What price for a jersey famous the world over?
One of the game’s most treasured jerseys has reappeared alongside its revered owner for the first time since the All Blacks saw both hurtling out of sight long ago. Neither the garment nor the man inside it had been seen together since applying the horizontal hallelujah when the Barbarians achieved their famous victory over the All Blacks on the last Saturday of January, 1973.
And then, perhaps as a dress rehearsal for the 50th anniversary next winter, there they were, making their first public appearance for virtually half a century, in the Trophy Room at Cardiff Arms Park as close to the scene of their triumph as made no difference.
According to those expert in gauging the condition of sports clothing from yesteryear, the No.9 Barbarians’ jersey from 1973 shows no sign of wear and tear, thanks largely to it having been stored in a box safe from exposure to the harmful effects of sunlight.
That it is said to bear faint marks of mud from the match in question enhances its authenticity. As Sir Gareth’s wife Maureen said, on a day which coincided with their 50th wedding anniversary: “I’m not sure whether we even had a washing machine back then.’’
For her husband, prising the jersey from the tight-fisted committee men of the Barbarian Football Club turned out to be almost as tricky as beating the All Blacks under the baton of the mighty Ian Kirkpatrick.
“When we got back to the dressing room, there was a great deal of excitement,’’ Edwards said. “The Baa-baas’ officials were delighted, going around the players telling us about ‘the way we have in the Baa-baas’ and that it was ‘a jolly fine way, too’ and all that.
“Then, as we were getting changed, someone from the committee stood in the middle of the dressing room. ‘Jerseys on the floor, boys,’ he said. ‘We need them all for the next match.’
“What? A few of us said: ‘For God’s sake, we’ve just beaten the All Blacks. Surely the least you can do is let us keep the jerseys?’ They went into a huddle in the corner of the dressingroom. Then they came back and told us: ‘Ok. You can have the jerseys.’”
The manner of the win, even more than the win itself, came like manna from heaven for the Barbarians and the sport in its widest sense, inspiring children across the globe to give the game a try. In adherence with the rigidly enforced amateur rules, the players had made it all possible for nothing more than the love of the game.
‘The Greatest Try’ has defined Edwards more than any other in his collection and that’s saying something. A painting by the Welsh artist, Elin Sian Blake, which captures the scrumhalf diving in at the corner, is to be
“‘The Greatest Try’ has defined Edwards more than any other in his collection”
presented to him by his family to mark his 75th birthday this week.
It will loom large during golden jubilee celebrations in the New Year which will benefit the Sir Gareth Edwards Cancer Charity and Working Options for youngsters throughout the UK. Whether the Baa-baas’ jersey goes under the hammer has yet to be decided. If it does, it may be auctioned along with Edwards’ last for Wales in the 1978 Grand Slam clincher against France and his Lions shirt from the invincible South Africa tour four years earlier.
Six years ago the former Saracens owner Nigel Wray set a world record for a rugby jersey, paying £180,000 for the one worn by Dave Gallaher, captain of New Zealand’s ‘Originals’ on their pioneering British tour of 1905. For now, the holy trinity of jerseys belonging to Wales’ greatest living rugby son are back in their bank vault.
None would be more coveted than the Baa-baas’ black-and-white No.9. Even now, after all these years, Edwards is still asked about it anywhere and everywhere, often in the unlikeliest of places.
“The 1995 World Cup was about to start in South Africa and I was fishing in the middle of nowhere in what was then the Soviet Union,’’ he says. “Perestroika meant things were opening up but I never thought I’d end up being asked about the Baa-baas match.
“We flew to Finland, then on to Murmansk where there was a big submarine base. We jumped into a helicopter which had been used in the war in Afghanistan which explained the bullet holes. Three hours later we landed and were introduced to the mayor, a retired submarine commander. He invited me to his house for some vodka after the fishing. He said ‘I have something I want to show you.’
“When we got to his house, he put a DVD into his television set and there it was, the Baa-baas match from 1973. That’s probably the most outlandish example of the impact that match had across the world.
“What I love about that try was how everyone improvised to make it possible by playing what was in front of them. Improvisation is something you don’t see much of these days.’’
Nobody did that to more devastating effect that day than his lifelong friend Phil Bennett who died last month at the age of 73. “Without ‘Benny’ that try would never have happened,’’ Edwards says. “Of all the players, he was the only one who could have started that move off the way he did…’’