Red wall stands strong on night of the Cratloe wind

RASSIE said guts won the day. Rassie (below) was right. Munster beat Racing the way we used to, the way we always did, the way we were and the way we are. Smaller lads knocked over bigger lads. High balls fell down out of the forest of rain needles like shot ducks. Ian Keatley’s kicks scampered and slithered to the corners like eels on snossy rocks. And the fans sang the anthems when the din dipped.

The dire weather warnings would even have frightened away Teresa Mannion, the Storm Queen, but it was no more than a bad night. The wind couldn’t make up its mind. One minute the gale blew from the south-west and then the blow came in from the north-east. I asked the doughty Munster and Old Crescent prop James Cullinane for his take on where the wind was coming from? “From Cratloe,” was his reply.

The tasty barbecue burger pit to the side of Shannon blew ashes out like Vesuvius. The drummer boy stuck a spare set of drum sticks in his socks and a pair of earplugs in his ears. Was it health and safety? It can’t have been easy to play the drums wearing earplugs but the beat got us going.

We remembered the first anniversary of Anthony Foley with a sustained round of applause. I thought too of Pat Geraghty, the Munster PR man who passed away lately. The last time we met, I sat next to Pat at Axel’s funeral Mass. He cried but on Saturday night the friends surely met up again in the upper deck.

Pat was very good to me when I started out at this game. He wouldn’t be long telling you off though if he thought you weren’t giving Munster fair play. Pat was a good person and he had a big heart.

Munster won the first half nil-all. Money didn’t talk. It was like when the lad driving the old banger beats the boy in the Lamborghini to the good-looking girl. Big budgets in Thomond are no more than “have I the price of another pint and a bag of chips”.

As ever, Munster targeted the best players. Leone Nakarawa offloads more often than NAMA but he didn’t get any big overhead pass away. It was as if the Munster boys shouted “tickles” every time Nakarawa lifted up his arms.

Dan Carter expressed his love of our rugby home place. Dan was bandaged up. He is going to the Racing Halloween party as Tutankhamun. The Kiwi genius showed some deft touches but Tommy O’Donnell harried him.

Keatley didn’t drop a ball, passed perfectly and kicked beautifully. Ian, you have repaid Axel by playing like the man he always knew you to be.

Darren Sweetnam’s catching and kick-chase are the best in the country. Keith Earls downed Nakarawa and he didn’t have sling shot either. Andrew Conway scored a great try from Rory Scannell’s octopus offload. Simon Zebo has the composure and he turned Racing’s eagle-high kicks in to day-old chicks.

Munster’s line kicking won the game. Scannell is the big boot ciotóg and Conor Murray showed yet again why most observers now recognise him as the best in the world. Murray is The Presence. His block-down and try ended the most enjoyable hour or so of nil-all I have ever seen.

The beanstalk is Munster’s shamrock. Around now, 39 years ago, Seamus Dennison from Abbeyfeale pinned a demolition notice on the much bigger Stuart Wilson when Munster beat the All Blacks.

Ben Tameifuna could block both lanes of the M50 and there wouldn’t be enough room for a motor bike to slip through on either side. Dave Kilcoyne clocked Big Ben, who was 33 kilos heavier, at scrum time and in the loose. John Ryan came on and Munster won scrum penalties.

Munster’s back-row slowed it all down and speeded it all up when needs be. Billy Holland and Jean Kleyn were as tough as you need to be. They outfought Racing. We need to throw to two more often on windy nights. The lineout didn’t work.

Munster were playing for home and fatherland, for living ghosts and old glories and for this group who cry together and laugh together. They had to stick or bust when the renewed Racing men mounted a siege-engine rolling maul with about 30 to go.

Munster were in what seemed like terminal reverse. Every step out was walking a mile up a mountain. Munster cleared their lines. Racing bulldozed through again a minute later.

It seemed inevitable their heavier forwards would score but this band of brothers, who have been through so much, stood as one. The lifting of the siege was the turning point of the game and the season.

Saturday night was cave art and more about marking your own territory than deft brushwork and vivid colours.

There is no more primal place than Thomond Park when the Munster crannóg is under siege.