Calon (12 page)

As Roger makes his way up St Mary’s, a river of rugby fans flows against him, the Welsh and the French
patterning
the street with reds and blues from side to side. Stalls selling scarves, flags and hats occasionally break the flow, as does the odd ticket tout standing motionless beside a lamp post, threading their repeated offer into the cacophony of the crowd. ‘Buy or sell tickets! Buy or sell tickets!’ Their prices, at this hour, are well into three figures.

Because of its cathedral-like position at the centre of the city, an international match in the Millennium Stadium triggers an intensification of Cardiff ’s
population
, rather than a dispersal. Like a roosting starling murmur tightening on the wind above a wood, so Wales contracts about the stadium on a match day. While a shopper on Oxford Street in London or on the Royal Mile in Edinburgh might be completely unaware of a rugby match at Twickenham or Murrayfield, it’s
impossible
to be on the streets of the Welsh capital and not know that a game is being played in its stadium. From
early morning until late at night the resonance of those eighty minutes electrify the city. The streets pulse with an ever-inward movement as trains and buses from across the country bring the stadium’s crowd into Cardiff. Some will travel for hours to get here. The extra carriages added on the trains from the valleys, from Swansea and Bridgend, from Abergavenny and Cwmbran, will develop a spreading virus of red with every hour nearer the game. Today many of those arriving on them will not even have tickets to get inside the stadium. But they still want to be here, to watch on giant screens in the civic areas and in pubs and clubs, to be within sound and sight of the arena where it, whatever it may be, will happen. They want to be here to drink, to share and to feel themselves more than themselves, as if by being closer to the stadium they are somehow closer to an idea of Wales.

In her poem ‘Toast’, Sheenagh Pugh describes the recently built Millennium Stadium as

And she’s right, there is something imposing and ‘landed’ about the way the stadium sits within Cardiff, its jointed masts angling their Concorde-like tips into previously unoccupied slips and pockets of air. While its West Stand floats above the river, its South abuts challengingly up against office blocks, the joint of the south-eastern mast
protruding above Park Street like the prow of a ship. Viewed from further away, from the hills of Fairwater or the Grangetown link road, there is something kinetic about those jointed masts, as if at any moment the whole stadium might lift itself on them and, like a giant insect, scuttle away. At closer quarters, with the sun behind them, those skeletal masts seem to aspire towards spires, as if the stadium would make a claim beyond its location upon the spiritual needs of those who congregate within its stands.

As Roger makes a left into the crowds on Caroline Street, where drinkers are already spilling out of the Brewery Quarter, a woman in a red cowboy hat passes him wearing a T-shirt several sizes too small, its slogan printed across her chest: ‘Welsh Lamb @ the Grand Slam’. Further on down the street a Frenchman in a beret is having his cheeks painted with the colours of his flag. A group of boys from the Rhondda look on, all wearing dark wigs of white-bandaged curls in homage to Mervyn Davies, the great Welsh number eight who died yesterday.

For Roger the experience of this morning’s stroll is something like that of a director walking through his audience before they enter the theatre to see his play. No one recognises him as he makes his way down Caroline Street and turns left onto the Hayes. And yet, in no small way, this day for which these people have come into the city is Roger’s creation. As such, it is also the consequence of another match Wales played forty-six years earlier, when, as a twelve-year-old, Roger boarded a Brownings
bus chartered by Cefn Cribwr RFC and travelled into Cardiff to watch Wales against Australia. Standing in the West Terrace of the Arms Park that day Roger had watched Gerald Davies, Barry John and Delme Thomas all make their debuts for Wales. Wales lost 11–14, but for Roger the match lit a passion for Welsh rugby, a passion which would, eventually, lead him to taking this walk today through a match-hyped Hayes as the CEO of the Welsh Rugby Union, on the brink of a game in which, as the Blims sang in the stadium, ‘We all hope Wales wins the Grand Slam.’

Every modern rugby union has two hearts: the players and the business. Neither can keep beating without the rhythm of the other. However disparate their worlds might be, success is rarely achieved without embracing the symbiotic relationship between the two. What
happens
on the pitch fuels the boardroom, and what happens in the boardroom fuels events on the pitch. Roger plays no part in the selection of the players or in their efforts on the field, in the tactics or methods of the coaches or in the medical practices which keep the squad at strength. But just as Warren has spent the last five years building up a team of players and coaches, so Roger, as CEO, has spent the same period building up his own backroom team to help lift the fortunes, both playing and financial, of the WRU. In his own way, within his own field, Roger has enabled today to happen, even though he was never meant to.

Rugby had always been Roger’s escape, not his career; a hinterland away from his work. His childhood home in Cefn Cribwr had looked over the village rugby pitch on Mynydd Bach, but he never played for the club. Similarly, at the local Cynffig Comprehensive, it was music, not rugby, that caught Roger’s attention. He played at
wing-forward
in the sixth form, and again as a scrum-half at Nottingham University, but from the end of his
education
music became his career and rugby its soundtrack, a private pleasure not to be mixed with business.

Roger’s first organisational role within a rugby club was as chair of a group overseeing the under-9s at Maidenhead RFC. His two sons had begun playing
mini-rugby
, so from 1993, for the next ten years, Roger became increasingly involved in the club, coaching, organising tours and heading up committees for certain age groups. Having worked as a composer, musician, head of music for Radio 1 and managing director of the classical
division
of EMI Records, Roger was then worldwide
president
of Decca. His schedule, however, was always made to revolve around the Sunday mini-rugby matches back in Maidenhead, even if that meant flying in from New York on a Saturday and leaving for Italy on the Monday. Rugby, through his sons, was moving closer to the centre of Roger’s life. But when they grew up, and Roger and his wife Chris moved back to St Hilary in the Vale of Glamorgan, it ebbed away again. Roger had debentures for the new Millennium Stadium and watched Wales play
whenever he could, but he still had no idea about the internal dynamics or politics of the professional game.

Three years later, in 2007, Roger was walking into the middle of the pitch at Stade de la Beaujoire at the Rugby World Cup in France, discussing with Dai Pickering, chairman of the WRU, how best to sack the coach of Wales, Gareth Jenkins. The two men were looking for somewhere secluded where they could talk urgently. The match against Fiji was only just over. The stands were still full of celebrating Fijian supporters and devastated Welsh. The middle of the pitch was the most public place in sight, but as somewhere they couldn’t be overheard, it was also the most private.

Wales had just been knocked out in the pool stages by Fiji, beaten 38–34. They’d played an open game of
running
rugby, and in doing so had played into the Fijians’ hands. For the first time ever Wales were going home without reaching the quarter-finals. As Roger and Dai walked out into the centre of the pitch, they approached the Fijian players, who were gathered in a huddle,
praying
. Many of them were crying. As Roger walked past them he recognised that Wales hadn’t just lost the game, but something else too, something the Fijians still had. A fundamental spirit within the team’s culture had died, and their values and beliefs had been shaken. As a viewer writing into the BBC’s website put it, ‘Something is
rotten
in the Welsh camp.’ Roger knew that he and the WRU board had to act, and they had to act quickly.

John Williams, the WRU head of communications, joined them in the centre of the pitch and, after a brief discussion, the three men decided they had to send an immediate and unequivocal message to the rugby world. From this moment Wales was changing, starting over. Gathering the other board members, they called an extraordinary board meeting in the corner of the
stadium
, where it was agreed by fifteen to one that the Welsh coach, Gareth Jenkins, had to go. In twenty matches in charge of Wales he’d won only six. He’d inherited a squad still reeling from the resignation of their previous coach, Mike Ruddock. But he’d also asked the country to judge him on his performance at the World Cup. That
judgement
, as Roger and the board members left the stadium, was already coming in, from newspaper articles, from TV pundits and from fans on rugby websites and forums.

The next day Roger addressed the entire squad, dressed in their number ones – team suits and ties – at their camp outside Nantes. He’d already spoken with Gareth Jenkins and asked him to resign. When he’d refused, Roger told him he was no longer the coach of Wales. Which is what he also told the squad standing before him that day. ‘The process of rebuilding’, he said, ‘begins now.’

In interviews later that week Roger would use Oliver Cromwell’s phrase about the execution of King Charles I – ‘a cruel necessity’ – to describe the sacking of Jenkins. It was undoubtedly just that. But it was also a massive risk. Once that necessity had been taken care of, Wales,
just four months away from the 2008 Six Nations, were without a coach.

It was the resignation of one Wales coach, Mike Ruddock on 14 February 2006, that had set Roger on the path to being the man who would fire another a year later in Nantes. Listening to the breaking news reports of Ruddock’s departure in his kitchen at St Hilary that day, it was clear to Roger, even from a distance, that the WRU had become ‘a distressed organisation’, in disarray both on and off the field. He recognised the scent of that disarray from having smelt it himself in other companies in which he’d worked. But on Valentine’s Day 2006, as he listened to reports about the disintegration of the WRU, Roger still had no idea he’d ever be involved in picking up the pieces.

That summer the job of CEO of the Welsh Rugby Union was advertised in the
Sunday Times
. Roger was approached to apply shortly afterwards, and it was then, as he considered the role, that he realised perhaps
elements
of his experience in the music industry may be transferable to the modern game of professional rugby. Both worlds, however different, were about dealing with elite performers –
singers and players, producers and coaches
– who provide content –
teams and bands, songs and matches
– which needs to be delivered through
various
mechanisms –
venues and stadia, TV and media
– and monetised –
through audience and spectators, sponsors and merchandise.
Just as in music, rugby had its elite and its
grassroots concerns, each feeding the other. Roger had overseen the development of elite musicians often from their youth, from the same kind of ages as rugby players. Modern rugby was increasingly about entertainment and performance, about handling talent and harnessing
passion
, both in the players and the fans. Viewed from this perspective, Roger saw no reason why the lessons he’d learnt in studios and concert halls shouldn’t be applied to the training pitch and the rugby field; why his private interest shouldn’t become a public role.

One of the lessons Roger had learnt was that if you’re chasing the best producer or the best artist, you turn up. You don’t ask them into your office, but get on a plane and meet them backstage. You hang out with them. Which is why, within weeks of addressing the squad in Nantes, Roger, Dai Pickering and Gerald Davies, the three-man delegation tasked with finding a new coach for Wales, landed in an airport on the other side of the world.

In their initial research, speaking to coaches, players and commentators, it had become clear to the team that they would have to look beyond the UK for their
candidates
. Certain names kept cropping up, and nearly all of them were from the only other country whose national obsession with the sport rivalled Wales’s: New Zealand.

To an extent Roger, Dai and Gerald were looking for a quality of character as much as a coach. This was a search bound up with questions of national identity. When
Roger had come into the WRU, he’d articulated a vision for the organisation that, tellingly, was couched in terms of self-expression and nation-building. ‘The WRU’, he said, ‘will take Wales to the world and, in our stadium, will welcome the world to Wales. Together we will play our part in defining Wales as a nation.’

And yet in their meetings in New Zealand Roger and the others would be considering foreign coaches, men who hadn’t grown up with the ethos of Wales running in their veins, to carry the precious but fragile vase that is the hopes of Welsh rugby. Whoever took on the
position
would need to have an innate empathy for Wales beyond national association. The WRU badly needed an outsider’s eye and influence, but they also needed that crucial note of understanding; a stranger attuned to the nature of the country’s culture, but who could also be clear-sighted about her qualities, good and bad.

Within twenty minutes of meeting Warren Gatland at Auckland airport Roger felt they’d found the next coach of Wales. There was something about Warren’s blend of emotional intelligence and blue-collar background that sounded the right note. He was also realistic, pragmatic and straight-talking, capable of detaching himself from the romance that both bolsters and hinders so much Welsh support for the national side.