“‘Am I going there?’ I spluttered.
“‘Sure. I’m in a position to give you what you want. You’ve convinced me that you can put together a Welsh side greater than the present one, and I think it’s a grand idea, really I do, and I know that Thor, Odin, Loki, Tyr, Baldr and the rest will agree with me. Asgård has its own rugby team, you see, and we’re good, better than the All Blacks in their prime.’
“‘So why watch rugby in Cardiff?’ I asked.
“‘I often come down to Midgard – that’s the world inhabited by men – to check out the sport. I’ve supported Wales for almost one hundred years. All the Norse deities do the same. In fact I noticed Freyja, the ravishing goddess of fertility, in the crowd, rooting for the other side.’
“‘The blonde in the cloak of robin feathers? I noticed her too!’
“‘Listen to me. If I help you, it’s not an act of charity, it’s purely selfish, Odin’s boys need some decent competition.’
“‘Is the Asgård team really so mighty?’ I asked.
“‘We’ve won the Six Million Nations’ Cup six million times in a row… Our last game was against the Microscopic Giants of Microgigans, supreme champions of Happenstance, and we thrashed them 6,567-3. Naturally we had to perform the ‘Rite of the Blood Eagle’ on their manager after the match, but we always do that to the managers of every losing side.’
“‘Is that a pleasant rite?’ I asked gingerly.
“Ullr leered at me. ‘No.’
“I have to be honest here and report that I felt suddenly nervous, but behind the fear was a stronger emotion, a patriotic desire to see Wales beat the best that Odin could throw at us, and I decided to accept the challenge. We formally shook hands on it and then Ullr explained to me how we were going to get to Asgård. Instead of staying on the bus all the way to Porthcawl, we would get off at Bridgend and he would summon suitable transport from there. I had read some Norse mythology when I was younger, not much but enough to remember it featured a ship named Naglfar that was made entirely from the uncut fingernails of dead men. I confided in my new companion that I didn’t care to travel on such a vessel as I feared my itches might be over-scratched.
“He roared with laughter. ‘Even the Norse gods move with the times! We’ll get to Asgård on a bus like this one!’
“I joined in with his laughter but my mouth drooped sourly when we arrived at Bridgend bus station. Ullr raised a ram’s horn to his lips, blew a vibrant note and suddenly a new bus trundled into view – a bus made from fingernails! I boarded with a sigh, chose a seat without any grime, toe-jam or bum-fluff under it, and gazed indifferently out of the window. The passing landscape rapidly grew strange, the familiar Welsh grey skies became blood red, fiery and full of flying shapes, some of them winged women in armour.
“I formed the distinct impression we crossed a rainbow bridge made of solid light, and drove up the trunk of a monstrous tree, quite against the laws of gravity and sanity, before suddenly appearing at the borders of Asgård, the realm of the Gods. Without pausing for a toilet break, we approached the walls that surrounded this paranormal kingdom and passed through a gate of blood-rusted iron. The road twisted between towering cliffs and finally emerged on the Plain of Idavoll at the very centre of Asgård. A part of this plain was a zone known as Gladsheim where the hall of Valhalla was located.
“Ullr had been silent during the journey but now he asked. ‘Have you had much experience at organizing sporting events?’
“‘Yes, I once arranged a special kind of steeplechase for a local fete. It involved a selection of vicars, sextons, vergers and deacons chasing after the steeple of their church while I ran off with it.’
“‘Ridiculous. How could a mortal man carry a steeple?’
“‘Sometimes I have big hands,’ I said.
“‘I think you are a liar,’ he cried, ‘rather like Loki, the god of mischief, who you might be unlucky enough to meet; but I find you entertaining nonetheless. Tell me something else highly unlikely.’
“‘I once posted myself in a box. Does that count?’
“He was gravely disappointed. ‘No.’ But then he saw that we had nearly reached the hall of Valhalla. ‘Here you will find all the dead Welsh rugby players from the past. You may select any you like.’
“This prospect pleased me and I have to admit that I was feeling confident. Let me describe Valhalla as I remember it. For a start it was large, smoky, dark, smelly and noisy. The floor was awash with spilled mead and ale. I went inside and found myself thrust into a chaos of shouting and fighting. It was just like Wind Street in Swansea on Friday night. There were long dead Viking warriors hitting each other with axes, good practice for Ragnarok, the end of the universe, or so Ullr informed me. I wandered rather nervously among the benches, plates of food and the severed limbs. Red beards and red-rimmed eyes formed an ocean of northern ire into which I wallowed like a punctured coracle.
“Despite the mass of people I felt horribly alone, and then abruptly I recognized a shape in the flicker of a brazier.
“‘Gwyn Nicholls!’ I cried in amazement. ‘You were captain of the side that won the Triple Crown in 1902.’
“‘That’s right, boyo. But who are you?’
“I recognized another shape. ‘Watcyn Thomas! In 1931 you played 70 minutes with a broken collarbone and scored a try.’
“‘That’s right. Against Scotland.’
“Ullr peered over my shoulder. ‘Do you choose these two?’
“I nodded and Ullr prodded them along with the point of his sword. And that is how it went for the next few hours, with me wandering through the dimness and bumping into great dead Welsh players, and Ullr confirming whether I wanted to add them to my team or not. Eventually I had fifteen players and we left Valhalla and plodded along to a training ground where the god left me with a wink and a shake of the hand. I nursed my bruised fingers and pondered. From what Ullr told me just before he left, I had only one week to get my side in shape before the big match that would take place in the new stadium on the far side of the Well of Urd, beneath Yggdrasil, the World Tree.
“I confided my worries to my team. ‘It’s not much time!’
“‘Don’t be daft, boyo!’ cried Dewi Bebb, winner of thirty four caps between 1959 and 1967. ‘We’re all fit and keen.’
“‘That’s right,’ added Ray Cale, hero of the 1950 Grand Slam and notorious for his robust play. ‘We’re ready for anything!’
“I accepted their reassurances and we started training. My main problem was that I didn’t know the opposition, I hadn’t seen the Asgård team play and thus I couldn’t devise any effective strategies against them. I had to settle for making guesses based on what I remembered about Norse mythology. Then it occurred to me I could ask my players to fill in the details I didn’t know. They regularly went to watch Odin’s boys thrash all other teams in existence. The news wasn’t good and I began to regret ever boasting to Ullr on that bus out of Cardiff. For a start, ordinary rugby balls weren’t used up here but the severed head of a frost giant with quite different bouncing qualities.
“I also learned precisely what the Rite of the Blood Eagle involved. The victim is tied facing a post and his ribs are cut from his spine and his lungs pulled out through his back, so that they resemble wings, inflating and deflating as slowly and agonizingly his life drains away.
“The days passed and my confidence began to drain away also. I realized I had made a bad mistake. Allow me to explain my mistake as best I can… It’s natural for human beings to