Sideline Cut: Professional sport glides along so smoothly and looks so glossy you can often forget the performers are actually human. Then, every so often, the cracks appear. Regardless of the pleasure we in this country traditionally take from witnessing England's downfall through any of her sporting jewels, it would take a cold heart not to have felt some way sorry for England coach Andy Robinson last weekend. The plain-talking rugby man, with the ruddy features of a yeoman and a naturally morose expression, looked like the loneliest man on earth as he sat in Twickenham, the fortress of yesteryear while Argentina became the latest country to boss the world champions into submission.
Behind him sat Rob Andrew, who although in his 40s could still pass for head boy at Eton, polished and unruffled and, as director of English rugby, clearly unhappy with this latest humiliation.
From the beginning, Robinson's administration seemed doomed because the only salient point of reference for his critics was that lumbering, fascinating World Cup final of autumn 2003, when Jonny Wilkinson managed a late drop-kick that guaranteed him immortal status in his sport and, most unexpectedly, made England champions of the world at something for the first time since Alf Ramsey's Lions swept the board in the summer of 1966.
After many seasons of trial and (sometimes ridiculed) error, Clive Woodward perfectly timed the momentum and direction of a team with formidable bulk and mental strength if little aesthetic grace and they delivered for him. And in retrospect, Woodward's masterstroke seems to have been stepping down when his stock was highest. The knighthood was already in the bag and it was as though he had a premonition that Wilkinson - whose athleticism was so taut and finely tuned it seemed like a wonder of mechanics as much as anything - would suffer an alarming deterioration and that Martin Johnson and Lawrence Dallaglio and those other imperial leaders would also bow out.
Robinson's task has been to somehow replace those vanished heroes and he has struggled. Before the opening Six Nations game against Wales early this year, England held a press day at Pennyhill Park, the opulent, faux-traditional retreat which has been England's "home" since the Woodward era. In a darkened drawingroom Robinson came in, a red rose on his sweat shirt and still the determined stride of the prop forward in his walk. Whereas Woodward could be playful or arch in his responses, Robinson is cautious, plain speaking and almost diffident.
The atmosphere in the room that morning was not hostile exactly but there was a muted impatience that became louder after Robinson departed. The Fleet Street corps have never fully warmed to Robinson and afterwards spoke of him as a man who was condemned to fail. The other memorable aspect of that meeting was the performance of Charlie Hodgson, the talkative, affable outhalf whom middle England have never fully forgiven for not being Jonny Wilkinson. Hodgson had the temerity - and originality - to actually voice some mild criticism of the Twickenham crowd and there were fears he might hear its displeasure in the Welsh match.
Hodgson was reasonable and funny and made it plain that playing in England's national rugby theatre was a dream for him. As it happened, England went well against Wales but since then, the highs have been few and last Saturday, the Pumas came to London and made that World Cup campaign seem like little more than a chimera.
And in the midst of it all, Robinson hauled Hodgson off with the game hanging in the balance, an admission that the game plan had collapsed and that Hodgson's temperament, regarded as suspect by some, was not as Robinson would have wished. It was a tough moment for Hodgson, who has behaved gallantly while trying to step from the shadow created by Wilkinson. And there is no respite, with Johnson this week publicly wondering if Robinson should have already been sacked and the visiting South African team promising to test the vulnerable Hodgson physically.
For both men, today's match at Twickenham is a timely reminder that when things fall apart, there is nowhere as lonely than a crowded stadium. Just over a year ago, Wales poster-boy Gavin Henson could do no wrong and his flamboyant image added a much-needed splash of colour and eccentricity to the army of muscle-bound, sober-talking percentage players around whom the sport revolves today. A few months ago, Henson made an appearance on the Jonathan Ross television show, primarily to plug his autobiography in which he unwisely lashed the whip at some of his Welsh team-mates, provoking a cold shoulder in the dressingroom. But the main reason he was there was so Ross could poke fun at him and Charlotte Church, his chanteuse girlfriend.
Henson has been easy to ridicule because he has dared to be non-conformist, happily admitting to applying fake tan and fussing over his hair and shaving his legs so that he can "look good" in the Welsh jersey. But underneath the cosmetics, he remains a quiet-spoken, no-frills builder's son from the Valleys and he dealt with Ross's urbane and kind of snide line of questioning with considerable poise and dignity. He handled the pressure then and last week against Australia landed a monster penalty suggesting that, after a rough year, he is ready to resume his role as the modern - and moisturised - face of the Welsh rugby renaissance.
In Ireland, the curious news that Wicklow man Ed Joyce has been selected to join England's tour of the Ashes was greeted with mild celebration and it should ensure greater numbers than normal tune in to catch some of the most storied rivalry in cricket. But Joyce's great triumph came at the expense of England's troubled batsman Marcus Trescothick, for whom the pressure of the impending contest became so overwhelming he succumbed to some kind of interior dilemma that led to a sympathetic release from the squad and now leaves his sporting future hanging in the balance.
In the greater scheme of things, it hardly constitutes a disaster but that any sportsman should end up mentally paralysed by the mere thought of having to perform is troubling. And the image of Trescothick making his way through the throngs at Heathrow alone is a forlorn one. The point is as spectators, we often take the mental and physical mechanics for granted.
People pay in at the gate expecting or at least hoping for a highly calibrated and exceptional performance and when that does not happen, sporting crowds can be the most unforgiving. And as Ireland prepares to host Australia today, maybe that is worth bearing in mind. It is not so long ago since even remotely following the Irish rugby team was an exercise in habitual disappointment and often embarrassment.
Little more than a decade has passed since the high point of a Five Nations season would be the prospect of Simon Geoghegan actually receiving a pass. Back then, Rob Andrew used to come to Dublin and kick us into oblivion without even muddying his sparkling white shirt. And now the world champions are in turmoil while Ireland are the most rampant force in rugby's Old World and can afford to field an experimental team while still realistically hoping to trump the Australians. After many gloomy days at Lansdowne Road, Irish rugby is preparing to vacate the place in rampantly good health. It should be celebrated while it lasts.
