THE MAKING OF A HOMETOWN HERO
All roads will forever lead back to Hawick for Scotland superstar Hogg
THE making of Stuart Hogg has a convoluted recipe. There is genuine tragedy, exotic family links and natural talent. But the stock is always Hawick. It creeps though every sinew, fuels every move, guides most thoughts of the most spectacular rugby player of his generation.
There are myths and legends to the Hogg creation story. Most of them are true. Yes, he is related to George Best. ‘I have no family as my two sisters died very young,’ says John Hogg, father of Stuart. ‘Then, all of a sudden, I had the family in Ireland.’
Fittingly, the discovery of the new family was a direct result of Stuart’s involvement in rugby. John wanted to go to watch his son in an international match and was told by a cousin: ‘I have tellt the Irish yins.’
The father explains: ‘I had no idea that my mother had cousins there. That’s when I found out that my great granny and George’s great grandpa were brother and sister. We are now all close and are going on holiday to Portugal next year.’
However, tragedy, too, has its aftermath. On Saturday, April 4, 2009, Hogg, then 17, and his friend Richard Wilkinson had played at a Sevens tournament in Kelso and accepted a lift back home. There was an argument over who should sit in the front seat. Hogg lost. There was a crash. Wilkinson, also 17, was killed.
Two youths were jailed for fourand-a-half years for causing his death by dangerous driving.
‘Stuart buried himself into rugby after that. Immersed himself,’ says his father. ‘That was the Saturday. On the Tuesday, I took him to the airport and he played against England Under-17s that night. He just threw himself back in. But it will never leave him.’
The son is physically marked by the death. He has a tattoo commemorating his friend. He also makes a W sign after every try. The awful fallout of that moment on the A698 near Heiton is thus tangible and unforgettable.
Mercifully, other roads have better memories, more beneficial outcomes.
‘The street was full of bairns,’ says his father about the family home on the Jedburgh road out of Hawick. ‘They played on the street, not on the grass. There was about eight or nine boys in the same sort of age group. It was always rugby. A few of them went on to play for Hawick.’
John Hogg can celebrate the holy trinity of Hawick culture. He played for the Greens at full-back in an extraordinary team, is continuous improvement manager at Johnstons, part of the knitwear and cashmere industry that is a mainstay of Hawick, and was cornet at the town’s Common Riding.
Both his sons were introduced to rugby early. ‘Aye, we would have a sponge ball. I would collect them from school. We would play rugby in the living room and when we heard my wife Margaret’s car coming, we would rush together to get the suite sorted. She kent fine we had been playing rugby and there was the odd ornament broken,’ he says.
The harsher lessons out on the street helped make Hogg the courageous, resilient full-back he is now.
He would compete with his brother, Graham, five years older and also a fine player.
‘It was on the tarmac,’ says his father of the street rugby years. ‘He took a few knocks. It never bothered him. They would walk in, clean up, have their tea. They were all the same.
‘During the summer they pretended they had horses, riding up and down the street with brushes between their legs.’
This Hawick treble of horses, rugby and knitwear has been passed on to the son. He has his own clothing range at Johnstons and maintains his interest in horses though only as an observer.
‘He can’t ride horses and play rugby. He is banned from that,’ says his father. ‘But he will miss it. He wanted to be a jockey, you know. He was small and he and Graham had ponies, so it is not as daft as it might seem now.’
Scottish Rugby now list that once slight figure as 5ft11in and 14st 7lb. The other road was taken towards rugby. His brother suffered a knee injury and his career was cut short after international appearances at Sevens. ‘Graham was having his exit meeting at the SRU as Stuart was in another room having his introductory meeting,’ his father recalls. The younger son flourished. His selection for the World Cup squad was a formality but not to the boy who lived in a culture where, as his father puts it, ‘you don’t get carried away’. A mobile phone peeped last week in that house which looks out onto the street of those first rugby games. The message read: ‘Evening folks. Hope you are all good. Just had a phone call to say I am in the 31-man squad for Japan. Chuffed to bits.’
The verdict comes from a judge from the supreme court. Jim Renwick, now 67, is one of Scotland’s greatest players. ‘He’s a girn,’ he says. A what? ‘A girn, a grinder,’ says Renwick, shaping his face in a grimace to replicate the boy to whom he was a mentor.
‘He’s as good as I’ve seen out of Hawick. He’s maybe the best I have seen out of Hawick,’ he adds.
Renwick takes a sense of civic pride in this but no personal acclamation.
‘I didn’t do much for him, honestly,’ he says. ‘I was appointed his mentor but he could already kick, pass and run. He’s gone on to be player of the Championship (Six Nations) twice and picked for the Lions twice.
‘No’ many do that, so he will be up there with the best that has come out of Scotland.’
He speaks of a boy that was always talented but, more importantly, quick to learn and
eager to play. ‘He has stepped up to every level and immediately adapted. Not everybody can do that. But every progression he has made he has made it look easy. And it is not. He is a trier, too. Chases lost causes. That’s the girn.’ This is replaced by a grin as one walks into Mansfield Park, home of Hawick RFC, and is confronted by Rocky Johnstone, a coach who earned his nickname by inviting people to pay money to punch him in the stomach at school. Now development coach at Hawick RFC, he knows the foibles of youth and recalls Hogg as a hyperactive boy with obvious talent. Johnstone pours out reminiscences of the town’s prodigy in a powerful flow. ‘I first came across him at Trinity Primary School,’ he says. ‘We go into schools and have rugby sessions but the first time I knew he was a real talent was when I saw him in the final of the Keown Trophy.’ This chimes in perfectly with the verdict of Hogg’s dad. The Keown Trophy is a primary school competition and Hogg junior played as a ten-year-old.
‘He had that edge. He wanted to bloody well win,’ says Johnstone. ‘He was like a bairn with a new toy. He wanted the rugby ball to play with. Still does, I suppose. He was primary six against primary seven and he wasn’t big, but he gave us good as he got.’
He was a boy, too, who demanded much of his team-mates. ‘He had standards,’ says Johnstone. ‘Still has.’
Hogg then progressed through the system at Hawick. ‘In the gym hall, no one could catch him. They still can’t,’ says Johnstone.
‘He always had that step, his favourite way off his left foot. He has refined it and has other options, but that step is still there.’
‘He still comes down here to watch games. No big fuss. Just Stuart and his mates. Still drinks up at Jock Reids (sic), the horsey pub.’
He waits for a moment and adds: ‘He is into the things we do as a town — the Common Riding, rugby, having a laugh. He is just one of us.’
It is a tour worthy of an open-top bus but it is conducted in a black Peugeot. John Thorburn, club secretary of Hawick RFC and secretary of the Bill McLaren Foundation, is following the Hoggy route, not yet adorned by signposts or plaques.
There is the small playpark at the bottom of Heronhill where Hogg played when the streets could not contain him. There is the splendour of Wilton Lodge Park where a bust of McLaren looks on to a museum and has at its side the pitches where a young Hogg made his early impressions.
‘Rugby is in the fabric here,’ says Thorburn, a Hawick man who has devoted much of his life to the club as an administrator. ‘I can remember him as a small boy. He was energetic, always running about.
‘He always had something special. I remember the Keown Trophy and he would be talked about even then. But for me I will always recall a game at Anniesland against Glasgow Hawks when he was 16. He was outstanding.’
He adds: ‘There are three key elements here: knitwear, rugby, Common Riding. We understand the significance of all three and that is the culture that Stuart comes from.’
The final stop is Mansfield Park. Under the photograph of the 60 internationalists that the club has produced, sit a couple of dozen people attending a memories group. All have recollections of the small boy who was plucked from Hawick and fast-streamed to Glasgow Warriors, to international rugby and now on to Exeter Chiefs in the English Premiership.
But first Japan and the World Cup. ‘We all look forward to it,’ says Thorburn as the function suite echoes to footage of the 1987 World Cup. ‘We have Darcy Graham, another Hawick lad, going as well.’
Later, a gentleman, who may be described as a season ticketholder at Jock Reids, advises me to look at Hogg’s Twitter profile. The first words are not ‘international rugby player’ or ‘British Lion’. It states simply: Hawick boy.
This adds a sense of truth to a further, final legend. It posits that Hogg, when inducted into Hawick’s greatest XV, admitted the quandary of deciding what would be the greater honour: being a British Lion or cornet at the Common Riding?
Married with three children, the latter has slipped from his grasp forever. Only bachelors can be a cornet. He will have to settle for the rugby immortality that has accompanied his run from the tarmac to the top tier.
As I peer at the memorabilia in the Hawick clubhouse, a voice whispers in my ear that he expects Hogg to return to the town when his rugby adventures end. It is a theory that finds favour with many in the town. ‘He will be back,’ says one intimate.
In truth, from Glasgow to Exeter, from Twickenham to Tokyo, he has never really been away.
He buried himself into rugby after the accident. That was the Saturday. On the Tuesday he played against England –John Hogg, father of Stuart
I was his mentor but he could already kick, pass and run. He’s as good as I’ve seen out of Hawick –Jim Renwick, rugby legend and mentor
At primary school, no one could catch him. They still can’t. He always had that step off his left foot –Rocky Johnstone, Hawick coach
There are three key elements here: knitwear, rugby, Common Riding. That’s the culture he comes from –John Thorburn, Hawick secretary