Bill Beaumont: The Autobiography. Bill Beaumont

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СКАЧАТЬ was put on hold while Uncle Joe and I went for a couple of beers to celebrate. As I had expected, Roger Uttley had been named as the front-jumper, with Chris Ralston as his partner rather than Nigel Horton, who had been alongside him in the final trial.

      Back in the 1970s the team was traditionally announced almost two weeks before the game and, in the case of a first cap, it was usual for the lucky player to stand down from his club side that weekend. I suppose that was done partly to ensure the player didn’t miss his big moment by getting injured seven days before his international debut but, as I had only been named on the bench and because I just loved to play at whatever level, I turned out for Fylde against Nuneaton. So you get some idea of the enormous jump in standard players often had to make those days, whereas now the standard is so high in the Zurich Premiership that the step up to international level isn’t quite so daunting.

      Two years earlier England had gone to play in Dublin in spite of warnings from the IRA that there would be dire consequences if they did so. Their reception that day had been rapturous because both the Scots and the Welsh players had refused to travel to Dublin after receiving death threats, purportedly from the IRA. After the Nuneaton game I saw John Elders, an England selector who had formerly coached Northumberland, talking to Arthur Bell, the Fylde secretary. Arthur was holding a letter he had received from the IRA warning the supporters and I not to make the trip. The IRA needn’t have bothered because not even a charge of the Light Brigade would have prevented me from travelling to Lansdowne Road. Admittedly I was only due to sit on the bench and might not even get on to the field, but I wasn’t prepared to take the chance of missing out. The rest of the England squad responded in the same way and, once again, we were given the warmest of welcomes by the Irish, as I have always found to be the case – except when dealing with rugby politics. Whether you are playing, or just travelling as a spectator, Dublin is a wonderful place to be on a rugby international weekend.

      I was entering new territory and didn’t know anything of the protocol of playing international rugby. So I telephoned Tony Neary, who was working as a solicitor in Manchester, to find out what the procedure was and, as a result, joined him on the train from Manchester to London on the Thursday morning, having walked from my home to Adlington station, humping my bag, to catch the local train – a far cry from today when players very often fly to training sessions. On the way down I pumped Tony for information on the etiquette of playing for England and he was very helpful, being an old hand at that sort of thing.

      There was a surprise awaiting me when we arrived at the Stoop for the training session. Robin Cowling, the Leicester prop, dropped a hint that I could be in the side, which was subsequently confirmed by Alec Lewis, the chairman of selectors. Apparently Roger Uttley had knackered his back eating an apple pie on the train – which just goes to show how sensitive his back was! – so I was to take his place in the training session. I may have resented Roger taking my place in the Fylde side when I initially got into the first team but, one way or another, he seemed hell-bent on helping my career thereafter through his own misfortunes. Alec said they hoped Roger would recover in time to play but thought I should partner Chris Ralston during the session to see how things went.

      Alec is a lovely guy but I think he should have turned to an established guy like Nigel Horton or a more experienced player like Nick Martin. After all, I was just 22, had hardly ever played outside the north of England and had just one England trial to my credit. Having said that, I would have been massively disappointed if they had brought someone else into the squad and I suspect that John Burgess, who was coaching the side then, had pushed for my inclusion. I had established myself in the Lancashire team and had done really well on the county’s tour of Zimbabwe and South Africa, so that may have led the selectors to believe that I was ready. Roger wasn’t at the team’s hotel so he was obviously receiving treatment elsewhere and I faced an anxious wait to see if he was going to recover in time. The answer to that question came at the crack of dawn on Friday morning when Alec awakened me to announce I was definitely playing. Offering his congratulations, he shook the hand of a very bog-eyed William Blackledge Beaumont who was still trying to come to terms with what day it was. It was like a dream come true but – perhaps because I was so naïve – I don’t think I grasped the full significance of the occasion as I should have done. I did relay the news to my parents but, because it was such a last-minute thing, they weren’t able to get across to Dublin in time to watch the game live.

      We flew to Dublin and stayed at the Shelbourne Hotel along with the Irish side. It is highly unusual for the rival teams to stay under the same roof but at that time it was common practice in Ireland for security reasons. Each side stayed on different floors of the hotel and I remember finding myself in the lift at the same time as Irish hooker Pat Whelan, who was also making his international debut. He asked me if I had any spare tickets for the game. There was me thinking we had to be kept apart like caged animals until the first whistle!

      For security reasons we weren’t encouraged to leave the hotel and go walkabout, so we spent Friday afternoon and evening playing cards. When I ended up winning what was then quite a lot of money, Steve Smith said, ‘You lucky bastard. You’re not only getting your first cap but you’ve won £50 as well.’ Not surprisingly, I was pretty worked up about the next day’s match, but I found myself sharing a room with Chris Ralston and he was so laid back that he was almost horizontal. He would lie on his bed quietly smoking a cigar, and the last thing I saw as I went to sleep, as well as the first thing I saw when I awoke the following morning, was the red glow of its tip. The bedroom was a fog of cigar smoke.

      Chris wasn’t keen on John Burgess, both he and Andy Ripley were of the opinion he had arrived from an entirely different planet. They particularly didn’t enjoy being hugged and kissed by him, but players like Fran, Tony Neary and myself were used to his ways and knew just how passionate he was about everything. He drove Rippers mad, but Chris would just stand and look on in disdain as he had the forwards going through different forward moves with players flying off in different directions. Chris didn’t get picked to tour Australia at the end of that season and some time later, when he was playing at Richmond, he said, ‘If you see that bastard Burgess, tell him I’m still playing top-class rugby.’

      It was Fran Cotton’s first game as skipper, Tony Neary was at open-side and Steve Smith was on the bench, so there were one or two familiar faces around. Peter Dixon and Andy Ripley completed the back row, with John Pullin and Stack Stevens joining Fran up front. Jan Webster and Alan Old were the half-backs, Peter Preece and Peter Warfield were in the centre and David Duckham and Peter Squires were on the wings, with Peter Rossborough at full-back. We had a police escort to Lansdowne Road, where I found the dressing rooms were horrible, dark and dank, and I was so nervous I spent about half-an-hour in the loo. I didn’t know anything about Ireland but I knew quite a bit about the player I would be up against – Willie-John McBride. He was winning his sixtieth Irish cap that day and was a hero after leading the British Lions on an unbeaten tour of South Africa the previous summer. He and I have met many times since and we have regularly spoken at dinners together. There is a tremendous aura about the man and I could understand why he was such a great captain and respected player. I don’t think he was the world’s best second row but he was a very impressive guy and I could imagine the impact he would make when he walked into the dressing room. It was his final season, and probably a journey too far for him. In the dressing room Fran, who had great respect for the Irishman, told me not to worry because he considered McBride to be past his best. I wish I had felt as convinced at the time.

      Players have little superstitions and I liked to take the field last – something I was unable to do for much of my career except when I was playing for my club – so Dave Duckham, who in fact liked to do the same, kindly told me I could bring up the rear as it was my first international. I wasn’t quite prepared for the wall of noise that hit us as we ran out, and the actual match passed by in a complete whirl. I remember the first Irish line-out. Willie-John glared at me and I was petrified because I didn’t want to make a mistake. Whelan threw the ball to him at the front and the great man clambered all over me to win it. Fran delivered a quick pep talk and, at the next Irish throw, I managed to beat him to it and СКАЧАТЬ