Graeme Hill: Money did not buy success

Graeme Hill

Good God, there's been altogether too much wringing of hands about the third test and its solemn significance in conjunction with the blasts in London. The saddest and strangest game of rugby ever played. Circuses inside the arena, and outside Rome still smoulders, wrote one front page journalist. Oh come on, Wordsworth, stop writing with a trowel. There was no option. You play the game. Get on with it and bugger the terrorists. London, of all cities has taken much much worse and soldiered on in superb English defiance.

Name the coach of the 1966 side. The 1971 side? The '77 side? '83? If you can you're a rugby buff, but remarkably the general populace will remember this tour more for its coach than any of the players.

There are a few reasons for this. One is that the players haven't done anything to be remembered for, thus leaving Sir Clive the most famous remaining individual on the tour. Another is that he came here in possession of that Holy Grail we so envy, the Rugby World Cup, and it is probably envy that is the underlying provocation for so much of the unwarranted Clive-bashing.

Some criticism is, however, thoroughly warranted. Did he really say what he lacked was a big enough squad? As John McEnroe so eloquently put it You CANNOT be serious. I think the idea actually is that if you select enough players and play enough games, you're bound to fluke a good selection somewhere. Then simply run with that idea on the Saturday. Genius. I'll coach the Lions if that's the plan in the future.

With the advent of professionalism it was a reasonable argument to believe that money would eventually equate to success. It usually does. Hence, over time England would emerge as the rugby superpower. I took the English World Cup win in 2003 as an early indication of this trend.

Well, the trend is being well and truly bucked. It's a four-nation team, true, but at every point in every test, the Lions players looked like a clutter of earnest plumbers, accountants and lawyers pitted against stronger, fitter, more skilful professionals. Dwayne Peel may be a fine footballer, but he still looks like an Eton sixth-former. Byron Kelleher in comparison is a bulging, muscular athlete and the theme is repeated all over the park.

There is a sense of righteousness in this overwhelming victory of good rugby over quite vulgar expenditure.

As for on-field Lions action, the memory cupboard is bare, barring a bit of biff. That really is appalling isn't it. Off field is a different story.

The real Lions stars on this tour have been those greats of past campaigns who arrived here in the wake of the tour. I've already given myself an uppercut to smack me out of any sepia-toned nostalgic mist. The old coots really are characters. They revel in the company of others. They are to a man, superb conversationalists. They engage in ordinary discourse like it's a hearty meal.

They tell stories and form arguments with effortless colour and warmth, as if this gift is somehow an element of their culture. It probably is. I sincerely hope professionalism can still find room for such characters. I fear it won't. You have to live a rich and varied life to have stories to tell. Beep-test yarns don't cut it. Give me the Irish centre pairing of Shenanigan and Malarkey any day.

I'd vouch that there has never been an atmosphere at any ground in the history of New Zealand sport quite like that at Eden Park on Saturday night. Lions tourists, your team does not deserve you. You seem to have sport in good proportion. It is a cheerful undertaking, not war. You've set the example of how to be gracious in defeat. If only we could be that gracious in victory. We can learn a great deal from you.