Joe is on his way to following in Jack’s footsteps
RUBY HAS SPECIAL PLACE IN HEARTS
IT’S a little too early to hoist Joe Schmidt up to a great height, and have him standing on the shoulders of giants. And whose shoulders? Jack Charlton and Declan Kidney? Brian Cody and Mick O’Dwyer? They are, in the estimation of many people, our four official giants.
And before we do any lifting, should we not wait until Schmidt himself has finally attained giant status?
A few hours from now, and a Grand Slam in the bag, he’s there! He’ll have matched Kidney’s achievements, but that still means he falls short of getting to clamber up Kidney’s back and stand on our 2009 Slam winning coach.
The general notion — doing the rounds this last week and some — that Schmidt is the greatest coach, bar none, this country has ever witnessed declare war is, naturally, preposterous.
He’s still got catching up to do this afternoon in Twickenham on his predecessor, and if and when that’s done, how do we go about calculating Schmidt’s worth versus Jack Charlton?
Put it this way, rugby is a fairly puny game on the world stage when compared with football. The beautiful game is truly global. Whereas the oval-balled one is played seriously in five countries in a corner of Europe and three countries below the equator, and elsewhere it is no more important in the national consciousness than road bowls.
In Italy and Argentina, and in Georgia, rugby union does no more to shift the mood of its people than road bowls does here in Ireland.
Of course, it can also be said that both Gaelic football and hurling are equally miniaturised by the size of rugby — and that Cody and O’Dwyer, just one title short of 20 All-Irelands between them, do not possess shoulders of giants at all. Not unless we’re measuring up slightly taller than average Lilliputians.
So, let’s agree this morning, that comparisons can lead to all sorts of opinions and potential insults. Let’s also agree that by herding Ireland down the road in 1990, and the whole way to a World Cup quarterfinal, Charlton is out of reach.
Standing on nobody’s shoulders, and not even needing anyone’s
shoulders to help his bald pate touch the clouds. No. 1 The greatest. End of story… unless…
WHY is it that in every conversation about Schmidt’s ultimate mission as Irish coach, someone will mention that there is every chance the Kiwi will be the one to finally land us a place in a World Cup semi-final?
Ireland has never barnstormed its way out of a quarter-final since the whole World Cup business started in the 1980s, and all these decades later all we are asking from Schmidt is a semi-final place. It says a lot about ourselves, does it not?
We don’t talk about winning a World Cup semi-final and, never, ever, has anyone in this courteous land of ours, verbalised the thought of actually winning the World Cup.
It’s like deep down we know our place in the great scheme of things in the game, and that it might be deemed disrespectful to others to label ourselves contenders. Like, for instance… it’s us or the All Blacks for the World Cup in 2019! Though we hope that. Schmidt is allowing the same thought to idle in his own head. Simply put, if he is to be considered our greatest coach of all time, then he’d probably need to win the World Cup.
That, might, just might, be something that could be measured as a bigger achievement than Big Jack bringing us to the glorious heights in Rome in 1990.
In the meantime, a Grand Slam is now 100 per cent achievable. Ireland have all the momentum, and Schmidt has moved this team through the Six Nations field as expertly as Willie Mullins has calculated the run of his greatest fourlegged friend in Cheltenham this last week.
The English are scrambling. And when our neighbours do such manoeuvring, they usually also manage to get their white knickers in a twist — their glorious march into 2019 has now stalled.
We will worry about losing, because that’s what we do in this country.
We’ll worry about meeting ill-luck, but the reality is Schmidt has all the winning moves (which includes side-stepping ill-luck), and he has a pack that is spilling over with confidence. Behind them, there’s The Johnny Sexton Show – and a cast of young bucks who appear immune to self-doubt.
If we somehow manage to lose, then it will be disappointing. Sure it will. And it could happen. How often have we upscuttled the English chariot on the final day?
The Grand Slam would be great. And Schmidt is a magnificent coach, win or lose this afternoon, but to attain absolute greatness, he’s got to gift this country world domination.
Or a small portion of the world that gives a rat’s ass about the game of rugby.
ALL these years Ruby Walsh has been straitjacketed into a fuel-deprived package on so many fast, spectacular and dangerous nags, and naturally he has been more than a little narky at times. He has also, always, been illuminating in his analysis of what it takes to be the best. But, not until this week, did we get to see Walsh in all his glory as a brave, emotional, normal man. By Tuesday evening he had clocked up 58 career winners at Cheltenham, having delivered two more Grade One triumphs for Willie Mullins on Footpad and Benie Des Dieux. Earlier in the day he had been close to tears as he remembered the 110 days he spent waiting with a broken leg to see what awaited him next in his career. ‘About as much use as an ashtray on a motorbike!’ he admitted, as he thanked his wife for labouring with him and their four children, including one new-born. On Wednesday, then, we saw Walsh (right) take a spill in the second race of the afternoon and his father Ted was among those helping him back onto his feet and to the doctor’s rooms for examination. His worst fears had been realised, however... his leg once more damaged, his heart heavier than ever. Despite all of his triumphs, and those losses too, we’ve never gotten to know Ireland’s most courageous sportsman as well, or as intimately, as we have this week. And it’s been an honour more than anything, to see him as a husband and a father, and also a son, doing what he does best to bring such joy to Irish folk. We’ve never loved Ruby more.