mate, I’m telling you, you are not going to f****** believe what I have.’ Clearly this conversation was going nowhere so we waited for the dealer to turn over his last card. There are various rules about the house needing a certain minimum hand before the game can continue, and suffice to say the dealer did not have the required cards and the game folded. I was crushed. After all that, I would not be walking away AUS$15 to the good.

  The other hands were turned over to reveal a pair, ace high, Axel’s two pairs (not bad, but come on) before it came to me. Flipping my cards over, the dealer looked for a second and then in a very matter-of-fact fashion said, ‘Royal Flush’. That’s when it dawned on me. I still had my AUS$1 bonus bet running. When the realisation hit I started to jump around in celebration. It was hardly James Bond cool, but I didn’t care. Then Axel grabbed me and reminded me it was the week of our match against France and perhaps we shouldn’t be attracting any unnecessary attention. With some effort I sat down quietly as a small crowd gathered around the table including the floor manager, casino supervisor and the lads we’d been drinking with earlier. Cameras were checked to ensure everything was correct and above board and after about an hour it was confirmed I had won the jackpot, the amount displayed in neon lights above the table, AUS$93,633. I did spare a thought just then for the guy whose seat I had taken. He’d been one hand away from scooping the big prize. I felt sorry for him. But I got over it. Quickly.

  I was given eighteen AUS$5,000 chips in addition to a few smaller denominations and made my way to the cashier’s window. It must have looked like a scene from Reservoir Dogs as I stood there surrounded by several friends all in the 6ft-plus, 17st category. I could have taken the entire amount in a massive wad of notes but chose instead to accept a cheque for AUS$90,000 (which was deposited in my account when I returned home) and the rest in cash. Axel and I kept the win quiet as we didn’t want the management to know we’d been out drinking and gambling in the small hours during the week of a match, but when we were eliminated from the tournament I came clean and everybody joined me in a celebratory drink or ten. I put my credit card behind the bar and told the lads to go for it. They didn’t let me down. At the end of the evening I very happily settled a AUS$6,000 tab.

  Would I have swapped my night out at the Plaza with being tucked up in bed, knowing I was going to be taking to the field in a few days to represent my country in the quarter-final of the World Cup? Let me think about that for a moment as I light this hand-rolled Cuban cigar with a 20 euro note . . .

  Ain’t Misbehavin’

  Danny Grewcock

  A review of Danny’s rugby career makes interesting reading, as this excerpt from the website borntoruck.com highlights:

  During this time, he managed to amass 69 England caps, 4 Lions caps, a World Cup winner’s medal together with 226 appearances in the blue, black and white of Bath. But Danny Grewcock will always be somewhat fondly remembered as a fantastic accumulator of suspensions. We can’t quite decide which was our favourite; the 2 week ban for clouting Lawrence Dallaglio in the 2003 Parker Pen final [not my personal favourite, by the way] or the 6 weeks for clobbering Clermont’s Thibault Privat in the 2007 Challenge Cup final. Actually, it might just be the 2 months for biting Kevin Mealamu’s finger which inexplicably found its way into his mouth during the 1st Lions v All Blacks Test in 2005.

  ‘For anyone who has ever met Danny the words above will appear incongruous to say the least. He is one of the best guys around, always willing to have a word with supporters and a great friend to the community department at Bath who consistently called on his services throughout his career. To add some balance I should point out he played in all three Test matches for the Lions against Australia in 2001 and in six of the ten provincial matches. The tour brought out the best in Danny as he matched the performances of fellow lock Martin Johnson with some of the best rugby of his career.

  ‘After the 2003 World Cup he returned to domestic rugby union with Bath and produced some outstanding rugby, which led to his international recall as the successor to Johnno in the Six Nations. He was arguably England’s player of the tournament, while his club form remained superb.

  ‘Huge thanks to both Danny Grewcocks for their contribution to this book.

  Although I managed to play sixty-nine times for England I always seemed to miss out on the big occasions. My international career could not have started better, scoring a try on my debut while touring Argentina with England in 1997, but from that moment on referees played an inordinately large part in my progress (or lack of it). I feel I was often misunderstood in my playing days. I was never the aggressor in any situation. It was just that I was often standing close to an injustice and merely sought to save the referee time and effort by exacting swift retribution and restoring the natural balance.

  However, having been selected to represent England in the 2003 World Cup I was determined to make the most of the opportunity. I knew I’d been lucky to gain selection to the squad and was under no illusions that with Martin Johnson, the best second row in the world in my eyes, and Ben Kay (not far behind), it was going to be difficult to break up the partnership. Even so, I was going to push them as hard as I could, which meant, in addition to putting maximum effort into every training session and every match, I was going to follow all the instructions issued by Clive Woodward and his team. To the letter.

  Clive spent years preparing for the tournament. He’d assembled the best coaches to support the physical activity as well as an array of backroom staff, all experts in their relative fields. The phrase ‘leaving no stone unturned’ was often used in media reports and to be honest they were accurate. Clive was constantly in search of anything that would give his team a slight edge in any area related to the game. I couldn’t imagine how it was possible for England to gain ‘an edge’ on the opposition during the flight from England to Perth three weeks prior to the start of the tournament, but Clive, being a much deeper and more lateral thinker than me (not really much of a compliment that, sorry Clive), was on the case.

  He didn’t want his squad of players disrupted by the different time zones and consequent jetlag we were bound to suffer when arriving on the other side of the world, so he’d been in consultation with one of his team of experts and devised an in-flight programme which would negate such problems. We were each given a full schedule of things we needed to do. For instance, at a specific time a member of the medical team would give everyone a vitamin pill and a quantity of water, and we would then be told to walk up and down the aisles for ten minutes before being ordered to sleep for a period
of time. No matter how deep the sleep, at the appointed hour we were woken in order to take another vitamin pill, and so it continued throughout the flight. However, while I can’t fault the philosophy, I was acutely aware that every time I was ordered to go to sleep I had the energy of a spring lamb and when woken felt like a bear halfway through hibernation.

  We arrived in Perth and I felt like shit. All I wanted to do was go to bed and get some rest. However, the schedule stated we needed to resist the desire to sleep and battle on until 10.30 p.m. when we could crash out. The theory being we would wake the following morning feeling on top of the world and fully in tune with the time zone. With my new philosophy in place, I was prepared to follow the schedule in its entirety. I wandered around Perth, drinking several cups of strong espresso, I explored the hotel, occasionally going into my room to look longingly at the bed, until finally 10.30 p.m. arrived and I collapsed into it.

  As had been predicted, come morning I awoke refreshed and ready to face the challenges of the day. I filled the kettle to make a cup of coffee and while waiting for it to boil I noticed how effective the blackout curtains were in my room. I wandered over and pulled them apart making sure my eyes were almost shut to protect them from the shocking brightness of the sun’s glare. I needn’t have bothered. With the curtains wide apart there was no noticeable increase in the light filtering into my room. A glance at my watch told me it was 1.00 a.m. I’d never felt as alive as I did at that moment. I sent a couple of texts to friends and family back in England, I even contemplated using the one sheet of stationery on the bureau and writing a letter, something I’d not done since schooldays. By 3.00 a.m. I was prowling the corridors making my way to the breakfast room which on arrival I noticed opened at 6.00 a.m.