Greig a real thorn in his former side
IT takes something out of the ordinary to win a European trophy. Or, at least, that’s the theory. On a cold and windy night in London, the reality that hit Edinburgh square in the soft tissue was altogether more prosaic.
Given the chance to make one more piece of history, Scotland’s first representatives at this final stage of a major Continent-wide competition ran into a good but hardly extraordinary Gloucester side — notable only for the act of thuggery that landed Bill Meakes with a straight red card — and came away nursing bruised feelings of what might have been.
That many of the English side’s points came from the boot of our own Greig Laidlaw, national team captain and surely still first-choice No 9 after out- classing young pretender Sam Hidalgo-Clyne on the night, is scant consolation.
The entire nation had thrown their support behind the club from the capital for this shot at a place in the record books. We dared to hope that Edinburgh’s hardheaded, smash-mouth, take-noprisoners brand of rugby would be enough to out-punch opponents from the middle of England’s much-vaunted elite division.
When the occasion called for a season’s best performance, though, the men in black looked like pale imitations of the side who had performed with such verve on their run to this showpiece finale.
They gave their all. In a game of ferocious hits and grinding battles, there was no sign of anyone holding anything back.
Yet their only try came against 13 men and, despite the Meakes red giving them a one-man advantage for almost the closing quarter hour, they couldn’t respond to the deafening support that sought to carry them over the line in this blessed corner of England’s capital. They could not strike the balance needed between desire and execution.
A lot of the pre-match talk had been about controlling emotions and avoiding the myriad distractions surrounding a major European final. Easier said than done, on a night when the Stoop positively hummed with excitement, from the fan zone to the bars, the executive boxes to the cheap seats. Even if not all of the latter had been sold out.
And, if any of the players had forgotten of just what was at stake, well, they could hardly ignore one obvious physical reminder.
A little over 45 minutes before kick-off, the Challenge Cup itself — more of a trophy than a cup, to be honest, but let’s not quibble — was given a last polish and placed on a plinth by the side of the pitch.
Did at least a couple of the hardened pros on either side give this prized bauble a wee wistful look as they passed by? They wouldn’t be human if they weren’t thinking about it just a little.
Those who hoped that Gloucester would be choked by nerves would have been heartened by a couple of fraught moments in the opening exchanges, Billy Twelvetress throwing a ball straight into a touch and John Afoa spilling a simple pass.
But oh, their back three can run, all right. Full-back Charlie Sharples seemed to beat about 18 men, if you include those on his own side he had to dodge, in the first real break of the game; he would take some stopping.
The opening try settled the Aviva Premiership side, who began to make Edinburgh look ragged in defence, with that first touchdown coming from a set play off of a line-out.
Edinburgh fans, who had shown that they were here in numbers and in good voice when HidalgoClyne gave their team an early 3-0 lead with a penalty conversion, were silenced. Struck dumb by concern over what might happen to a side with a tendency to perform in peaks and troughs.
Their biggest problem was Gloucester’s speed off the line in defence, hitting Edinburgh’s runners before they could get much beyond an amble. Without momentum, it’s tough to get into a game. What they needed was something to spark a revival. A big moment, an unlikely display of strength.
What they got was some brilliant — if desperate — defending, especially when down to 14 men by dint of a yellow card for Anton Bresler, and a gradual assertion of forward power.
Sure, they may have gone in trailing by seven at half-time. But the closing minutes of that first half had seen Edinburgh finally discover some forward oomph, with the pack getting their maul working and their scrum in synch, giving the backs few half chances to create line breaks.
When Meakes threw his arm out at Sam Beard with over 15 minutes remaining, even at 19-6 down, there was hope.
Especially when Ross Ford went crashing over the line under the posts; there was still time to pull off the greatest of escapes.
But they could not get the job done, could not even drive Gloucester back into their own territory. They weren’t good enough. Or maybe they j ust weren’t ready for this.
There is a reason that the list of Scottish teams to have triumphed in major European competitions is not overly long.
A reason why, in football, fans of Celtic, Rangers and Aberdeen take such pride over their boys of ’67, ’72 and ’ 83 respectively.
Some had spoken with optimism of Edinburgh’s rugby men taking their place alongside those greats.
That they failed to take the chance wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, in the natural order of sport. More’s the pity.