Tommy Martin: There is a scent of something promising in the Munster air

In another world, a nicer one, the ugly little win over Castres would be quickly swallowed ahead of another big crowd and another crack at Leinster. But it’s not a nice world

Thu, 23 Dec, 2021 - 06:00

Tommy Martin

Normality slipped out the back door quietly last Saturday night.

Benjamin Urdapilleta sent it on its way from Thomond Park, without so much as a by-your-leave. Castres’s veteran Argentinian out-half kicked the ball out of play with the clock in the red and his team within striking distance of Munster. He’d seen enough and you couldn’t blame him, though we knew this was the last time a big crowd would gather on these shores until, oh who knows. It was that kind of night.

In another world, a nicer one, the ugly little win over Castres would be quickly swallowed, a sharpener ahead of Stephen’s Day and another big crowd and another crack at Leinster. Irish rugby’s own ill-tempered festive family get-together. What better way to blow off the cobwebs.

But it’s not a nice world, so Saturday’s imperfect night was it, for a while. There is no winter warmer against that crowd from up the M7 nor big winter houses at rugby matches for the time being.

We went along, the four brothers-in-law and I, to help brother-in-law No. 4 celebrate his 40th birthday in style. Kick-off was 8 o’clock: Two days hence that will be curfew time. It felt like last helicopter out of Saigon stuff. Steak and pints beforehand and everything. While the match was the main event, all our party are at that life stage when the half-chance of getting out of the house on a Saturday night is snapped up no-questions-asked, oncoming wave of infectious disease or not.

The brothers-in-law are Limerick hurling stock first and foremost but were of the generation swept up in Munster’s long march. Though I sense brother-in-law No. 3 is more of a Man United man if it came down to it, to varying degrees, they enjoyed the Munster glory years to the full. God be with the days of trips to Biarritz and Cardiff and such places when the great quest was in full swing and responsibilities were few.

When I started knocking around the county the flags were red and had the fella with the yellow antlers on them. Now they’re mostly green and white. The great Munster team and then the great Limerick team. It’s like having two Christmas dinners. They’ve had a good run.

Walking down the quays towards Thomond, brother-in-law No. 4 talks about how he and his pals used to pitch up in the city for the big Heineken Cup days when you hadn’t a hope of a ticket, just to soak in the atmosphere around the Sin Bin and Jerry Flannery’s Bar. It all feels a long time ago, Munster’s glory era and casual day-long drinking sessions.

There is scent of something in the air though, and that’s not just the steak and pints. The Coventry kids from the week before. Nothing like the promise of youth to get old soldiers hitting the road again.

Twelve senior debutants helped put Wasps to the sword, the new boys drawn from schools and clubs from the province’s four corners.

You didn’t have to be a Munster rugby historian to see how that chimed with the old days, when the heroes seemed to have been pulled from the very soil like big dirty spuds.

Then there’s the news about Johann van Graan. It feels like what they call ‘a hinge point’. With all due respect, no one is too devastated, which is hard on the mannerly South African who kept Munster competitive without making demands on the Brasso. Is it because he is quietly spoken fella, not really a stand up and fight merchant? Well, Declan Kidney was hardly dripping in charisma.

Is it because, on the big days, in games against Leinster and the semi-finals, the team seemed to shrink rather than swell, inverting the old formula by which they produced their best when it mattered most? Probably that.

Everyone is talking about Ronan O'Gara's piece in the Irish Examiner the day before, analysing the contents as if the La Rochelle coach were the Oracle at Delphi. It’s accepted he is passing on Munster for now. The line about exchanging a telling glance with Jess is noted. Happy wife, happy life. But what else is he saying? Van Graan is damned with faint praise. A direction change is called for. Less box-kicks. Munster are not as far away as they fear. The mention of Mike Prendergast gets brother-in-law No. 1’s approval. Interesting.

For a Saturday before Christmas, Limerick is dead quiet, bar the match crowd. A samba band clanks away outside the Dug Out Bar. The vibe is contained, the air of a crowd who know they are straining against the public health wind just a bit. Inside the ground the disco lights and pyrotechnics do their thing but when the match starts, it never really gets going. The team don’t give the crowd anything to get behind and vice versa. A lot of people are wearing masks and others are probably just not quite sure about it all. Castres have sent a second string and it feels like they are doing a dogged day’s work. It takes on the air of a fixture being fulfilled.

There is little inspiration, no miracles tonight. Brother-in-law No. 2 takes the opportunity for a snooze. Some young lads with too much on board disrupt the silence as Ben Healy measures a penalty. When the ball is sailing over the bar, an older voice shouts “Shut the fuck up!”

The man is sitting near us and, as he seethes, his wife rubs his shoulder soothingly.

Munster, to be fair, look like a team who’ve had bits of their squad divided and isolated and sent hither and thither this last month. There are two lively moments — Damien De Allende’s try denied and Jack O’Donoghue’s one granted. The TMO giveth and he taketh away.

As Urdapilleta calls a halt we are already shuffling out to find a late pint. Great night, shame about the match, it’s agreed. Walking along the quays the Shannon is full and high, roaring its way towards the Atlantic. That much we can say for certain.