You can see the bell tower of Bayonne's Gothic cathedral from the middle of the rugby field. Historically, l'esprit de clocher meant that anyone who lived within earshot of the church bells was supposed to uphold the honour of that town in the traditional sport of la soule. La soule is one of rugby's ancestors, a game played between two villages on holy days and fêtes, and written evidence of it dates back to the twelfth century. Each side aimed to manhandle a ball made of leather or an animal's bladder into their own goal, be it a wall, a tree or a body of water. The exact origins of the game are murky, but there is a suggestion that it was linked to pagan fertility rituals: unlike rugby or football or most other modern sports where you go forward to attack the opposition's goal, in soule you wanted to take the symbol of the sun or the harvest or the child-bearing properties of their village back to yours.
That seems to have been the only rule. As to how you got the ball or bladder there, you could kick it, throw it, carry it, but of course the thing was to get hold of it. The sport was often bloody. With no rules to police, and no one to police them anyway, injuries were commonplace and deaths not unheard of. Once the game had been won, the recipient of the soule—probably an innkeeper or the local noble—was obliged to put on food and drinks for the victors as recognition of their valour on behalf of the village.
These bacchanalian festivities were not well-regarded by the bourgeois élite in place after the French Revolution. They preferred order and good sense from their workers, and over the course of the nineteenth century la soule was gradually stamped out. The spirit of the bell tower, though, lives on. A hardy few are even attempting to revive the ancient game, and in recent years matches have been played around France, although more in the spirit of organised fun than for village honour or the harvest gods.
Britain had similar games of 'folk football' through the Middle Ages, while in Italy Florence had the famous calcio, which, despite being a sport where you could handle the ball, has now lent its name to their football championship. In fact, ball games with goals were played all over Europe—and the world. The Chinese had tsu chu, and the pre-Columbian South Americans had tlachtli, although handling was not allowed in either game.
As far back as 800 B.C. the Greeks were playing episkyros, while Julius Caesar kept his troops fit playing harpastum. So the idea that William Webb Ellis was the first person to pick up a ball and run with it is romantic but misguided. There can be no doubt, however, that the modern game was refined in the English public schools and universities, where various forms of football were played. Rugby split from Association Football in 1863, and the Rugby Football Union was founded in 1871. The following year the game arrived in France via English merchants and sailors, and the first club, Le Havre Athletic, was set up by Britons in 1872. The same year saw the founding of the English Taylors Club in Paris— Brits again. Racing Club de France and the Stade Français were formed by French students in the 1880s and the two clubs competed in the first-ever final of the French Championship in 1892 (Racing 4, Stade Français 3). The referee was a certain Pierre de Coubertin of Olympic Games fame; he would also referee the first full French International against New Zealand in 1906.
It was under de Coubertin's aegis that rugby was played at the Paris Olympics in 1900. It was then played in three more Olympics and the reigning champions are the United States, who in 1924 in Paris beat the French 17–3 in the final. (Romania was the only other team entered in competition.) The game was a vicious affair, with players knocked out and sent off, and apparently two Frenchmen simply walked off at half-time, sickened by the violence. At the end of the match the crowd rioted, and some of the American spectators were set upon. The whole affair was considered not very Olympic-spirited, and rugby disappeared from the games.
Until 1899 the French championship had been open only to Paris clubs, but that year provincial teams were allowed to compete. Stade Bordelais beat the Parisians of Stade Français 5–3 in the final, and the power base of French rugby shifted south to what is still the rugby heartland. If you draw a line across the middle of France from La Rochelle in the west to Lyon in the east, of the thirty clubs in the professional divisions (Top 14 and Pro D2), only the two Paris clubs, Stade Français and Racing (now Racing Métro), are north of the line.
Rugby grew quickly in popularity, cemented by the French accession in 1910 to what then became the Five Nations. However, in 1931 France was suspended from the tournament following suspicions of professionalism, excessive violence on the field, and the introduction of rugby league, the amateur code's professional cousin. League drew spectators and players away, and the 15-a-side game slumped, until it was given an unlikely shot in the arm by Marshal Pétain during World War II. Certain rugby union officials close to the Vichy regime exercised their influence to eliminate the competitor by having le jeu à treize banned, its assets stripped and its grounds taken over, with players given the choice of playing union or nothing at all. Although rugby league was unbanned after the war, it never received compensation and has struggled ever since.
The English, though, can't afford to feel smug about French rugby's unsavoury connections. Just before the war, George Orwell wrote that 'a bomb under the west stand at Twickenham on international day would end fascism in England for a generation.'
Why did rugby take off in France when cricket, say, did not? The other major nations of the rugby-playing world— the foundation members of the International Rugby Board —are all 'home' nations (Britain and Ireland) or former British colonies with similar values and a shared cultural heritage. The English public schools and universities where rugby was codified into a sport were a far cry from the popular enthusiasm of the Midi, where rugby was taken up en masse. In England the game had developed under men—such as Dr Arnold at Rugby School—who wanted to formalise elements of education that couldn't be learnt in the classroom. Strength, stamina, teamwork and physical courage were seen as important to a class of young men who were to make up the officer class of the British Army, and run the vast empire that Britain had acquired. The idea behind this 'muscular Christianity' was that military virtues were framed by discipline and respect for rules. In this context, rugby was considered character-building. Baron de Coubertin, when he encouraged Parisian students to take up the sport, was thinking along the same lines: he had been inspired by what he had seen during his numerous trips to England.
But in the South of France, the attraction was not so much the building of character as the expression of identity. The Olympic creed—'It's not the winning, it's the taking part'—reflects de Coubertin's idealistic view of sport as generating moral virtues simply through participation. Try telling that to a Frenchman playing in a derby game between Quillan and Limoux, Bayonne and Biarritz, Lourdes and Tarbes, or any one of dozens of small towns bristling with parochial pride, and full of old scores to settle with their neighbours or their big-city cousins. They would sweat blood—and didn't mind spilling a bit—to ensure victory. Rugby clubs around the world all treasure their pride in the jersey, but the deeply rooted nature of the French population in the south made it particularly fertile ground for a game that was a vehicle for expressing the better qualities of their menfolk in an inclusive, egalitarian group that drew upon the special skills of individual members. The combative, physical nature of the game lent itself to a reinforcement of bonds that were almost tribal.
A couple of weeks before the return game against Bayonne, I call Nourault and ask him if he will be wanting to take me. If not, I plan on having a weekend off. The game with the Espoirs did little to help me back into the team, and I tell him I don't plan to spend the rest of the season—in all probability the rest of my career—playing second-string rugby. He says the other locks are playing good rugby, and should he ever need me he'll let me know in advance.
The good news is that this means a weekend off. The bad news is the phrase, 'Should I ever need you...' I tell him I feel great, having been able to spend a couple of months doing weights on my legs, and that I am not so old I am ready for the knacker's yard. And I performed pretty well in a recent friendly game against Castres. 'Of course, of course,' he laughs ominously. Shit. I used to be pretty high up the food chain. In my first year, despite carrying various niggling injuries, I was rolled out every weekend, bar one when I was too sick to play. Last year, despite complications with my knee that demanded constant running repairs, I was assured of a starting spot. I hadn't realised how vertiginously steep the downhill slope would be.
It's no consolation, but I am not the only one feeling frustrated. Our Argentinian flanker Martin Durand is the one guy in our team of genuine international class. Midi Olympique, the French rugby newspaper, recently conducted a poll among international rugby writers as to who were the best players in the world, and Martin placed equal with Schalk Burger and Joe Rokocoko, and just ahead of Carlos Spencer. No one else in Montpellier comes close to rubbing shoulders with those kinds of names. Yet Martin has played only a handful of games and has spent more than his fair share of time in the Espoirs. His form has not been as good this year as it was last year, when he was quite extraordinary, and he has had problems with his back, but he has had a gutsful and is apparently applying for a transfer.
The return game is billed as a must-win affair for both sides. Although we have managed to build an eight-point cushion between us and Pau, in thirteenth position, we are still twelfth on 25 points. Bayonne are just ahead of us on 26. Logically, there is no reason we shouldn't win. We won here last year in similar circumstances, and if we were 30 points better than them in September surely things haven't changed that much?
Bayonne look jittery at the start, making several unforced errors, but we are unable to do anything right so after an initial period of 15 minutes, where both sides feel each other out, Bayonne slowly take control. Individually and collectively we are disastrous. The score of 16–0 at half-time becomes 44–0 with ten minutes to go, and we look like finishing the game without even firing a shot, until our reserve halfback, Harley Crane, comes off the bench to play flanker after our promising young back-rower, Louis Picamoles, goes down with a dicky knee. Crane takes a tap penalty, and runs through virtually unopposed to score from 30 yards out. Bayonne are just going through the motions now, and at the death Anthony Vigna bustles over for a score, Coco converts and the score is a slightly less humiliating but nonetheless highly embarrassing 44–14. Not having been involved myself, I won't pretend I lose any sleep over it. If you looked closely, you may even have seen the flicker of a smile when I heard the result.
It had been hoped that the return game against Bourgoin was a turning point but it now seems a distant memory. The home-and-away mentality explains some of the gap between the September and February results, but we are talking about a 60- or 70-point difference, and you can't attribute all of that to a change of venue and a bus ride.
Much of the blame for our sloppy performance is, therefore, laid at a convenient door. An article in Midi Olympique, published the day before the game, had said Montpellier were to get a new coach next season and this is said to have destabilisé the team.
The rumour mill about the coach has been in full swing for a while, and is probably good news. Nourault seems to have run out of ideas—or rather, he has spent the last few weeks casting around for new ideas, done the rounds of what might work without really giving it a chance, and, having reassured himself that he was right all along, has come back to the dead-end street we were going down in the first place.
Alain Hyardet's is the name most often mentioned as a replacement. Hyardet was successful with Béziers, although he then had a disaster at Montferrand, where he was sacked early in his second season because the squad was underperforming. By all accounts he wasn't solely to blame, but the spectacular success of his replacement, Olivier Saïsset, didn't do his reputation any good. The gist of the Midi Olympique article is that Hyardet will be coming to replace Nourault, and there will be several new signings across the board. This is what really starts tongues wagging—the mercenary is intensely conscious of the precariousness of his situation, and that anyone can be swept out by the arrival of a bright new broom who will inevitably want things done his way.
To try and calm everyone down, on the bus going to the game Nourault and Pérez talk to the team, saying nothing is finalised and you can't trust the press, but they are looking at signing new players, and coaches are being interviewed as Nourault will be taking a step back into a more managerial role. Predictably, this fails to calm anyone: it is effectively confirming what was said in the paper. There is a widespread feeling that the presence of smoke tends to indicate flames somewhere underneath, and everyone is wondering whether their arse is going to get burnt.
However, most of the guys are signed until at least the end of the next season, and there is widespread agreement that we need a new coach. So, why all the fuss? This sort of thing happens all the time in professional sport, where results are paramount; it is, after all, a business (of sorts) and the bottom line is that anyone underperforming gets chopped. Seeing the speculation in print, I suppose, brings it out of the realm of idle gossip and crystallises fears. It is one thing to stand around griping about the coach and the way we play—in fact, it's almost part of the job description—but you need to be careful what you wish for, because you might just get it.
The truth is that we are a conservative bunch. 'If it ain't broke, don't fix it' is the mindset. But the team itself rarely gets to decide when it is 'broke'. There is a natural loyalty to your fellow players that makes you view with suspicion the idea of new recruits. New 'in' means old 'out' and you might be one of the old. In my first year at Perpignan, when we were hoping to qualify for the Heineken Cup, I remember one of the players saying that we would be better off not qualifying, because qualification would mean that the club would have more money and, being ambitious, would sign up flash new players and we would end up being surplus to requirements. I was a key part of the team at the time and I thought this was rubbish, but he was right. We did qualify, as Perpignan have qualified every year since then, and four years later only two of that group are still playing for Perpignan.