Interview - Andrew Trimble: Believe it or not there are bigger things to life than whether Ireland beat Italy this afternoon. Andrew Trimble talks frankly to Keith Dugganabout what those things are for him

A clean sting from the January snow that pelted Belfast hangs over the afternoon in Ravenhill and Andrew Trimble really has to go and murder some weights soon. But he seems in no rush as he slouches on an old settee and tells you how terrific Heaven is going to be. He says this with startling candour, moving in and out of questions about his faith and his rugby life with the kind of deft grace and clean lines that have enabled him to cut it at the highest level of professional rugby.

Trimble is 23 years old and has the tousled blond hair, the matinee smile and the nonchalant, athletic build of an Olympic swimmer or a Calvin Klein model, and he knows that this can be disconcerting when he quotes from Timothy. The man can quote Scripture like old Joseph in Wuthering Heights, but he manages to sound conversational in doing so.

"There is a verse in second Timothy, about having a form of godliness but denying its power," he says in explaining how his transformation to dedicated Christianity came about.

"And I think that I had that. I don't think I ever really knew my Saviour, that I really knew Jesus. And I was about 17 when that happened. I know that sounds really wishy-washy and I don't want it to, but that is how it happened. I mean, you read books about drug dealers and paramilitaries and what not and I was 17 years of age at the time - what can you really be getting up to at that age that's so bad?

"But at the same time, I still think it is a wonderful story because it was God's word that changed me. It wasn't a dramatic change of path, but it was a very different thing."

Trimble knows too that these kind of set-ups make him easy prey, that his faith and his willingness to discuss it could quickly make him something of a circus curiosity in the voracious world of modern sports media, where there will always be room for another "wing and a prayer" headline.

It would be easier and perhaps even wiser to talk about Brian O'Driscoll than Jesus, particularly in an age when people tend to confuse the two. This is not to have a cheap shot at the Ireland captain, an authentic master on the world rugby stage.

But it is true that it has become commonplace to use religious terminology to describe sports stars and their heroics - witness the worshipful language broadcast out of Thomond Park in the latest "miracle match" against London Wasps.

It sounds almost taboo, however, to hear a sports star using religious terminology to address his religion.

Trimble looks like a paid-up member of the Facebook generation and isn't down on fun, and there are times, be it at Ravenhill and or while playing with Ireland, that he is overcome with the thrill of being in this exalted position, of living many a young man's dream.

It's just that he believes - he knows - that the sensation and excitement are limited by the fact it is earthly.

Rugby is his passion and his job, but it is not his life. It is a game. It is a business. Life is something more.

"I love being good at rugby," he clarifies. "But playing it isn't all that exciting for me. Because this is a 10-year career. What do you do after that? You are yesterday's news.

"Look at the South African team. They achieved the greatest rugby goal there is by winning the World Cup. Then the Barbarians beat them a few weeks later. There is always something else coming.

"In terms of how I live, I heard this illustration once and it is a bit cheesy. You hear a lot of people say that the way they live their lives is along the lines of 'do this, do that'. They keep busy. The way to follow Christ involves the word 'done'.

"Jesus has done it on the Cross and He redeemed me. So the question for me was - what sort of response should I make to this sacrifice? Should I be half-hearted about it or should I give my life as a living sacrifice to him?"

It is a clear and uncomfortable choice for anyone who professes to cling to any sort of faith. In a sense, Trimble has simply applied the principle he uses in his sporting life to his faith. He refuses to be half-baked about it.

He grins in acknowledgement that it is odd to hear a young rugby player with a reputation for bone-crunching tackles trying to live his life as closely to the Lord's word as is possible.

Not only does rugby involve high-octane hitting, it also celebrates the darker arts of rule breaking. There are days when the devious trickery gets to Trimble, but he lives with it.

"There is conflict, yeah. There is gamesmanship and there is playing the rules. People lying on the ball, for instance - like everyone says that Richie McCaw is great at that, slowing it down. But that is cheating underneath it. As a player, I am really competitive and confrontational and annoying to play against.

"And if I am annoyed by something that has happened in a game, I usually play better after that. God gets glory in that as well."

There is a sleepy feel around Ravenhill this afternoon. Most of the other players have left, but Trimble was persuaded to pose for photographs near the evocative stone arch that serves as the most vivid symbol of the Belfast rugby ground and as a memorial to the province's players that lost their lives in the Great War.

THE IRISH SQUADfor the forthcoming Six Nations tournament had been announced the previous afternoon and Trimble was one of five Ulster men to make the cut (and he will be one of two players from the province, the other being Rory Best, to start today's game). The anticipation of the Irish camp and touching down for an injury-time, match-winning try against Bourgoin has helped Trimble to rediscover the spring in this step.

Although Ulster's ambitions in Europe were in flitters the night Bourgoin visited, the fact they concocted that try - that victory - made it seem as if some sort of sentence had been lifted.

Ulster's winter has been dark - just a lone win at Ravenhill recorded on opening night, the ignominy of getting roasted by Leinster in a frigid St Stephen's Day derby and, finally, the numbing if unsurprising departure of their coach and friend Mark McCall.

Going into the 18th minute of the Bourgoin contest it appeared as though they were going to demonstrate to their new coach, the can-do energetic figure of Matt Williams, that they truly were cursed.

"If we had lost to Bourgoin," admits Trimble, "it would have felt like an absolute low point."

Instead, they concocted a familiar training-ground move, the veteran David Humphreys firing a skip-pass for Bryn Cunningham, and Tommy Bowe offloading to Trimble as he cut through on the inside. Suddenly - and gloriously - there was open space.

Outside him, Bowe was screaming for the ball. "But there was no way I was giving up that ball! Tommy managed to knock the ball out of my hand as well when we were celebrating so I ended up throwing it on the ground by mistake instead of up in the air. But it was such a good feeling - the first time I had that kind of elation in a while."

Fewer than 8,000 people showed up at Ravenhill that night, but they said afterwards it was as noisy as it had been since the vintage years. Things felt right again. Now, as Trimble obligingly goes through the choreography of the photographers' requests, he looks like the archetypal rugby professional, photogenic and comfortable with the publicity duties that come with the game.

In some ways, it seems longer than three seasons since Trimble was elevated to the Ireland squad after an audacious debut season with Ulster.

He always looked the part, an instinctive runner with a Rolls Royce of an engine and a liking for meaty tackles, a convincing member of the new wave of running talent to endorse the reputation minted by O'Driscoll and company. But his last experience in an Ireland shirt, on that catastrophic World Cup night against France, was not a happy one.

He looks into his coffee cup as he considers the calamitous try that Ireland conceded from a rudimentary scrum in the bedlam of Stade de France. Trimble's role made him look conspicuous and so, like Bogart, he will always have Paris. It did not matter that Ireland's defensive move was rehearsed or that its unlocking took a splendid moment of improvisation by the French outhalf Freddy Michalak, who was feeling the tingles at that point.

All that counted was that the pictures bouncing around the world from Saint Denis seemed to show that the Ireland winger had abandoned his position - as though he had decided to wander infield for fun, or to see if John McEnroe really was wearing an Irish scarf in the celebrity seats.

In a flash, Ireland's alignment looked terribly exposed as Vincent Clerc, the fleetfooted finisher who had broken hearts in Croke Park the previous February, powered away from the labouring, valiant Irish big men who tried to keep pace with him.

In that instant, shouts of joy and acclamation sounded throughout Paris and in the fledgling rugby life of Andrew Trimble, it was a lesson.

"Stupid," he acknowledges of the sensation as he waited for the jaunty Michalak to line up his conversion kick. "You feel really stupid. I know it sort of looked as if I just thought, 'why don't I go and stand over there?' But we talked it through. It was a system we had prepared.

"There was almost a mirror image on the other side of the pitch in the first half when Clerc drifted in. That is what he tends to do and France like that; it gives them a bit more going forward in the first phase. And the idea was that I would come in and just take that bit of pressure off if Clerc came through Ronan's channel, make my tackle and get back out.

"Unfortunately, they read it and fair play to them. When I looked at the video, Freddy was looking this way and that and it was as though he was alerted to it at the last second.

"It was admirable, because they executed it perfectly. And it makes you look stupid. I was asking myself, 'could I have done more there, could I have realised it earlier?'

"And then there was an interaction between Simon Easterby and myself on the blind side or Denis Leamy and Eoin Reddan were there too. One of the four of us might have read it with more communication. But then, you only get half a second to react to these things."

IF THERE WASone benefit from the worsening mood in Ulster, it was that Trimble had no time to brood over his World Cup. The provincial team fell into a black hole. McCall's job was in jeopardy and, eventually, it was gone.

McCall had given Trimble his opportunity when his confidence had ebbed, just after he had missed out on the Ireland under-21 squad in his first year of eligibility. Now McCall was gone from the place overnight.

Trimble didn't even have a chance to wish McCall well before he had packed his belongings.

"It is tough and it is cut-throat," he muses now. "It is a business."

The next match loomed, the next crisis. After beating Bourgoin, Ulster would lose away to Gloucester, but at least they played some cracking rugby and scored tries. It was a nice frame of mind in which to think about joining up with his Ireland team-mates.

In the old days, when the North was riven with violence, the union of Ulster players with their Southern compatriots was regarded as having symbolic importance. But listening to Trimble, it is clear that this is a post-Troubles son of Ulster. He is old enough to have a recollection of the days of atrocity, but he is too young to have been shaped by them.

In the past few years, Belfast has undergone a radical and exciting revival. Streets that turned once inwards after dark now glitter with neon and newly discovered confidence. It is a dream-time to be a young, high-profile rugby player in the city. But although he enjoys the company of his team-mates, he is not one for touring the Belfast bars and trading on the recognition that comes with that.

"Taking advantage of it," he laughs. "I know, yeah, this won't last forever.

I go out the odd time because I enjoy hanging out with the guys here.

"But I suppose I find the whole pub and club environment a bit difficult. I don't want to sound like I'm 45 years old, but I don't really enjoy it all that much."

He rejects the notion that it must be particularly difficult to rigidly follow God's word in such a permissive time, when mainstream religion has been pushed to the periphery. It is not as though he spends his days frowning at this immoral world.

"What is immoral? I am as immoral as anyone. I don't want to say to people, 'you have to be like me.' It has nothing to do with me. It is more than just communicating this belief - just living that belief and trying to live as Christ did. It is not an easy life. I mean, it's great and I love it. But it is hard too because you are going in the opposite direction to everyone else.

"It is not that comfortable. I mean, sometimes you get up in the morning and you realise that following Christ is not that glamorous. But it will be so worth it when I get to Heaven."

As Trimble says this, the thought occurs that if he is the kind of rugby player who gets to Heaven, then what chance has Peter Clohessy? In fact, what chance do most of us have?

At 23, he has thought deeply about what most of us conscientiously avoid and what Henry James, during his last days, could only refer to as "the distinguished thing" - death - and the fact that we are all going to be off this earth for an infinitely longer time than we are on it.

Trimble grins when you seek to ascertain that he is in no particular rush to meet his Maker, but his answer is solemn-spoken and quiet.

"Aye, it would be nice to live a fair while longer. But I was actually reading the other day in Philippians. In Chapter One, Paul the Apostle - bear in mind he wrote this in prison and was persecuted for his faith and flogged: 'For me to live is Christ, and to die is gain.' So if I die and get to Heaven and be with the Saviour, then that's class. And if I live, it is to give God glory."

GLORY. WE WILLhear the word so much as the international rugby season beckons again. It seems there is only one burning question to ask this singular rugby man.

"Could I ever cheat for Ireland?" he repeats, guffawing. "Cheat how? I don't know. I don't know. If someone gets away with it, then maybe it is not cheating? Oh, the Neil Back one. Yeah, I figured you would say that. Boy. I dunno. I dunno. You've got me there."

As he leaves, Trimble offers a friendly handshake before hopping into a jeep to drive himself for an hour of punishing weight-training, beeping as he motors underneath the arch carrying the plaque for Ulster's long-fallen war heroes.

"There but for the grace of God," muttered the doomed theologian John Bradford before he was martyred in the Tower of London in the 16th century.

The phrase has survived through to this restless and giddy technological age of constant distraction, and many of us use it on occasion.

Trimble, a theologian but no martyr, has managed, even amid the flashbulbs and garlands that come with being a young rugby star, to make that creed central to his daily existence. And he is matter of fact about that. That is all there is to it.

Yet, he knows when it comes to those dreaded seconds of panic as the tricky French attack or when it comes to the intriguing make-up of the Ireland first team there will be no divine intervention.

He thanks God that he has this talent for rugby, but he admits too that rugby is a mortal pursuit and it can make even the brightest look as though they have feet of clay.

"That's true. I mean, God hasn't made me all that good at kicking."

Instead, He just created Ronan O'Gara. At least that is what they would tell him in Munster.

And Trimble would enjoy the laugh as much as anyone.

The man is just making his way and minding his soul.