Alfie could become The Boss – but not yet
The Alfie Barbeary bandwagon was rolling at ever-increasing speed along the road to Twickenham until he picked up an injury last weekend and it will take plenty of stopping the moment he returns, being a Barbeary-sized vehicle.
The Wasps forward is being lauded to the high heavens as “the future of English rugby”, just as Bruce Springsteen was once labelled “the future of rock’n’roll”. No pressure, then.
And that’s the point. The “pressure point”, you might say. Springsteen has spent the last 40-odd years surpassing lofty initial expectations by a factor best measured in the thousands, but not without experiencing the agonies of doubt and crises of confidence that so often afflict those heralded as better than everyone else before they are fully equipped to prove it.
Barbeary, bearded and moustachioed but barely out of his teens, has yet to deal with “second season syndrome” for the very good reason that his first full season still has months to run. Those who argue for his immediate inclusion in the England team are therefore talking through their trilbies.
He may have scored tries for fun thus far, but once opponents take a proper look at him with a view to identifying his weaknesses and working out ways of exposing them, the laughter will stop for a while. It’s in the nature of things.
Back in October 1979, the Bath head coach Jack Rowell picked a ridiculously fast 18-year-old wing fresh out of the classroom for an eagerly-awaited Recreation Ground mash-up with a powerful Bristol outfit who not only considered themselves the superior side, but saw no obvious reason why the local pecking order should ever change. The wing’s name? David Trick.
There was no doubting the sprog’s potential. In one match for Tavistock School, he had scored 76 points.
That’s right: 76. Thirteen four-point tries, a dozen conversions. Rowell, never a great one for young smartarses, would probably have dropped Trick for missing a kick had he been given a say in the matter, but that’s another story.
Come derby day, the selection gamble paid dividends on what we would now call a Euromillions scale. Trick stripped the visitors naked with a hat-trick of tries, two of them absolute blinders from under his own sticks, and Bath won 38-17 – a result that caused the first small shift in the tectonic plate of West Country rugby.
His direct opponent that day was Robbie Carter, a hard-bitten and capable wing from down Weston-superMare way.
“He’s quick, I’ll give him that,” said Carter, sipping his after-match beer through gritted teeth in the upstairs bar. “But I’ll tell you this for free. He
“Barbeary, bearded but barely out of his teens, has yet to deal with ‘second season syndrome’”
won’t ever do that to me again.”
Nor did he. Trick enjoyed a terrific club career – every bit as rewarding as he could have expected, given the slight disconnect between his godgiven gifts and his own diligence in applying them – but it was not long before the most intelligent opponents worked out ways of cramping his style.
He won only two England caps and put just one more try past Bristol in nine attempts, long after Carter had called it a day.
Once in a blue moon, a brilliant young player stays brilliant all the way into sporting old age without missing a beat.
Tim Horan, the finest inside-centre all but the most elderly among us have been privileged to witness, was a Wallaby in his teens, won World Cups at both ends of an 80-cap tour of international duty and never looked like tarnishing his reputation with a display that was merely “good”.
Unlike the Australians, who have a history of successful fast-trackings, England have been cautious in this area of selection, and with good reason. For every Paul Dodge there has been a Mathew Tait; for every Joe Marler a Robbie Morris.
There will always be outliers. Maro Itoje was obviously worthy of full honours long before Eddie Jones arrived to anoint him at 21, while Tom Curry, a full-flowered Red Rose at 18, has yet to show the slightest sign of droop or fade.
But it is still a stretch to ask to someone as raw as Barbeary to trip the light fantastic at elite level.
It is perfectly possible that the
Oxfordshire Ox will ultimately justify most, if not all, of the grand claims currently being made on his behalf by people who have barely seen him play live, but why do they feel the need to talk him into England contention at the speed of light. Or, faster still, the speed of David Trick?
Barbeary is clearly working that body of his in the gym, but he has yet to piece together a body of work. Hell, he doesn’t even know for sure if he’s a hooker or a No.8.
Until he gets his head around that little teaser and then proves himself better than Jamie George and Luke Cowan-Dickie – or, depending on his positional choice, Billy Vunipola – he should ignore the wilder speculations about his destiny. As should Eddie Jones.
As David Cameron remarked: “I was the future once.” And look what happened to him.