The only other realistic choice to take over from Clive would have been Carwyn James, my coach at Llanelli, who had masterminded that 1971 Lions success. But Carwyn was too much of a maverick, too outspoken for the conservative tastes within the WRU. Any hopes Carwyn had of getting the job probably disappeared when he spoke before a large audience at Llanelli’s centenary dinner in 1972. A homage to his own club turned into a scathing attack on the Union and the men who ran it. The home truths hit home but rather than concede that Carwyn was right the Union closed ranks and put a black mark against his name. Carwyn could see that any Welsh coach should have the power and authority to do things his own way and pick who he wanted to pick. This was viewed as an all-out attack on the WRU and any possibility that the greatest coach of his generation might have had the top job probably went down the plughole that evening.
We will never know what Carwyn, possessor of the sharpest rugby brain I ever came across, might have done had he become national coach. He would have been hard pressed to have matched the record of Dawesy, who won 75 per cent of his matches in charge between 1974 and 1979, but I think Carwyn would have been there or thereabouts. One thing would have been certain, though. Carwyn would have demanded a role in shaping the next generation of Welsh rugby players, not merely the ones under his direct influence. He would have possessed the vision to see past the next game and to shape the future development of the sport in Wales. He would have seen the lean times coming long before anyone else and taken the decisive and necessary steps to put things right. Sadly, he was never given the opportunity. That Carwyn was denied any influence at that level is one of the great tragedies of Welsh rugby.
Having captained the Lions under James, at least John Dawes had learnt well from the master and he was able to put much of that sound knowledge into practice. Dawesy was quieter than Carwyn. There was no grand oratory, none of the lyrical coaxing that characterised Carwyn’s dressing-room patter. John was more into sound common sense, although he had a very secure grasp of tactics and he knew how to persuade players to mix their flair with pragmatism.
I had great respect for John from our own playing days together. My own career with Wales was just starting to get off the ground while John’s was finishing, and I benefited greatly from his experience. In 1970 I came into the side for a match against France in Cardiff after Barry John had dropped out through injury. It was a good French side, with a lot of pace behind, while our own back line had been badly hit by injuries and looked rather slow by comparison. John, as captain, turned to me in the dressing room just before we ran out and said, ‘Phil, I don’t want to see you pass the ball today. Just kick for position and let our forwards do the rest.’ I’d never been ordered to play like that before, but I did as I was told. It wasn’t much of a match but they were exactly the right tactics in the wet weather and we won 11–6.
That advice sticks in my mind because it went against John’s natural inclinations. He had been brought up on good football with London Welsh and he always wanted to put skill, flair and attacking intent at the top of his list of priorities. Luckily for him, and for the rest of the Welsh nation, he was to have a team well blessed to win games in that style for the five years he spent as Wales coach. But the Welsh team of that time never chucked the ball about for the sake of it. We got the basics right and did the groundwork before we constructed anything fancy.
John was fortunate in having his coaching underpinned by the influence of Ray Williams. Ray was responsible for the development of coaches as a coaching organiser and did the job superbly. He was ahead of his time, introducing the weekend sessions for the national squad and formulating drills and skills programmes which the rest of the world came to learn from. Though they seem long ago now, those were the days when the Aussies came over to Wales to learn the latest techniques and ideas on how to coach rugby. John took those training days at weekends, but it was Ray whose vision had brought about their introduction.
Looking back, those Sunday sessions seem so simple and straightforward compared to later years. We would try to run off the aches and pains of the previous day’s game and go through the rudiments of a couple of very uncomplicated moves. When JPR Williams caught the ball and counterattacked, the plan would always be for him to run towards the nearest touchline. Either Gerald Davies or JJ Williams would then offer themselves on the switch and either take the pass or act as a decoy. It wasn’t rocket science but it depended on good players making good decisions out on the field. John was our guide. He had a vision for the way he wanted us to play, but this was only a framework. It was up to the players to provide all the detail. We were constructing something and John was the one who surveyed the land, suggested the best materials and provided the boundaries. But the style, the shape, and especially the fine detail was left to the players. For me, that is what rugby is still all about. When I heard of Graham Henry’s infamous ‘pod system’ with the Lions in 2001, I could hardly believe it. Martin Johnson admitted after the tour he found it difficult to know whether or not he should be at a ruck or hanging back waiting for the next one. It wasn’t that he couldn’t decide; it was that he couldn’t remember. This was rugby by numbers, by rote instead of thought or expression. If it could really be played like Henry seemed to suggest then coaches and players could work it all out with the opposition beforehand and no one would need to set foot on the pitch.
On Sunday evening, we would break up and not reassemble until the Thursday for another hour-long training session. The players would be allowed to return home again that evening, following which we would meet up at The Angel Hotel in Cardiff on Friday afternoon and head for the cinema. We would get back at about 11pm, have a quick chat, and then go to bed. In the morning, there would be a team meeting after breakfast. John was fanatical about rugby, but he was wise enough not to let it show. Team meetings would normally begin with a chat about his beloved Manchester United before we talked rugby and if there were any small problems or grievances on the part of the players then John would act quickly to sort them out. He was always a players’ man.
Ours was a simple, basic, commonsense rugby. Dawesy approved because he shared that philosophy and knew that we had the players to get it right. For the most part the Wales coach at this time was exerting a greater influence over the Big Five when it came to selecting the team, but so many other aspects were still extremely amateurish. When I was dropped by Wales for the game against England in 1975, I learnt the news in a phone call from Peter Jackson of the Daily Mail. Jacko was on the ball, just as he still is these days, but I doubt that he’ll be the one telling Jonny Wilkinson that he’s dropped when the time comes. Things are done far more professionally these days, in that respect at least. I learnt the news from Peter because none of the selectors had the courage to call me. I never even knew why I’d been left out of the squad, but I suspect it had something to do with my decision to play a club game for Llanelli within days of pulling out of a Wales match against Australia because of injury. The fact that I had recovered sufficiently didn’t matter. Even so, I could have handled being dropped if the selectors had told me they were doing it. But to be told by a press man left a nasty taste in my mouth. Many things in rugby have changed for the worse in the past quarter of a century, but at least coaches have recognised their responsibilities when it comes to selection. When Woodward axes Wilkinson, or Steve Hansen tells Stephen Jones or Neil Jenkins they are being edged out, then at least those players can expect to hear it from the horse’s mouth.
It hurt being dropped, but as Pat and I had suffered the death of our first child only a year previously I was hardly going to lose perspective. As things turned out I was soon back in the side because John Bevan dislocated his shoulder playing against Scotland. My relationship with John Dawes had not suffered from my non-selection. I accepted the decision, if not the manner in which I learnt about it. In fact,