An image that will linger from the final round of the Six Nations was not a dazzling run or shuddering tackle, but a small act of kindness that almost went unnoticed.
As Ireland had asked for the roof of the Principality Stadium to remain opened – in the hope that the elements might help them to beat their Welsh hosts – a vicious wind swept in from Tiger Bay and along the assembled ranks of players before the kick-off. Alun Wyn Jones, who will have had bigger things on his mind – like battering the second best team in the world into the turf to secure the grand slam – noticed his appointed mascot, seven-year-old Joey Hobbs from Whitchurch RFC, was shivering in his shadow. So the Wales captain paused and lent down to wrap his Welsh jacket around the boy’s shoulders, a gesture Joey surely will never forget.
It was, observed Wales Online, typical of Jones and, “helps to show that the Wales skipper is far more than just a rugby player”. Indeed he is. As well as closing in on Richie McCaw’s world record of 148 international caps, Jones (who has 134, more than any other second-rower) is that old-fashioned throwback: a hero.
It is unfashionable to have them these days, because they so often disappoint. Heroes are for yesterday, for our long-forgotten youth, not quite the fit in cynical times. But 33-year-old Jones laughs at time and strikes a chord outside Wales, too.
Will Greenwood – a classy centre in England’s 2003 World Cup-winning team and a hero in his own right, no doubt, to admirers of his clever running and sharp rugby brain – is now a respected commentator and columnist and before the match he did not try to hide his “man crush” for the towering lock. Greenwood wrote in the Telegraph that Jones was so self-effacing that most people don’t know that his surname is not Wyn Jones. (Guilty.) More pertinently, Greenwood anointed Jones as the finest rugby player produced in the first couple of decades of this millennium. Some statement, given the competition. Even heroes have heroes.
Paul McGinley, who earned the thanks and adulation of all of Europe on the sunlit Sunday at The Belfry in 2002 when he holed a 10-footer on the 18th to beat the Americans in the Ryder Cup (even as Tiger Woods was heading pointlessly down the 17th), knows what it is like to be a hero – at least just for one day. And he has hauled Francesco Molinari on to the People’s Plinth as a hero to acclaim – not difficult, given the Italian’s pleasant demeanour and wonderful game.
Before the Players Championship started at Sawgrass, the Irishman paid homage to Molinari. But McGinley has another hero, a quiet man who has become something of a legend in British sport without holing an ace or kicking a goal.
“There’s one big reason [for Molinari’s rise over the past couple of years],” McGinley said, “and I’ve been saying this for quite a while: the big, huge, massive addition to his team has been Dave Alred, the performance coach.”
Alred is a legend in rugby, having brought rigour and focus to the kicking of Jonny Wilkinson after working his magic with Stuart Barnes, Rob Andrew and Jonathan Webb. McGinley said: “He’s put him under pressure when he’s practising, he’s on his case, he’s keeping him focused, he’s keeping him driven and he’s given him confidence. Each win, he’s getting more and more confident, and Dave Alred always is in his ear. He helped Luke Donald get to No 1 in the world and is now working with Molinari. For me, that addition to his team is the reason we’ve seen Molinari – being a really good European Ryder Cup player, very consistent, making money, winning a lot of tournaments – grow to being a superstar of the game.”
Maybe Alred is more a guru, then, than a hero – a behind-the-scenes hero, one the professionals know about more than the public do. It doesn’t always work out for gurus, either; Molinari didn’t win the Players Championship. Still, they have both done OK.
What excites most of us in public performers – be it in sport, the arts or even politics – is style, integrity and a gift to inspire. Those are the people who make heroes. Ali. Mandela. Name your own. And, like opinions, everyone’s got one.
I hadn’t seen Andy Gemmell in many years. He’s never seen me at all. Andy’s been blind since birth. The last time we met we were being ushered from the members’ bar at Trent Bridge because Andy took exception to the urgings of an overzealous steward to “keep your voices down”. Andy generally does not keep his voice down.
And there he was on Thursday night, large as life on the News at Ten, grinning as widely as I’d remembered him, celebrating the victory of his talented nag, Paisley Park, in the Stayers’ Hurdle at the Cheltenham Festival.
He could not stop smiling. For the first time in his life, most likely, Blind Andy – as we called him, mischievously as much as with affection – was famous. Those life-sapped yet vibrant eyes illuminated the grey, damp air of the racecourse in their special way and told a story of a lifetime’s ambition. Andy, the son of Scottish doctors who grew up in Shropshire, had always loved horses and was irritated that he was never allowed to ride one flat out. As he said beforehand: “There is no greater sound than the thunder of hooves if you stand by the rails.”
Now he was revelling in the happiest day of his horse‑racing life, a proper, much-loved hero. I don’t claim to know Andy well; he was much closer to mutual friends Peter and Rachel, who would look forward to his annual visits to Australia for the Ashes and the Melbourne Cup. Andy’s never had a guide dog. He’s always had friends.
Never meet your heroes, they say – a tough call in this business. Sports writers and columnists are not supposed to have them; got to keep a professional distance. Occasionally, the mask slips. Andy’s one hero I’d like to meet again.