Since my last blog Ulster have played two games and of course much has flowed under the bridge in other respects.
I’m not psychic, period, but I get the feel of things. I think it’s called instinct and Friday week ago Mr. Clancy had me turning all instinctive after a mere quarter of the match gone.
He was busy warning Ulster. Now I have tried to turn over to a new way of viewing rugby matches involving Ulster and adopt a more measured outlook on the game and in particular the referee.
Unfortunately this new approach has lasted a mere couple of months surviving even Mr. Pearson’s foibles in the white hot atmosphere of the Tyre Park.
(Having seen and heard for myself the crescendo of noise and intimidation in that arena I understood his sense of intimidation).
Friday week ago all pretence at neutrality and balance disappeared as Mr. Clancy brought his particular focus and inconsistent whistling to the table. Even Ulster’s most ardent cynics struggled with conflicting emotions, twixt cynicism and confoundedness.
For my part, I quickly realised nothing will change once the whistle has gone and the teams shake hands. It’s over, we’ve lost and the scoreboard will show we got a losing bonus point.
A losing BP is something we maybe wouldn’t have achieved last year and certainly not the year before, so if progress is measured in inches then this season will show that since the loss to Treviso at home we have gained a bonus point of some sort, in all games bar the one away to Leinster at Christmas.
In trench warfare terms this is a slither of land gained and when the final reckoning arrives in May we may be thankful for our new inured resolve.
… And So To Last Friday
Well Missus Parky had a look at the UR match schedules and decided Friday night would be ideal for an MOT. Not on me I hasten to add.
7.30pm and I was exiting the MOT centre with a clean bill of health for my car and arrived home in time to see the second half. Not much to add to the acres of print already expended on the UAFC site.
We cannot expect to win every game such as this with a bonus point and the Ospreys have good squad depth. Suffice to say the sight of Dan Biggar, at the end, gesticulating towards the referee was not a good one.
Especially from a team who have benefitted from more than a few advantageous ref oversights over the last few seasons.
Sanitised and rinsed out Super 15
Watched a bit of Super 15 yesterday and almost retched in disbelief at the lack of confrontation in the game.
Minutes of watching non rucks forming has me convinced the IRB has ruined some of the core principles of the game.
Ludicrously one team formed a chain gang to protect the ball at what was supposed to be a ruck.
The only problem?
There wasn’t one because the opposition had fanned out either side of it and in no way contested the ball.
It was like watching nightclub bouncers guarding an empty room. This seemed to be the pattern by and large.
This is rugby lite, it’s the fast food of the oval game, simplified down for the average SH spectator who doesn’t have to understand what hors d’ouevres are, let alone poached Dab with herb butter.
Red Blooded or Dead Muddied?
Have been reading Alan Quinlan’s autobiography ‘Red blooded’ and not too sure what to make of it.
On the one hand it tries to explain Quinlan’s psyche when he was playing, with all those voices in his head stuff supposed to convey how fragile a person he was on the inside whilst portraying the hard man exterior.
It covers all the important matches in Munster’s Heineken history that Quinlan was part of, with insights into their approach to games in France for example.
What is interesting from an Ulster point of view is that where Munster and Quinlan where 6 or 7 years ago, trying to up the level of intensity and win those important points when it matters, is where Ulster appear to be now.
Unintentionally funny is the Argentina game in the World Cup where Quinlan scores and wrecks his shoulder. No one wishes to laugh at a player’s injury but he returns a hero to Limerick having saved Ireland’s World Cup.
Personally I don’t recall his try as quite the heroic act he portrays in the book. Indeed Ireland’s world cup finished the very next match against Australia.
Overall one is left with a feeling of Quinlan wanting to describe the ups and downs of a pro rugby players life without really nailing down what made a player like him, tick.
Perhaps a good attempt at it but got stuck somewhere between an anthology of Munster rugby ergo, 1997 – 2011and a rugby players guide to angst and opprobrium in equal measure.
A Day to Forget
My fledgling attempts at establishing a meaningful pursuit of cycling fitness teeters somewhere between mythical status and ignominy, all in my own mind.
A few Sundays ago I set out from the Ballygowan bunker determined to cycle beyond the known boundaries of my endurance to date.
My bike is the cycling equivalent of a tank, compared to all the Clios out there and therefore 40 miles plus on a single journey is a minor miracle.
Having reached Crossgar via Ballynahinch and Hillsborough in fairly mint condition and on the near 40 mile mark, I paused briefly to triumphantly text Mrs. Parky that I would be home in 40 minutes.
On the Crossgar/ Derryboye crossroads tarmac, I suddenly began to acquire legs like jelly. Every minor gradient ominously felt like the Galibier, every bend brought another uphill obstacle.
Just shy of the Derryboye crossroads an enormous peleton of 80 plus suddenly cruised past it with flashing lights, motorcycles, car and support vehicle in the direction of Saintfield.
Heartened by the stirring sight of cycling beauty in motion I found new legs to chase this moving mass of human suffering. By the time I’d got to the second hill towards Saintfield I was passed by a big bloke barrelling his way up the hill with thighs the size of concrete bags.
It was more than I could take and I promptly couped from the bike and rested on a grassy outcrop at the side of the road. A few more stragglers from the peleton came passed grinning.
“OK’” they enquired?
“Fecked,” I managed to gasp at their rear tyres.
After a recovery period I remounted.
I made it to the Mace at Darraghs Cross and dashed in to buy a Pepsi max and a chocolate ripple bar.
I sat on my bike at the side of the road munching the confectionery and watching the remnants of guys, spat out of the rear of the peloton, go past.
Some managed to raise a laugh at me raising my Pepsi Max to them. They were at the wrong end of a 70 mile plus reliability trial and it put my humble struggles into perspective.
Corrections, comments or questions?