Alec is a lovely guy but I think he should have turned to an established guy like Nigel Horton or a more experienced player like Nick Martin. After all, I was just 22, had hardly ever played outside the north of England and had just one England trial to my credit. Having said that, I would have been massively disappointed if they had brought someone else into the squad and I suspect that John Burgess, who was coaching the side then, had pushed for my inclusion. I had established myself in the Lancashire team and had done really well on the county’s tour of Zimbabwe and South Africa, so that may have led the selectors to believe that I was ready. Roger wasn’t at the team’s hotel so he was obviously receiving treatment elsewhere and I faced an anxious wait to see if he was going to recover in time. The answer to that question came at the crack of dawn on Friday morning when Alec awakened me to announce I was definitely playing. Offering his congratulations, he shook the hand of a very bog-eyed William Blackledge Beaumont who was still trying to come to terms with what day it was. It was like a dream come true but – perhaps because I was so naïve – I don’t think I grasped the full significance of the occasion as I should have done. I did relay the news to my parents but, because it was such a last-minute thing, they weren’t able to get across to Dublin in time to watch the game live.
We flew to Dublin and stayed at the Shelbourne Hotel along with the Irish side. It is highly unusual for the rival teams to stay under the same roof but at that time it was common practice in Ireland for security reasons. Each side stayed on different floors of the hotel and I remember finding myself in the lift at the same time as Irish hooker Pat Whelan, who was also making his international debut. He asked me if I had any spare tickets for the game. There was me thinking we had to be kept apart like caged animals until the first whistle!
For security reasons we weren’t encouraged to leave the hotel and go walkabout, so we spent Friday afternoon and evening playing cards. When I ended up winning what was then quite a lot of money, Steve Smith said, ‘You lucky bastard. You’re not only getting your first cap but you’ve won £50 as well.’ Not surprisingly, I was pretty worked up about the next day’s match, but I found myself sharing a room with Chris Ralston and he was so laid back that he was almost horizontal. He would lie on his bed quietly smoking a cigar, and the last thing I saw as I went to sleep, as well as the first thing I saw when I awoke the following morning, was the red glow of its tip. The bedroom was a fog of cigar smoke.
Chris wasn’t keen on John Burgess, both he and Andy Ripley were of the opinion he had arrived from an entirely different planet. They particularly didn’t enjoy being hugged and kissed by him, but players like Fran, Tony Neary and myself were used to his ways and knew just how passionate he was about everything. He drove Rippers mad, but Chris would just stand and look on in disdain as he had the forwards going through different forward moves with players flying off in different directions. Chris didn’t get picked to tour Australia at the end of that season and some time later, when he was playing at Richmond, he said, ‘If you see that bastard Burgess, tell him I’m still playing top-class rugby.’
It was Fran Cotton’s first game as skipper, Tony Neary was at open-side and Steve Smith was on the bench, so there were one or two familiar faces around. Peter Dixon and Andy Ripley completed the back row, with John Pullin and Stack Stevens joining Fran up front. Jan Webster and Alan Old were the half-backs, Peter Preece and Peter Warfield were in the centre and David Duckham and Peter Squires were on the wings, with Peter Rossborough at full-back. We had a police escort to Lansdowne Road, where I found the dressing rooms were horrible, dark and dank, and I was so nervous I spent about half-an-hour in the loo. I didn’t know anything about Ireland but I knew quite a bit about the player I would be up against – Willie-John McBride. He was winning his sixtieth Irish cap that day and was a hero after leading the British Lions on an unbeaten tour of South Africa the previous summer. He and I have met many times since and we have regularly spoken at dinners together. There is a tremendous aura about the man and I could understand why he was such a great captain and respected player. I don’t think he was the world’s best second row but he was a very impressive guy and I could imagine the impact he would make when he walked into the dressing room. It was his final season, and probably a journey too far for him. In the dressing room Fran, who had great respect for the Irishman, told me not to worry because he considered McBride to be past his best. I wish I had felt as convinced at the time.
Players have little superstitions and I liked to take the field last – something I was unable to do for much of my career except when I was playing for my club – so Dave Duckham, who in fact liked to do the same, kindly told me I could bring up the rear as it was my first international. I wasn’t quite prepared for the wall of noise that hit us as we ran out, and the actual match passed by in a complete whirl. I remember the first Irish line-out. Willie-John glared at me and I was petrified because I didn’t want to make a mistake. Whelan threw the ball to him at the front and the great man clambered all over me to win it. Fran delivered a quick pep talk and, at the next Irish throw, I managed to beat him to it and palm the ball back to Jan Webster who found touch farther downfield. I felt a lot better after that, I grappled with Willie-John after Ireland had taken a short penalty, and we ended up with a scrum when he was unable to release the ball. At least, after that, I felt I had got involved but I’m the first to admit that my contribution wasn’t great. Our hooker, John Pullin, didn’t throw the ball to me even once at the line-out, a tactic that I suspect had been planned beforehand in a bid to keep the pressure off me as much as possible.
We lost the game 12–9 with Billy McCombe proving the match-winner for Ireland, but we had murdered them up front, where Ralston gave Moss Keane a very hard time in the second row and Andy Ripley got the better of Willie Duggan, who I later came to know as quite an entertaining tourist. I know I’m not the first player to say that his international debut went by in a flash but that’s exactly how it seemed, the sheer pace of the game taking me by surprise. That may explain why I wasn’t able to make the impact in the loose that I had always endeavoured to do since moving into senior rugby.
Largely through the efforts of the pack, we actually led 9–6 with time running out, but our full-back, Peter Rossborough, slipped as he went to take a pass from scrum-half Jan Webster and McCombe swept up the loose ball to score and add the conversion. I remember slumping on to the bench in the dressing room afterwards and bursting into tears in sheer frustration as I tried to sort out in my mind what I might have done wrong or could have done better.
From the team’s point of view I believe England would have been better served if, instead of me, the selectors had opted for Nigel Horton or any one of several other decent second rows who had been around rather longer than I had and, as a result, were more experienced. I suppose common sense prevailed in that I wasn’t picked for any of the remaining games that season, but even though my debut hadn’t been the outstanding success I had hoped for I was happy to have joined what I saw as a very exclusive club and determined to work even harder at my fitness and to learn from the experience.
John Burgess consoled me in the dressing room afterwards and I soon perked up because I was about to embark on the real business of a rugby weekend in Dublin. The feet that I can’t remember anything of what happened after the dinner, a very sociable affair as you might expect knowing what good hosts the Irish are, is neither here nor there. There were, I was assured, not just players but also thousands of fens experiencing what you might call ‘lost-weekend syndrome’. My abiding memory of that dinner is noting the affection with which Willie-John was so obviously held when he stood up to make his traditional speech. He had long been my idol and, having played against him and experienced the remarkable presence of the man, I was more determined than ever to make it as a rugby player.
Roger Uttley had recovered from his back injury so was able to resume instead of me when England played France at Twickenham. I had expected nothing less but at least I was named on the bench so I assumed I couldn’t have done too much wrong in Dublin. For a moment towards the end of that game it looked as though Roger, having provided me with my first cap, would provide my passport to a second, as he was led from the field with blood gushing from a gash