It was cold that morning when Mack Hansen turned up for his URC-appointed Media Training Course. Cold like a referee’s heart. Cold like an IRFU plan to disband a province. Cold like the Aviva on a winter’s night when Connacht are on the end of a hiding from Leinster and the penalty count is 14-2 against them.
The rest of his Connacht team-mates were already there, waiting. They had made a point of it, in fact. Of all the aspects of Hansen’s punishment for giving out about referees, this was the worst. Bad enough that he had to spend a morning being told how to suck eggs with the media. Making the other 40 players do it too? Disaster.
So he wasn’t surprised when they met him with a chorus of boos and whistles as he walked in the door. Some threw toilet rolls. Some threw sausage rolls. To a man, they gave him dog’s abuse for slaughtering the poor unfortunate ref. Some even called him names. Mack The Ripper. Charles Hansen. Aussie Wanker (the quality of insult fell quickly after the first couple).
“Take a seat, Mack,” began Bundee Aki. Mack’s blood ran cold. He thought the session was going to be run by one of the usual URC communications flunkies, some zesty young go-getter in a try-hard tracksuit, an errand boy sent by grocery clerks to collect a bill. Instead, it was Bundee, who was in no mood.
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Bundee wore a face like he’d overheard Mack say something about his sister. He was annoyed at having to be up this early to sit through this bullshit. The zesty kid from the URC had found that out when he’d tried to high-five him in the car-park, only for Bundee to stuff him into the boot of his car. He figured he’d let him out after lunch. Maybe.
Mack sat down.
“Up the front,” growled Bundee.
“Oooooh,” laughed the other backs as Mack got up and made his way past them. Bundee punched one of them in the ear. He didn’t look to see which one. There was silence after that.
“You know why we’re here?” Bundee began.
“Sure mate,” replied Mack. “It’s because of those bloody URC basta ...”
He stopped when he saw Bundee turn away and point impatiently up at the whiteboard.
“Oh. Oh right. You want me to read it out?”
Bundee pointed twice, with the sort of oomph that indicated he wasn’t going to point three times.
“Uh, okay,” said Mack. “It says, ‘Connacht Rugby must run an education session with their players about how to conduct themselves in post-match media sessions and interactions with the media.’”
“And that’s what you want, is it?” asked Bundee. “That’s what you think we should be spending our time on?”
Mack was on the back foot now.
“Bundee, you know that’s not wha ...”
“WELL WHAT THEN? WHY ARE WE HERE, MACK?”
“Because I ran my mouth off in the press conference after the Leinster game,” Mack said sheepishly.
“Yes you did, Mack!” said Bundee, now in full flow. “Yes you did!”
He hit the right arrow key on his laptop. The IT people in the back made a note to source a new one after the session. Up on screen, a video of Hansen’s press conference started playing. Pete Wilkins was giving a nothing answer to a refereeing question when Mack jumped in.
”Can I say something real quick about the situation?”
“Okay,” said Bundee, pausing the footage and looking out at the rest of the squad. “Can anybody tell me what Mack’s first mistake was?”
“Meeting Andy Friend in that bar that time?” cracked Finlay Bealham, laughing at his own joke. Bundee shot him a look that would have stopped a truck.
“Anyone?”
“He answered a question that he wasn’t asked,” said Jack Carty. “Pete was handling it. They were bored to tears listening to him.”
“Exactly,” said Bundee. “Guys, you have to remember – these journalists, they’re simpletons. Most of them haven’t a clue what they’re looking at. Pete was putting them to sleep here, which wouldn’t be hard. There was no need for Mack to jump in. Okay, let’s keep going ...”
“Bundee gets a direct hit to the head, it’s quite obvious, no call ...”
“Anyone?”
“In fairness Bundee,” said Caolin Blade. “He was defending you ...”
“So what?! I can’t believe I have to say this again – remember who he was talking to! Reporters! Half of them wouldn’t know an offside from a side of beef. But throw them a bit of referee stuff or make one of us out to be a victim and they’ll run all day with it. Right, last one ...”
“We get that every time. It just needs to be said. It’s really f**king starting to get to us a team.”
“I’ll take this one,” Mack said. “I knew that was stupid but I’d been talking for nearly two minutes at that stage and I was in trouble by then anyway. I get it – never say anything needs to be said, never admit that the team is feeling victimised, definitely never curse. Basically, never say anything interesting, ever.”
By now, the rest of the team was falling asleep and Bundee knew his work was done. He closed down his laptop and picked up his bag.
“See you guys later,” he said. “I have to go get something out of my car.”
♦ Note: Our humourless lawyers have insisted we explain that the above is all pure fantasy, and utterly made up. So please don’t email us.
