Sainted Hawks & Doves and the case of Corne Krige

By The Crusader
May 5 2004

Some time ago, Gloucester came to the Gardens and found themselves on the end of a terrible thrashing. The win was unexpected. Cocky Saints fans headed towards the bars happy in the knowledge that they had played a major role in the victory, and had given the ref plenty to think about too.

Phil Vickery had not played. Injury had ruled him out and after the teams had disappeared into the tunnel, he stood forlornly near the touchline, dressed in a suit.

No front row forward has ever looked good in a suit, and he wore the face of a man who had just discovered his wife in bed with Keith Chegwin.

Oblivious to his misery, a small group of hardy little Saints pressed him for autographs. After he had signed several programmes, one little nipper thrust a crumpled tote ticket under his nose. The great man uncrumpled it. The lad had no pen, so he reached into his suit, pulled out his own pen and signed his name.

The child peered at the signature for a few seconds, looked up at the Gloucester and England man and demanded “So, who are you, then?”

“My name is Phil Vickery” he replied. “Oh!” said the youngster uncomprehendingly, and turned on his heel. Vickery looked up, caught my eye and grinned sheepishly.

This is the same Phil Vickery who, during a tense Heineken quarter-final against Wasps, saw that Paul Volley’s head had hit the ground with a sickening crack.

His immediate response was to remove Volley’s gum shield, wait beside him and signal the referee.

Another Gloucester man, not famous for his compassion, ran out of the tunnel at Franklin’s Gardens to warm up, when a toddler blundered into him and tumbled over. Junior Paramore dropped his game face immediately, crouched down on his haunches and picked the little fellow up, dusted him down, tickled his tummy and made sure his tears had turned to a grin before he joined his team-mates.

In case you think I’m going soft on Gloucester, let’s head for The Stoop. Will Carling was in his prime and was going through his pre-match routines, when a little lad wandered onto the field and headed for the England skipper.

You might have thought that Carling’s life was in peril. Bulky stewards roared in from all sides to grab the boy and frog-march him away from his hero.

Old Bumchin sized up the situation and acted with authority. He grabbed the child’s hand and dismissed the stewards with an imperious wave. Seeing that the boy was frightened, Carling picked up a rugby ball, and then he and the little lad threw three or four passes to each other before he took the boy back to the touchline and his dad.

All of which brings me to Mr Corne Krige and his possible arrival at Franklin's Gardens, Home of the Saints.

The rumour mill that heralded his coming generated a lively and thoughtful debate.

The doves on the far left (and there were few of them) were quite prepared to burn their season tickets and head for Welford Road before they could tolerate this spawn of the devil besmirching Piggy's Patch.

The hawks on the far right (and there were many of them) would happily embrace a Saints back row of Corne Krige, Freddy Kruger and Osama Bin Laden if it guaranteed us winning the Premiership, the Powergen Cup and the Heineken Cup.

The hawks make a seductive case. This isn't playground kiss-chase. This is world-class, big-business Rugby Union. It's a fierce, violent form of licensed combat and everyone who plays at this level knows exactly what the terms and conditions are. It demands mental and physical courage and no-one who feels unable to meet those demands is compelled to participate.

I must confess I love a bit of violence. When sixteen hefty forwards erupt in a riot of heaving haymakers, my naughty heart sings. When the play heads to the opposite corner of the field, leaving two great lumps knotted together on the ground, effing and jeffing and thrashing furiously, while a tiny touch judge vainly tries to pull them apart, I cannot suppress a cheesy grin.

I can even find room in my heart for villains. The game would be poorer without those short-fuse, have-some-of-that, pantomime ogres we love to see yellow-carded and trudging off with a thunderous glare after a flare-up.

This season, before we played Gloucester, I was walking in front of the South Stand when I met the Gloucester management coming the opposite way. With a little sideways sidle by each of us, we could have easily passed each other. But it wasn't to be. Mr Ryan declined to turn sideways and his accidental bump sent me stumbling into the front row. Was I angry? Not in the least. He's Dean Ryan, and that's how he has to be.

So, if I can freely admit to myself that I am a connoisseur of heave-ho's and here-we-go's and handbags, why do I find myself edging left towards the doves when Corne Krige's name is called?

Firstly, it's the question of premeditation that seems to bedevil him. In all the cases I have cited, the violence is a side-effect or a by-product of the endemic passion and intensity of Rugby Union. Determined, relentless players are going at each other hammer-and-tongs, when suddenly a mark is overstepped or a tackle goes in high, and everything explodes. Fired-up forwards rush in, whistles are blown, battlers are pulled apart, myopic touch judges are consulted, riot acts are read, cards are shown. Everyone mentally counts to ten and we get on with the game.

But when Corne comes to town, too frequently the mayhem seems to have been plotted and planned, and it is this that tends to stick in my craw. As much as I relish a spot of spontaneous fisticuffs, the idea that a player or team should take the field with an agenda to injure other players is distasteful to me.

And don't give me that old "maybe he was only following orders" baloney. I don't buy it. I have heard that insipid and egregious excuse used to justify so many shameful acts. A man with the pride, charisma and intelligence to lead his country should have the strength of character to draw a line in the sand and say thus far, and no further.

Just watching Garry Pagel scared me witless. But over the many, many times I watched him play, I never once sensed that he came out of the tunnel with a vendetta in mind.

Those of you with children will know that until they get close to their teens, the intricacies of the game are wasted on them. No seven -year-old will be heard squealing "That's crossing, ref" or "He came in from the side!" But, boy, do they focus on the players. Give the nipper a programme and he'll go straight to the players' mug shots. Who hasn't tried to watch the game while an urgent voice beside him keeps asking "who is number 9?" and "which one's Dallaglio?"

Make no mistake. Whether or not they deserve the burden, the players are role models for your kids.

So around on the carousel come Messrs Vickery, Paramore and Carling again. Players who are certainly not averse to dishing it out, but who have the instincts and the character worthy of your child’s respect.

I have written before about Wayne Smith’s legacy. For me, it is the tone he set – the mindset of a great Club, the way that players, fans and management burn with passion and loyalty, but equally they cherish their dignity and decency.

I want to be part of a Club that wins everything and wins by it’s intensity and ferocity and makes every opponent tremble in his Cotton Oxfords.

But if the price of winning everything is pre-meditated, pre-planned thuggery, that ain’t what I’m here for. And if that is the cost of winning the Zippee and the Heineken, it’s too high for me.

Now, all this is very tough on poor old Corne, but if he is coming to join us, he had better brace himself. Every opposition fan in the Premiership is going to be his judge and jury and as soon as he gets his hands on the ball, he is going to get more abuse than any serial killer – in fact more than Steve Lander on a bad day!

He has only himself to blame. The baggage he brings with him was packed by him and him alone. I relish the prospect of seeing him in action at Franklin’s Gardens. I will give him 100% support as he helps us to the Promised Land.

But in my secret heart of hearts, he’s on probation.

I have every finger crossed (and every orifice puckered) that the tone that Smudger set, and that I yearn that Solly will build on, will give us a man transformed, who can leave his past behind him and become a true Saint.

You want your children to grow up brave and bold and tough and resilient and tenacious and decent and fair. I want Corne Krige to be their benchmark.


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