FROM THE ARCHIVES:The All Blacks beat Ireland by a single point, 6-5, on their fifth visit to this country in 1963, as described by Terence de Vere White in this front page piece.
THE ABSENCE of rain all day had been the only incongruous note when we saw our 15 selected victims run onto the field for sacrifice. Six stone lighter in the pack, outpaced in the backs – what chance had they?
In their previous visits (1905, 1924, 1935, 1954), the All Blacks had beaten us by 12-7, 6-0, 17-9, 14-3. And our rugby team is one of the institutions to which we give jam tomorrow, jam yesterday, but never jam today.
Within a matter of seconds our forwards demonstrated that they were not going to be sacrifice material. They were out for scalps. Our only disadvantage was in the matter of weight.
Herewini, who had looked sinister in the preliminary war dance, was caught again and again by our wing forwards. Maguire and Murphy must be the most fleet-footed pair that have ever represented us. The All Blacks seemed to be less mobile than our men: and – for once – more likely to be hustled in to mistakes by the quickness of our defenders.
What was the lasting impression of the match? For me – on the Irish side – Kiernan at full-back, swift, cool, accomplished, a player in his prime. His conversion of the Irish try – high, handsome and, happily, not wide – put the seal on a memorable performance.
The Irish try, when the ball seemed to come as much by luck as good guidance into the hands of Fortune, who – in his first appearance in an Irish side, and with an impression of running on springs – ran for dear life, and with (I trust) a cry “Clontarf for ever”, hurled himself over the line.
Casey’s great run in the second half and his cross-kick, reminiscent of FS Hewitt’s long ago on the same ground, should have led to a try. (I am sure EP Maguire thought so too).
The tremendous competence of English, who almost makes you believe passing is a bad habit, was never more in evidence. I saw Briscoe (not the ex-Lord Mayor, but a half-back) bounce off him on one occasion. And then, the captain, JC Kelly – a man for all seasons. He was everywhere, and he uses the touch-line, as the tipsy and adroit use garden railings, as the safest guide to home.
Among the forwards, when all fought so well, it is invidious to pick out any. I have mentioned our wing-forwards. If the New Zealanders had Meads, we matched them with Persians, and Mulcahy, in this company, showed what a star quality he has.
In comparison, our visitors lacked glamour. Only Herewini seems to be enjoying the game. If rugby in New Zealand is an organised religion, it doesn’t seem to be a joyous one.
When an Irish team plays like this one wishes we had a system of State orders to distribute: but none go to the newcomers to Irish rugby, so ready to boo the visitors for alleged misconduct, the referee for negligence, and the place-kickers at our goal, for good measure.
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