Kidney searching for a content Autumn.

There is a scene in Friends, the ever-present American sitcom where Chandler, the funny one explains that , to men, kissing is like the warm-up you have to sit through before Pink Floyd comes out. Rugby fans can be forgiven for thinking along the same lines with regards to the Autumn internationals. Lacking the fervour or colour of the Six nations, they are mostly to be endured rather than enjoyed. We gear up for the antipodean invasion hoping to snatch a win against the Aussies or even the Boks, and avoid embarrassment against New Zealand. Argentina serve the grudge course of the Autumn meal while the like of Samoa offer a chance for those stuck carrying tackle bags for the week, to sample some game time.

But this is no ordinary year. The clock is well and truly ticking to New Zealand 2011. Should Ireland ever want to banish to ghosts of France ‘07 then the preparations kick up a couple of notches with this series. Four physical tests in four weeks. Questions answered about key areas of the team.

One of which, as ever, is the front row. Time seems to have finally caught up with John Hayes. His predecessor in red and green, Tony Buckley looks ready to seize the number three shirt and retain it. Mike Ross has impressed this season. No more so than his performance for Leinster against Racing metro but he lacks Buckley’s mobility around the pitch. Tom Court has been steady for Ulster but has not done enough to edge out Cian Healy. Jerry Flannery’s injury problems leaves the contest for the hooker jersey between Connaught’s Sean Cronin and Ulster’s Rory Best. Best is more experienced but has misfired with his darts recently. Cronin has the dynamism and that little bit of devil to be a force at this level.

The centres and second-rows pick themselves barring injury. Two of the back-three look safe, leaving a tussle between Keith Earls and Luke Fitzgerald for the other wing spot. The back-row is much the same with Jamie Heaslip and Stephen Ferris certain to start against South Africa. Sean O’Brien’s form at seven deserves recognition despite some vintage David Wallace cameos. Denis Leamy adds beef from the bench. Scrum-half is tough to call. Eoin Reddan just shades it on form but it would be no surprise if Declan Kidney thought otherwise and opted for Peter Stringer.

The battle at ten remains delicately poised. But Jonathan Sexton’s pyrotechnics at Wembley against Saracens has probably swung it his way. The argument could be made anyway, that Sexton is the coming force at ten and needs a run of games to bank for next year.

Ireland will target the South Africa game as their best chance of victory against one of the top dogs. The Boks are hurting however from a meek Tri-Nations and have selected their strongest possible squad. It might be a stretch to suggest that perhaps the passage of time has eased the animosity between Argentina and Ireland but we can only hope that the dismal standard of recent games between them can be upped in the next one. There is a crushing inevitability about a loss to the All Blacks. Kidney can only hope it is close and a lot is learned. Three wins is achievable, two should be a minimum. But for the Irish coaching team the warm up act starts here. Its along way to Pink Floyd.

He waits

The British and Irish Lions are playing South Africa in the second test of the test series in Pretoria. The Lions lost the first test narrowly and needed a win to take the series to the final game. Ronan ‘O Gara was on the bench for the first test and some had suggested he play in the second, this is a fictional account of his thoughts on the lead up to and during that second test.


We wait. Another hotel. Another sheet, another cushion. The swirling cycle of air-con humming overhead. They don’t see this. Preening, perfect gear. Snapshots. Quotes. Glory and pain. But never the wait. Should I have hope? He didn’t go so well last week. Everyone talking about the fucking scrum but what about those penalties he missed? Would have swung it our way. It’s not just self-belief. I would have nailed them.

Training going well. Haven’t missed a kick. Putting Roberts and the like into space, making those tackles. I can feel Edwards nostrils glaring just before I try and make the hit. He wants me to miss. He can point and say that’s it. There is your reason Rodge, you cant put him down. How would you be if Spies ran at you? Its that game now. Freaks built for car-crashes. Mine are tired of having to strap me in. My world slows when they approach. Two hands on the ball becomes one when they see me, Gum-shield smile with a glint in the eye. Its O’Gara. Smash him. I go high or low and end with studs on my back. No matter, get up, give me the ball. Lets see if the wrecking ball can run sixty yards.

Paulie is under pressure. Hacks waiting in the long grass. What a way to be. You are playing on Saturday. Spending ten years at home, no-one pressuring me but myself. Come Wednesday night, I’ll be back twelve years of age with a knot in my stomach, hoping the name is read out. Twenty-two does not sit easy. Not like ten does.

Jones trained well today. Made his kicks and created space. Even made a couple of breaks. Breaks he made. Beat the tackle, offloaded. I’m hoping Geech still has those pens in his mind. He didn’t bottle it but his technique is wrong. It’s ugly, deformed. He goes straight at the ball. I wince watching him. I line mine up after him. A new source of power. I stab the tip of my right toe into the ground now as I approach, one smooth arm-swing and step and bang. My own gum-shield smile.

We potter around the edge. Gatland calls us in. A group on one side against the other. Short, sharp drills. Ball in hand, I loop one onto Drico’s hand. I hit him with the same one against Argentina in the world cup. He just needs to bend his run an inch and he’s in. Not many can do it. But he can. Not many can fling out the pass like I can. I am purring now, little grubbers, wrap-round’s. They get it and offer nothing. Jones has made his tackles and he figures that is all he needs. Heaslip is carrying, I fade out. Take the gamble and try and stop him, I go low, hold him up before Wally brings him down.

I feel good stepping off. No more could have been done. But their minds are made up. I lay, suspended waiting for the call. Congratulations Ronan you have made it into the test twenty-two. Twenty-two. I hang up and watch the fan go around. I wont ever get my Lions turn.

Game day, guys in the zone. Me trying to blend into the background. Some words for some of the fellas. Nothing for the others. I wish Stephen all the best. I sit and listen to Geech, he can really speak but by the fourth week it starts to sound like what the yanks call a stump speech. Studs clatter, throats gargle. Players embrace. It is going to be a war. And I will be watching.

We start well, Rob goes over early for a try. A brilliant offload from Jones. Burger is in the bin for the boks. Gouging. They, like the All-Blacks don’t sniff at the dark arts at this level. The commitment is ferocious, obscene. The red and green roar, commanding Romans baying for Christian blood. Some moments of class. Du Preez seems to slow the lot down, pop little passes, snipe little runs. We cough up a stupid try. Basic defence from a line-out. Pietersen in for an easy finish. We lead at the break. Geech implores them to keep going. Gatland is leading an inquest into the try and Edwards is just shouting. Paulie is going around to everyone, an arm here, a rollicking there. We could be in Musgrave down by three to Ulster. Nothing changes with him.

The Bok’s begin motoring. Nothing, aside from Du Preez is inventive. There is no grand plan to the world champions. They just run harder and faster than anyone else. Sustain it and they have no answer. Guys are running on empty. Jenkins and Adam Jones are gone because of concussion, Drico follows. He flattens the biggest bok he can find and suffers for it. Some lady boy he is. Edwards starts to look my way. Twenty-two on my back. Your last option. Geech beckons with a nod. My turn?

Twelve minutes, game in the balance. Roberts off for me. Just make your fucking tackles is the Edwards instruction. We are patched up, miss-matches all over field. Forwards in close contact, making yards on backs. Backs hitting props in space. Fourie gets the ball out wide. I fade to meet him. I aim low. Stop him at source. He pumps his legs and batters through me. I feel my right eye squelching against my socket, I turn and look to see him ground it. It takes a minute to confirm but its good. We get a penalty to level. Jones nails it. Ugly but good. My eyesight is reduced to half. Three left and level. This series is there. Give me a chance to win it.

The ball is pumped into our twenty-two. It bobbles towards the try line. I pick it up and evaluate. Tommy is standing right next to me. What the fuck is he doing? A game to be won. I point forward and roar at him to go. Thirty seconds left, one bounce of a ball and we win. I launch it. I am back on my bed watching the fan cut the air, the ball spirals into the sun. This is my turn. It drops towards me in what seems an instant, to Du Preez it takes a lifetime, my good eye sees him seizing it up. He is getting there. No gum-shield. He wants to be sure. By the time I arrive he is in the air. I brush off his legs. He falls. Penalty. I don’t need to see the rest. The script is written. I trudge off. The boys don’t meet my eyes. When they do, try as the might to hide it, they scream, why didn’t you kick it out? I wait. Battered, broken and bowed. It was my turn but it didn’t spin my way.

World of Wayne a cautionary tale.

It is a truth universally recognised, that a young superstar playing for Manchester United,in possession of vast fortune, should never cross Sir Alex Ferguson. The old knight's tale at Old Trafford is strewn with cast aside lieutenants. Some foolhardy, others feckless but all at the end expelled from the empire. As the trickle of stories on Sunday about Wayne Rooney became a flood, United fans could be forgiven for shrugging and murmuring that another hero is about to bite the dust.

It all started in Munich last March. United met Bayern in the first leg of the quarter-final of the Champions league. They were on their way to securing a valuable score draw when Rooney, trying to intercept an onrushing Mario Gomez, went over on his right ankle. It was not a stretch to say that any red hopes of silverware were effectively ended once he sustained the injury. Bayern scored as he lay stricken on the ground and United never recovered. He regained fitness towards the end of the season but lost all sharpness as his subsequent dire World cup performances attested.

Post World cup, with tabloid knives sharpened and court injunctions weakening, the story of Rooney's infidelities with a prostitute arrived with the force of a Tiger four-iron. Ferguson, citing the ongoing ankle problem removed Rooney from the action. That he did so at Goodision aroused only a degree of suspicion. After all he subjected Cantona and Ferdinand to Leeds, but his defence that he didn't want the game to become all about Rooney seemed plausible. The insipid performances of Rooney in the aftermath of that however seemed to suggest all was not right between manager and player. Whispers of punishment got louder. Rooney, on England duty informed the world he never had an ankle problem and it was his manager's decision not to play him despite him being in his mind one hundred percent fit. This, in Ferguson's eyes, was a betrayal. His fibs about injuries have now become a laughing stock but this one was designed to protect a suffering player. There was a degree of punishment in the treatment. That much is undeniable but can Rooney honestly say he doesn't deserve it?

That he chose international week to stick it to his manager can only have enraged Ferguson more. A now confirmed fully fit Rooney sat on the bench against West Brom and was introduced after Darron Gibson despite United chasing a goal. The tabloids spoke of irreparable damage to their relationship with Rooney's camp all but confirming he has no intention of signing a new contract.

The sand glass has been well and truly tilted in this story and we all know the outcome. It is worth repeating the names of those pieces that Fergie flicked from his chess board. Ince, Stam, Beckham, Van Nistelrooy and Roy Keane. Should Rooney join that list, it will be his choosing. He may flourish away from Old Trafford but a man with his self-destructive personality should stay under the tutelage of the best. If not, then he who is nicknamed "Wazza" could well go the same way as his nick-namesake.

Put them under pressure Trap. Needs be.

What was extraordinary about the Republic of Ireland’s defeat to a sleek Russia last Friday night was the statistic that Ireland had forty-seven percent possession. The stat man obviously counts the time the ball was airborne because, for the most part, Aviva spectators were craning their necks like tourists in downtown Manhattan, as another Given missile took flight.

It is a percentage tactic and Trappatoni is a percentage coach. Four-four-two is his formation because that is what the majority of his players are happy with. He plays two holding midfielders to compensate for being minus one in an often crowded international middle ground. He expects work and creativity from his wingers. In that order. He lets Doyle scavenge and Keane pounce because that is what they naturally do. He is now being decried for applying practical methods to reach an objective.

Qualification is a results business. No-one was complaining when “Trap ball” worked in Yerevan. The calls for Fahey, Gibson or James McCarthy is based on the notion that one controller can change a team but that is simply not the case. Trappatoni has given Ireland an identity, one they are comfortable with. In the idealistic clamour for the beautiful game realism, from a green perspective is a Kevin Kilbane punt. Ireland play to their strengths. Paris, is of course the reference point for the purists. We can play they scream based on that. Watch it again. A lot of our best moments came from direct play. It was fast but the important part was, it was accurate. The central axis that night was Glenn Whelan and Keith Andrews. Paul Green was durable against Russia but Andrews is hardly a dramatic improvement on him. Richard Dunne’s honesty in the aftermath of the game was welcoming. Some interpreted it as an attack on the coach but he merely said that they, as players didn’t take responsibility on the ball. A lot must be said also about the excellent Russian performances and tactics.

John ‘O Shea was rushed into every clearance or pass resulting in too much being asked of Kevin Doyle. Kilbane was mercilessly targeted and it was chastening to watch such a loyal figure committing a cardinal error for the Russian’s second. Russia pressed and passed and against a team relatively shorn of players in form or fitness, it worked. Dick Advocaat got his tactics spot on and got the breaks when he needed them such as the first and third goals.

Ah yes you tut, but where was plan B? the ubiquitous plan B. One conjures up an image of a coach in trouble going to his desk and tearing off the seal on the envelope marked B. The fact is and it shall ever remain, is that goals change games. That Trappatoni believed that Irelands best way back was to presevere in the game plan was nearly proved correct in a frantic finale. He may change tomorrow night. The absence of Doyle nearly demands it. If it is to be Shane Long that replaces him then the service will have to be quick and in a lot of cases direct. A percentage ball if you will.

Raindrops......

It is raining in Wales today. No, really, it is and quite a lot too. I stumbled out of bed on a rare day off, hazily made my way to my sofa just in time for the first tee shot in the 2010 Ryder Cup. It had been eagerly anticipated, much discussed from all manner of pundits and journalists yet no-one seemed to have paid any heed to the weather man. It was Dustin Johnson who struck the first ball in anger, beads of water dropping rhythmically from his cap. If there was any doubt just who the big Texan was or who he was playing for it was dispelled in an instant for the Americans riposte to the nasty European weather was Harlem Globetrotter tracksuits. Their names emblazoned in star lettering on their backs. WOODS. USA. Thanks for that, I was wondering.

The rain continued unabated. One was expecting a window cleaner to pop up on the sky screens to wipe it clear. Tiger looked as if he would rather be in a press conference. In the midst of weather some fine golf broke out. Lee Westwood took the mantle of European leader in his stride while Jeff Overton holed a tremendous putt from the edge on one to banish any rookie nerves he may have had. And then we stopped. Steve Stricker could not place the ball anywhere on the fairway on the fourth. Sanity prevailed and the players rushed indoors. The Americans had to replace their waterproofs because they were just, frankly, ugly pants very susceptible to water.

The deadline for play to resume came and went at twelve and then one. The denouement will now come on Monday. The weather’s good. I’ve checked.