It##Q##s funny how things turn around. Especially in the psyche of we Welsh supporters. The boys only need to win two more games and they##Q##ll be forever legends, talked of in the same awed tones as JPR, Barry and Gareth. My son will be saying to my grandson, “Yes, I went to school with Sam, and to be honest, he could never catch me on the rugby pitch…” I##Q##ll be happy to point out that I was waving the flag for Doctor Bob way before anyone else, “I first noticed him in his pram…”
And of that tactical genius, “Sir” Robert Howley, we all knew… Really we did. Stan is that rare combination of humility and hidden depths. The mastermind who plays his cards close to his chest. The dynamic chess master whose strategy was so arcane, not even the finest rugby minds could fathom it, until it was fully unleashed. Then it was too late, and a red tide swept over the RWC.
Then there##Q##s Edwards, the only Englishman since David Duckham good enough to be Welsh. We##Q##ll forget that his parents didn##Q##t have enough money to drive to Cardiff for his birth, safe in the knowledge that we know they wanted to.
Finally… Finally. The Master. We may have called him Cement Head. We may have derided him with references to Gatlandball. But we all knew, that deep within that affable kiwi persona beat the heart of a true Celtic warrior. He is a general, a wartime planner of unparalleled guile and genius, a god amongst men. Move over Carwyn, W.D. Gatland is ready to take the torch.
These men are ready to be legendary. Just two more games. Of course.. If they fack it up…