THE SECRET PLAYER
WITH THE Six Nations, there is one burning question which will be reverberating amongst the home nations’ small fraternity of international rugby players. And that question is: “Are you doing corporate this weekend?”
Yes, it’s a sad state of affairs, but at this time of year those brave chaps who represent us out on the playing fields – surely the finest specimens of manhood our countries have to offer, said demi-gods – are obliged to supplement their meagre match fees by selling their souls to the highest bidder.
For a few hundred smackers, your hospitality box will be treated to a ten-minute visit from an exhausted combatant. That’s just enough time for handshakes all round, some perfunctory banter about what went right/wrong out there and, for a grand finale, the inevitable round of gurning selfies.
The icing on the cake for a corporate jolly at Twickers or the Aviva? Employees and clients will be suitably astounded as the boss of the box (the man with the cheque book) pretends for a moment that the player is actually his best mate.
Meanwhile, the player shuffles off with his brown envelope clutched tightly to his breast. If he is savvy enough, to another meet and greet, otherwise it’s back down to the post-match function to count his winnings. One can hardly blame them, and on the few occasions I was offered such ‘work’ I certainly wasn’t about to say no to it all.
Even for me, the most timid of young sportsmen, answering a few questions about what I had been up to for the past two hours was just about manageable, and not a bad way to pocket an extra grand or so. In fact, it almost seemed immoral not to take up the offer, when I considered how hard my mum or dad would have had to work to earn that amount (oh crikey, I’m sliding down my ‘Four Yorkshireman’ wormhole again).
Conversely, and perhaps nonsensically on my part, what does make me a little uneasy is when players turn the whole thing into a cottage industry. I used to do a car-share to training with a (then) England international, and over the winter most of those journeys were made to the soundtrack of him calling his ‘contacts’, endlessly horse-trading, scheming and positioning himself expertly to squeeze every last drop of cash from each selection for England.
I realise that this is how a lot of business works: you chuck money at people and get minimum levels of service in return, and fair play to players who have the chutzpah and energy to pursue every avenue. To me it seemed exhausting and a bit sordid. I suppose that’s why I’m a terrible businessman.
All that being said, things are about to get seriously hypocritical as I reveal that somehow I find myself booked up over the Six Nations for a few hospitality gigs. Whoops! See, it is presumed that the high-rollers in function suites and VIP boxes want washed up former internationals prattling on about the game as they scoff lunch.
The cash is certainly less than back in the day, and each appearance involves the sacrificing of another little chunk of your dignity. Unlike when you actually played, you now have no excuse for being in the vicinity of the stadium. There is now only one possible reason for your presence, pontificating (usually using info gleaned from the programme) to a room of crushingly dull corporate clients. You know it, and the whole room knows it: you are there because the event organisers couldn’t get anyone more famous, and you, having long ago left the big time, were just grateful for some extra cash.
Even more demeaning is when they invite a speaker from the opposing country and get a proper superstar in. Recently I followed a World Cup winner onto the stage. So, Bryan
Habana = raucous applause.
Little old me = a polite ripple.
Still, a brown envelope is a brown envelope at the end of the day, innit?