Cripes, that was a battle. Indeed, such was the casualty count, come full-time in Edinburgh Andy Farrell was telling Clare MacNamara that he might have to call up players from the Old Belvedere under-12s to allow him field a team against England next weekend.
This was a disclosure that would, no doubt, have led to sleepless nights for the little Belvo boys, although if they’d have seen England’s performance against France on Saturday, they might have been hollering: “BRING IT ON!”
There had been mixed prematch messages from the RTÉ panel about the nature of the challenge Ireland were about to meet in Murrayfield, Simon Zebo not entirely convinced that Scotland were as good as they, he suggested, reckoned they were. “Less talk, more action,” he said with a grin, not persuaded by this chat about a Scottish renaissance.
But then he knocked lumps out of our confidence by waxing lyrical about the supernatural powers of Finn Russell while we watched a slow-mo replay of him hugging the bejaysus out of his former Racing 92 workmate out on the pitch, like he’d just bumped into the saviour of the universe.
Eddie O’Sullivan didn’t calm us either. “It’s called test rugby for a reason,” he told Jacqui Hurley, “it’s a test.”
“O…..kay,” said Jacqui’s face, no more than our own.
“When Scotland smell blood they really rise to it,” Eddie added. And they would have smelt it half an hour before kick-off, blood pouring from Andrew Porter after a warm-up mishap, which was an insight into how competitively Ireland limber up for these contests.
Teams out. A jauntier Ireland’s Call, no shenanigans this time around. Up and running.
Now look. Every time some of us non-rugby people think we’re getting a hang of the game’s rules, something like Dan Sheehan’s disallowed try happens. Disallowed because Scotland did a quickie lineout thingie with a different ball to the original match ball, so Ireland were punished for winning said ball and scoring a try that wasn’t.
The only comfort here was that Donal Lenihan was as perplexed as ourselves, emitting a grunt that suggested severe dissatisfaction.
Then Scotland were allowed a try because they used the original ball, but then Mack Hansen appeared to cross the line himself but it was hard to see if he’d touched down before – not to be too technical – any random part of his anatomy hit the deck over the sideline thingie first.
Hugh Cahill: “No try.”
Donal: “Try.”
Hugh: “We’ll beg to differ.”
Try.
Hugh: “Nothing wrong with your eyesight.”
Donal: [Purr].
Hugh: “You had your carrots for breakfast.”
Half-time. Hugh summed up what he had witnessed: “Oh my God.”
Second half. It was when Jack Conan made it 20-7 that Donal let out so high-pitched a joyous cry that our telly screens were in danger of shattering. Job done, although that sickening injury to Garry Ringrose dampened Donal’s mood and that of everyone watching. God, it’s a brutal game. But the thumbs up from Ringrose brought no little relief.
Who would be the man of the match? “If it’s not Mack Hansen, I’ll eat my hat,” said Hugh, telling us the decision lay in the hands of Sam Warburton, who was working for the BBC. If Martin Johnson, also working for the Beeb, had the casting vote, Hugh would have been munching on his beanie for a week – he chose James Lowe. But Sam opted for Mack, so Hugh’s digestive system was safe.
Incidentally, the Beeb’s Andrew Cotter’s description of Hansen was one for the ages. There is, he said, with a special emphasis on his moooo-stache, a touch of “the Nebraska truck stop about him”. There is too.
So, six days to D-Day. A grand slam up for grabs, for the first time on Dublin soil, against England. “And on Paddy’s weekend too,” said Donal. “Who writes this stuff?”
The Belvo boys are limbering up as we speak. Bring it on.
