I also have to thank my parents for making me attend the Boys Brigade. This created a foundation that was very worthwhile because of the discipline the BB instilled – like going for badges, keeping the uniform clean for weekly inspection and working as a team. During my teenage years when there were many other distractions, I hardly ever missed a Friday night parade or a Sunday Bible class and I went on to gain the Queen’s badge, the Brigade’s highest honour. I came under the influence of some excellent role models like Al Christie and Riddell Graham – people who had given up their time to help others. It wasn’t all hard work and for me, it was an excellent outlet for my competitive nature. We competed against other battalions in the Borders at things like drill, table tennis and cross-country. But my personal highlight was a game called ‘Murder Ball’, which we played each week. It was really just a raw form of rugby played indoors, but because of the confined space and hard floors it was sometimes more physical than the real thing.
I was, as you may have guessed, a fairly competitive youngster, although winning itself wasn’t the sole motivation for me. I just wanted a chance to be out there doing some sort of sport and I was forever organizing games of football during break time at school. Looking back I must have taken this just a little too seriously. As there was only one rugby tournament – the Ward Sevens – for primary school children at the time, I concentrated my efforts on getting teams together for the handful of football five-a-side competitions that were held during the year. I remember arranging trials and selection meetings and even doing a poll with everyone in the school – St Peter’s Primary – to decide what would be the best name for the side. I had obviously come up with the two or three names that were on the ballot sheet. For the record, ‘Liverpool Lads’, ‘Rangers Reserves’ and ‘Tottenham Toddlers’ were the options. Not the most inspiring of choices I must admit.
Probably because I played more football at primary school and then went on to play on a weekly basis in Edinburgh, I was much more committeed to football than to any other sport. I loved playing for Hutchison Vale and went with them on a tour to Holland, although I never really felt part of the football scene as all my team-mates were from Edinburgh and I couldn’t make the midweek training sessions. Moving to Gala Academy meant that there were now weekly games of rugby to get stuck into and although I still harboured dreams of being a dual international for Scotland, I knew something would have to give. The following season saw the end of my football career as the games changed from Sundays to Saturdays and I had to decide which sport I would have to sacrifice. It wasn’t a difficult decision to make and probably the correct one – I had started at Hutchie Vale as a striker but ended up as a defensive midfielder, running all day but not possessing enough skilful touches to make it as a professional.
By that stage I was also a huge fan of the Scotland rugby team. I had first been to a Murrayfield international in 1982 – there had been a record crowd that day and my dad had to hold me above his head to avoid the crush outside the stadium. Being a Rangers supporter as well, I’d been to Tynecastle to watch them play Hearts and also to Hampden to see them play Aberdeen in the Scottish Cup Final. Whilst it was great to see my heroes like Ally McCoist and Davie Cooper close up, there was an unpleasant edge to watching football games at the time. The atmosphere was very threatening and was probably one reason why my dad had bought us tickets for the Aberdeen end at Hampden. However, the Aberdeen supporters were just as abusive as the raucous Rangers fans packed into the other end of the ground, and what made matters worse was that I was too scared to celebrate any of Rangers’ goals when they went on to win the match on penalties.
Having spent my youth watching Scotland win two Grand Slams in the space of six years, it is something of a disappointment to have been a member of the Scotland team for eleven years and not to add to this total. I suppose playing in the side that were crowned the last-ever Five Nations champions in 1999 is a pretty good recompense, but that year’s narrow defeat at Twickenham grates a little more with each passing year. However, I remain convinced that I helped Scotland topple the French in 1984.
With France leading 6–3 at half-time and their key players like captain Jean-Pierre Rives, stand-off Jean-Patrick Lescarboura and full-back Serge Blanco growing in influence, a Scottish Grand Slam was looking less and less likely. Sitting in the schoolboys enclosure, I repeated a prayer throughout the second half. I urged God to grant my wish of a Scotland victory, and I wrote ‘Scotland win’ and ‘Scotland Grand Slam’ over and over again with my finger on the wooden bench upon which I was perched. My prayers were answered as Jim Calder scored the decisive try, diving over at a lineout after the French failed to control the ball. The media later described the score as a brilliant piece of instinctive play by Calder. I still think there was an element of divine intervention involved.
The year 1984 was an inspirational one for Scottish rugby supporters and I had been hooked all that season as the team worked its way to the Grand Slam. The 32–9 hammering of the Irish was their best game of the championship, with my favourite player, Roy Laidlaw, scoring two tries. As two Gala players were at the heart of that season’s successes, it resonated even more. Captain Jim Aitken scored the match-winning try in Cardiff and full-back Peter Dods kicked seventeen points in the win over the French. A couple of days after the decider against France, just after I had started that morning’s paper round, I remember seeing Peter Dods in the dark, an electrician by trade, also beginning his working day. This was a fairly normal occurrence – such was the nature of the amateur game and also the number of internationalists living and working in the Borders.
The abundance of rugby knowledge in the area was plain to see and I was lucky that I had been able to come under the influence of some very astute teachers. After being invited to attend a summer sports school, I had sessions from Jim Telfer and Jim Renwick, one of the best ever Scottish players. He showed us how to use a hand-off and how to accelerate into the tackle – advice that I still draw on to this day. I also tried to watch and imitate those who played in my position, which is the best and fastest way to learn a sport. Although I had started as a scrum-half, I was now certain that stand-off was the best position to play. Watching the 1984 Grand Slam video, I noticed that when he was kicking to touch, John Rutherford placed his right hand underneath the ball, not on top as I had been previously taught. This adjustment, and later copying how Craig Chalmers struck his drop kicks, helped my kicking game immeasurably. I remember getting up in the middle of the night with my dad and my brother to watch Scotland play France in the opening game of the 1987 World Cup. As well as desperately hoping for a Scottish win, I was also starting to imagine myself running out in the future as a Scotland player.
I played sufficiently well to be selected for Scotland Under-15 against Wales Under-15 in 1988. I know it might sound clichéd, but the first time I wore the Scottish jersey was a hugely uplifting experience: something about the blue jersey made me swell up with pride. My performance in the game itself wasn’t anything special, and we lost 23–6 in front of a large Borders crowd. I hadn’t exactly frozen on this elevated stage, but I hadn’t done anything that suggested I’d attain any higher honours in the game.
It wasn’t until a year later that I convinced myself I could make it to the highest level. And on top of that, this epiphany came during a match in which I was on the wrong end of a fifty-point hammering. I managed to get picked for the South Schools team at the end of that season and even though Midlands Schools beat us heavily, I knew then that playing against better players only improved my own game. My build may have been more akin to the gable end of a crisp, but I played really well and scored two tries, one of them a longrange effort.
That season had seen a major improvement to my game, mainly because I was playing two, sometimes three, matches every weekend. Most people will probably agree with the maxim that being grown up isn’t half as much fun as growing up. This is certainly true in terms of my rugby career. The pressures, frustrations and emotional swings involved in professional rugby were not evident back when I was fifteen years old. Although my limbs were usually aching by the time I clambered into a bath on a Sunday night, I couldn’t wait to play the following weekend. On a Saturday morning I was now turning