Dolphins 1 – Despair 0

Ben Wildsmith

I was offered tickets for the rugby yesterday. England is the only major international side I haven’t seen Wales play, for the longest time I dreamed of going.

So, when I politely declined and opted to go travelling it required a difficult internal dialogue with my aghast 10-year-old self. How could you? Little Ben implored, holding forth his autograph book full of storied legends from Barry John to Ray Prosser, Delme Thomas, Terry Holmes, Ray Gravell and his personal favourite, Spikey Watkins.

Little Ben had seen some of these play, others he’d written to politely, care of the clubs that made them. Phil Bennett sent six signed photographs with personal inscriptions; Ray Prosser just wrote ‘Ray Prosser’ at the bottom of my letter. Both were cherished as holy relics.

Times have changed, I explained to my tiny, indignant self.

Still, I had to watch it. I’m visiting the English side of my family in Sydney, so my dad and I rose early and wished each other luck. I didn’t want him to have any luck at all, to be honest.

Humiliation

If some bright spark had greased the floor in England’s dressing room, causing multiple injuries before kick-off, I’d have found a way to reconcile myself to the morality of the situation. Because even those of us who endured the humiliation of Welsh rugby in the early ‘90s have never known times like these. Fearing Italy, the directionless search for leadership, the decline of club rugby, the desultory singing in the stadium…

The national team being beaten as a matter of course hurts for sure, what wrenches is the diminishment of the game in our culture.

It feels like being at the funeral that’s only being attended out of politeness. The wailing and gnashing of teeth that would have accompanied a disaster such as unfolded yesterday has been replaced by a shrugging resignation.

There is bitterness and recriminations, particularly against the hapless WRU, but the pain that used to be etched on our faces when Wales lost has been replaced by a wistful sadness. I coulda been a contender, Charlie…

When England went past 40 points, the atmosphere was a bit awkward.

Community barbecue

‘We can watch the rest if you like,’ Dad offered. He was giving me an out. My sister was cooking at a community barbecue on the beach, we could go there for breakfast, maybe. We’d started watching the game a couple of hours after it finished so I looked up the final score on the internet. Iesu mawr.

On the beach it was festive. During the summer months, a community initiative called the Nippers sees all the local kids trained in sea swimming, lifesaving, and surfing.

Today was the last session, with a fundraising barbecue, and most of the neighbourhood was down there laughing, having a swim, and watching the kids do their thing.

The beach and the sea remain central to life here. Adults pass on the skills necessary to enjoy them with a natural joy that reflects the general optimism of Australian life.

There was a time when the rugby pitch provided a comparable arena at home. It still does in many fine community clubs up and down Wales, but despair is infectious.

You have to wonder how much farther the game will slip in national life.

Sat on the edge of the rock pool, my dad was sympathetic.

‘Nobody wants to see that, even as an England supporter it’s upsetting to watch.’

Staring out to sea, I spotted a group of six dolphins cresting the waves. A common sight around here, they might as well have been unicorns to me with my pale, blotchy legs and low expectations.

Little Ben smiled, just slightly, mind.