After the Montferrand game, we have a weekend off while the semifinals of the European Cup are played. We take advantage of this to play the annual foreigners' cricket match organised by former Sydneysider Anthony Hill in Narbonne. Anthony is a year younger than I am but he wrecked his back last year playing for Montpellier and was forced into retirement. He now owns and runs a bar in Narbonne. Take one Australian former rugby player, give him unlimited access to beer, and a slipped disc that means he can't exercise, and nature inevitably takes its course: this former professional athlete now sports a silhouette to rival Homer Simpson. But he does have his uses, and cricket day is worth circling in your diary.
We are told to arrive at ten-thirty in the morning, but when we get there well after eleven people are still dribbling in. What French rugby journalists refer to as 'the Foreign Legion' looks more like a shambling mob of irregulars after a night on the booze. Some of the boys have managed to find one-day cricket outfits in the appropriate colours, and Dwayne Haare, who seemed quite keen on taking my head off last time I saw him, is wearing a wig to go with his beige slacks, and a mud-coloured shirt that is obviously a tribute to the Kiwi one-day teams of the 1980s and '90s.
Anthony manages to pry us away from the bar about one o'clock and we head out to convert a local rugby field into the hallowed turf of the Melbourne Cricket Ground or the Basin Reserve, or whatever you fancy. As there are more New Zealanders than any other nationality, it is decided the contest is New Zealand v. The Rest of the World. I am startled to find myself opening the batting, and even more startled when I remember how hard that little red cricket ball is, and see the speed at which South African Breyton Paulse is chucking the thing down. I had boosted my confidence with a few pre-match drinks, but I feel it slipping away as I realise that I forgot to put a box in and, aided by an unpredictable pitch, the ball is zipping around and my bat is not always where it ought to be. Mercifully, the ordeal is soon over and I can head back to the bar. The rest of the day is a blur. For the record, New Zealand won but it was close.
Our return match against Narbonne comes a couple of weeks later, and there is a little more riding on the outcome. Still, there doesn't seem to be much pressure. We are still in twelfth place but there is now an eight-point gap between us and Pau, while Brive, Bayonne and Narbonne are four points, two points and one point ahead respectively. We haven't won an away game yet, and this is probably our last chance. I am on the bench. The reserves have arranged a sweepstake for the first player to get on— 10 each in the pot, €70 for the winner—so there is more than usual enthusiasm about stretching and warming up in case Nourault looks over.
We start well, recovering our own kick-off, and before a minute is up Coco slots a drop goal and we are up 3–0. Then he misses a couple of penalties he would normally put over. He gets the next one though—6–0—and we are dominating them in the scrum to such an extent it should be the platform for a comfortable victory. Jason Hooper, who anchored the Kiwi batting line-up with the kind of raw but efficient agricultural style that you would expect from a prop, gets yellow-carded this time, and once again Coco does the honours.
It's now 9–0 and Narbonne are struggling. However, we seem to be going for miracle passes that don't quite go to hand and don't manage to develop an insurmountable lead. Cédric Rosalen, Narbonne's kicker, misses a penalty attempt and then makes up for it just before half-time, so as we go to the break they are still in touch.
In the second half, Narbonne get their act together quickly. A well-worked try by Lionel Mazars and another Rosalen penalty to go with the conversion mean that after quarter of an hour they have the lead and momentum: 9–3 has become 9–13. A minute later their fullback, Nicolas Nadau, attempts a drop goal from the halfway line. It's so far out it looks impossible, but the ball sails between the posts. 9–16.
By now I am bouncing around on the sideline like a jack-in-the-box, trying to catch Nourault's eye and get on to claim the €70. Saving the day would be nice as well. Montpellier finally react and start exerting a bit of pressure, but Coco misses another penalty. David Bortolussi goes off the bench to pick up the €70 and a few minutes later is handed the kicking duties. This time it goes over: 12–16. Five minutes later he does it again: 15–16.
Ten minutes to go and things are getting interesting. Neither side seems to have a knockout punch, but Rosalen kicks a penalty to make it that much farther for us to go: 15–19. Five minutes left and we have to score a try or kick two penalties to win. With a couple of minutes on the clock we are awarded a penalty about 20 yards out. If we go for the posts we will still be a point short, and they will kick-off deep to us and let the clock run down, so we elect to kick for touch and hope to drive over from a line-out about five metres out.
Unfortunately we cock it up and they clear to touch. There are still a few seconds to run and we have possession. We launch a final attack, lining up our giant Samoan prop Philemon Toleafoa in the hope that he will go rampaging through to the line. But the move is telegraphed and there are already four guys in orange and black ready to leap in front of the juggernaut. Phil can see them coming and is already trying to calculate the best angle to run. While he is doing this he takes his eye off the ball, and when it arrives he spills it. The final whistle blows. We get a bonus point, but again it could have—should have—been more.
After the game, I bail up Nourault and say I hope the reason he didn't use me was that he wanted to keep me fresh for the game against Toulon. He says they haven't yet decided who will play in that game, but Sam Nouchi will certainly be starting, and I will be starting in the game after that because it is against Perpignan. This means I will almost certainly not even be on the bench for the Toulon game. Before Perpignan, I won't have played for the best part of a month.
I try to bluff Nourault by saying that I don't want to look like a fool against my old club, and I'd rather not start if he doesn't give me a chance against Toulon. Some hope. He calls my bluff: I don't play against Toulon, and when Perpignan rolls around I'm warming the bench again. Worse still, the two games after that are Agen and Biarritz, and Sam used to play for both these clubs.
After my injury in Toulon, the club recruited Drickus Hancke from South Africa and he has proved to be an excellent player, younger and more dynamic than me and a good workhorse. He is now first choice for the five jersey, so Sam and I scrap over who gets to sit on the bench. Drickus is a good guy and we have become great friends, so I can't resent him his success. He has adapted well to the team, something Alex Codling never managed because he spent too much time making comparisons between his experiences in British rugby and the way things are done in France: inevitably these com parisons were unfavourable to Montpellier. To give Alex his due, he wasn't necessarily wrong, and his bad back injury wouldn't have helped his mood, but he was so negative the other players cut him adrift, rather than helping him integrate. This weighed on him as well, and he ended up in a difficult position.
Current club gossip revolves around who is doing what next year. As things have been better for a while and we look relatively safe from relegation, most of the team look like staying, although a few have been entertaining offers from other clubs. Clement and Dio have received serious offers from Harlequins in London, and would like to go. The hitch is that they are still under contract. Even though Dean Richards, the Harlequins' director, is prepared to pay out the contracts, Thierry wants to hold on to the players and won't let them go for anything. Fair enough—he is acting in what he thinks are the best interests of the club. Still, it's a shame for both of them. Dio, now 32, probably won't get another chance to move and it is a great opportunity for him. Clement is young enough, but he has recently broken up with his girlfriend, who works at the rugby club, so they still run into each other regularly and he could do with a change of scenery. He is one of those sturdy, uncomplaining soldiers you can see standing dutifully at the front of any battle line, and it would be good to see him get a break.
Toulon, when they arrive, are awful. They are missing a number of their more experienced players, have just changed coaches, and are dead last by a distance. They have nothing to play for, and away from their home turf they just aren't interested. Their line-out is shoddy, their scrum is in reverse, and to some extent it is a credit to them that they manage to hold out for 20 minutes before we cross their line, although David Bortolussi has already slotted a couple of penalties. When we do cross, however, the floodgates open, and it's 27–0 at half-time, before turning into a full-scale rout in the second half. We do well to keep our shape sufficiently to pile on the points, and the final score, 65–0, reflects the gulf between the two teams.
Just to keep things interesting, though, Pau beat Perpignan. After their victory in Toulon the week before, this puts them on 34 points, still in thirteenth place. We are in eleventh place on 40, with Bayonne on 37.
What makes the final straight particularly tasty is that we now go to Perpignan, play Agen at home (Agen are on fire at the moment, having beaten Castres in Castres the week before, and look like qualifying for the European Cup, so they will have everything to play for), then Biarritz, and finish with a home game against Stade Français. Three probable semifinalists, and one European contender: we should win at least one of these games, but we may not win any. If this happens and Pau win two, they will be ahead of us. Bloody Pau—they've had their heads under water so long you would have thought they'd have the decency to be dead by now, but I'm beginning to wonder whether they might do Glenn Close's bunny-boiler trick in Fatal Attraction and come screaming out of the bath with a knife.
The brighter news is that the win against Toulon has resulted in a cash bonus. After the game against Bourgoin, Thierry Pérez calculated that 19 more points should mean we were safe, and put up €100,000 for the players to divide among ourselves should we score 19 points over the coming six matches, which we have now done. It is ironic that we're not yet safe, but obviously Thierry can't go back on his word, so all we have to do now is work out how to divvy up a hundred grand. I suggest we establish a tradition whereby we give it all to the guys who are retiring (that is, me) as a golden handshake. Unfortunately, everyone seems to think that I'm joking.
I have had a hell of a time deciding whether I want to keep playing. At some point it was suggested that, given the club's key role in the process, I ask them whether they are at least interested in offering me a contract for another year. When I approached Nourault—who has jockeyed his way back into a good position for next season and will probably end up coaching again—his response was on the cool side of lukewarm. I gathered it was not likely to get any hotter. A well-mannered guest knows when to leave and so I will make my exit with dignity, at about the exact moment that the door gets slammed in my face.