Why Ringer deserves more than to be forever cast a villain
Forty years on, James Corrigan recalls how the Wales flanker’s career was cut off in its prime
His ‘offence’ could almost be classed as friendly, but still he was off
The first time I saw Paul Ringer was in 1977, when I was eight. He was an astonishing sight, a vision that terrified as much as it tantalised. With long, flowing locks struggling to cling on to a nodding head that pressed on and on, Ringer was hurtling up and down the cliff walk in the beautiful Cardiganshire village of Tresaith. And then he turned his attention to the 200-metre beach, sprinting the length back and fore, never letting up in a quest to outdo the tide for monotony.
Time stood still, as if it too was entranced, but it could not go on for ever. Ringer puked into the waves, his body’s stopwatch to indicate enough was enough. With that, he jogged up to his house on the top road, a skinny-haired onlooker with his crab net wincing as the wild West Walian sped past.
The last time I saw Ringer was about three weeks ago. Now living in my home town, just outside Cardiff, he often walks his dog on the fields of Penarth Rugby Club, those famous old whipping boys who hosted the Barbarians every Good Friday.
Minus his front dentures, Ringer flashed a smile and waved a greeting before moaning about his mutt’s reluctance to chase a stick. The dog plainly wanted his owner to run with him. If only Rover could know the workouts he would have enjoyed a half-century earlier.
I will walk my own dog along the same route on Saturday morning in the hope of bumping into Ringer again on what is sure to be a poignant day for the 72-year-old. Forty years ago, in the corresponding England v Wales fixture, Ringer led the news across the United Kingdom as the poster boy for rugby union’s most notorious video nasty.
But then, I should probably leave him alone with his thoughts. Because Ringer never asked to be the archvillain portrayed in the English press or, indeed, the cult hero across Wales. He just wanted to play rugby. But on that shameful afternoon, when the cross-border rivalry descended into a bloody, ugly shambles with only a tenuous link with sport, his life changed irrevocably and his ultimate ambition was ruined. All in the name of encouraging others to behave.
It was in the 13th minute when Ringer, in the role of ravenous flanker, was a fraction late with his chargedown on John Horton. The England fly-half did not do even go to ground and, nowadays, the most pernickety TMO would resist pressing rewind.
Except the already exasperated Irish referee Dave Burnett had just advised the captains that the next offender would be dismissed. In the context of those stitchfilled 80 minutes, Ringer’s “offence” could almost be classed as friendly. No matter, he was off and in that instant, and after the decidedly fortuitous 9-8 England victory that ensued, all manner of perceived sins and theoretical postulations were laid squarely at his feet. For the intellects, this was obviously the socioeconomic response to the Welsh hatred of Thatcher and the recent steel workers’ strike.
For the sportswriters, Ringer’s red was the perfect symbol for the death of the Welsh rugby glory age, of all that Seventies romanticism.
And for the fans? Well, it was as if social media had time-travelled back a few decades. Ringer went viral before we knew what it meant. Yet what it unarguably signalled was the beginning of the end of a career.
Lions selectors have since acknowledged that the eight-week ban ruled the all-action forager, whose long-awaited berth had appeared nailed on, out of that summer’s tour to South Africa. Ringer played only once more for his country. That is the cost of infamy and, yes, sometimes the price of martyrdom, too.
In our desire to wrap things up all neatly in the “good” pile or the “bad” pile, we sporting observers too easily overlook that there is an individual with a personal tale at the heart of the controversy. One of these was Paul Ringer. You should have seen him fly across that sand.