Yesterday... by Peter Jones

Yesterday showed one fact plainly. Rugby is a game of physical intimidation.

From Lawes crashing into contact, the frenetic shirt pulling of Itoje at the breakdown, the Farrell pantomime villain sneer, the “banter” of Marler, Eddie Jones wants his England side to dominate and overwhelm.

Other than a few moments either side of half time, when an exciting comeback threatened to produced one of the great games before another Farrell post splitter restored a ten point England advantage, Wales were battered. The English defence was the key here, as it was in the WC semi final against the All Blacks, and against Ireland. The speed and murderous intent of the Red Rose defensive wall smothers any attempts to pass the ball wide, and forces players to make decisions under the greatest pressure. Ireland folded under that pressure, but Pivac can take some comfort in the fact that Wales kept going. Although they always looked like they were playing the role of the brave underdog, they had enough technical nous and pure bravery to pin England back for long periods of the match. 

Apart from this intimidatory defence, the other Eddie Jones stamp on this England side is their speed in attack. They come from deep, at speed, and offer plenty of dummy runners to keep a defence guessing. Again, Jones wants the opposition to keep having to make big decisions under duress. After many years working under the eagle eyes of Shaun Edwards, the Welsh sessions with Pivac and his defence coach Byron Hayward are bound to be different. Technically, Edwards used to emphasise the kind of line speed that the English displayed yesterday, allied to an “out to in” pattern that cut down the options beyond the midfield. Hayward seems to favour an “in to out” pattern. A small tweak, but the steepness of the learning curve was emphasised by Eliot Daly’s try in the corner. Two experienced internationals in North and Halfpenny made the error under pressure, but it is arguably the case that a side coached by Edwards would not have conceded that score. The attack itself, however, was vintage Jones - it was a move executed at pace, with Ford running a clever angle to force the Welsh to make a decision. It proved to be the wrong one.

But beyond all this talk of dominant physicality and defensive systems, the Welsh briefly threatened to tear up the coaching manual. Their start to the second half seemed likely to upset the apple cart, with Tipuric’s try under the posts rounding off a move that was largely created by Tompkins. The young Saracens centre may have suffered a bit of a blip against Ireland, but at Twickenham yesterday he showed Pivac that he has a genuine international class centre three quarter in his stable. With his eye on the future, the coach may be tempted to see if he can see how Tompkins dovetails with Owen Watkin. At the next WC, it is highly unlikely that Parkes and Davies will still be occupying the Welsh midfield berths.

The four year cycle demands that coaches look beyond yesterday…

Monopoly - a short story by Peter Jones

When he woke up his father was dead.

Completely drained of colour, he lay next to him on the bed they had made from a door that had been gathering dust in the far corner of their cellar. His father had instructed the boy to fetch bricks from the yard and bring them down, one by one, so that he could prop his makeshift bed up against the dry section of wall at the far end. The boy had been proud of carrying two bricks on the last of his journeys, and his father managed a warm smile as he dropped them at his feet.

“Good lad, good lad” he murmured.

Then, groaning, with his hand clamped on his wounded rib cage, he had stooped to put the last two bricks into place.

Now his father lay, his ash-grey skin tugged across the bones of his face. The boy went to tear some more material to replace the bloodied pad on his father’s side, as he had done every morning for a month now. As he eased the pad away from the skin no blood oozed. He was able to touch the wound’s jagged edge, and his nostrils could sense that the blood was no longer fresh.

He left that afternoon. He was going to walk to his grandfather’s house, outside the city. His father had talked of that house as he slid in and out of consciousness in his final hours, and the boy had joined in these musings. He liked to visit his grandfather and sit out on his patio, the two of them playing Monopoly by the light of some candles. He was always allowed ‘Park Lane’ and ‘Mayfair’ – the two most expensive properties – as a head start.

As he emerged from the cellar, his battered Monopoly box under his arm, he remembered his father’s advice.

Stay away from the riders. Listen for their engines.

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