MIKE EDWARDS

MY UNCLE Idwal played rugby.

He was a man mountain in his prime. By the time he died, he’d subsided into a hillock.

In his pomp, he towered over the opposition.

Other players had a combination of muscles and carefully choreographed flab.

Idwal was like a large bag of spanners.

He had muscles in places where other players didn’t even have places.

As behemoths go, Idwal put the lie to the old saw about being a gentle giant. If there was grievous bodily rugby to inflict upon a victim, Idwal was first on the scene.

A fly- half gave him a funny look once.

I can still remember the poor sod’s crumpled and bloody remains being carried off the pitch on a St John’s Ambulance stretcher - and in a carrier bag.

Time changes things.

I remember Uncle Idwal seeming so much taller and larger than his contemporaries. He’d grown up in Llangwm, so I’d always supposed a diet of human flesh and the blood of unwary travellers caused his massive size.

Thinking about it, Idwal was probably around six feet two inches and weighed about fifteen stones at his fighting weight.

Nowadays, he’d be small for a wing threequarter.

The idea he could still play as a blind- side flanker is for the birds.

I watched the Welsh game against Italy before watching the other two weekend games. I couldn’t help but wonder about the size of the players and the ferocity of their collisions.

Some of the televised pileups made me want to visit

A&E for treatment.

Even Idwal might have paused for thought at some of the hits. Or at least put in a gumshield.

P i tchs ide microphones mean the smash of flesh on flesh and muscle on bone is always there to fill in the brief seconds when the crowds aren’t baying for blood or points, preferably both.

Idwal never shied away from physical confrontation or pain. With horror and admiration, my late dad told me of seeing Idwal stand up from the bottom of the ruck with his thumb dangling at an odd angle.

With a grim smile, Idwal popped the offending joint back into place.

The noise of gristle and bone popping made the opposition scrumhalf vomit over the ref.

Of such simple pleasures are treasured memories made.

In the end, Idwal’s wife, Bessie, made him retire. He must’ve been in his forties by then.

She decided that the Club Secretary’s insistence that a badly concussed Idwal could drive himself to A&E fifteen miles away suggested his welfare was at risk in the service of those who couldn’t give a stuff.

The fact the silly bugger drove to A&E and spent the next fortyeight hours unconscious clinched it for her.

I am happy to relate that Idwal lived a full and happy life until the years finally caught up with him.

He always watched rugby on TV, but after that last game, he never went near the rugby club again.

Bessie was too worried he’d flatten that bloody secretary.

And once, while we watched Wales beat France, Idwal told me Bessie was right.