Foulplay: Paris Mismatch

There’s a lot at stake, as Ireland prepare to welcome the insubstantial Italians with open arms, before trekking to France for a fixture which will, in all likelihood, determine the destination of the Six Nations title.

The historical portents are discouraging in the extreme: Paris has traditionally been a reliably nightmarish assignment, with a grand total of one win and one draw in our last 21 visits. It isn’t exactly the sort of record which lends itself to roaring optimism. If we view defeat in Paris as something which is bound to keep on happening just because it’s repeatedly occurred in the past, it will continue to be a self-fulfilling prophecy. But the heroic near-miss against the All Blacks in November, and the total lack of deference repeatedly displayed by Joe Schmidt’s Leinster teams on their visits to heavyweight French and English opposition, suggest that this time around, meekness will not be an issue.

France’s utterly abject awfulness in their last outing, an unsightly loss in Cardiff, gives added cause for hope. Ireland’s recent visits to the Stade de France, in particular the agonising 17-17 draw two years ago, have also hinted that the psychological barrier has been broken; that the time-honoured pattern of deferential subservience, lying down and taking a battering, need not be the natural order of things. And when the dust had settled on the epic Twickenham skirmish of two weeks ago, heartache at the outcome was soothed by a comforting glance at the table, where Ireland’s lead in terms of points-difference remains substantial.

In the circumstances, however presumptuous it may sound, Italy’s visit should be looked on as a golden opportunity to short-circuit the scoreboard, with a 30-point win a perfectly realistic target. Of course, it may not work out quite so neatly; they did beat us last year (at the 14th attempt), and we will need to actually put ourselves in a position to win the match before daring to get greedy. Schmidt and the players would probably take a one-point win right now if it were offered. The Italians’ efforts in Cardiff and Paris this year have been respectable, with the hideous indiscipline that used to be their trademark apparently having been addressed. Still, there just isn’t enough talent in their ranks to cause undue trepidation for an Irish unit which has looked focused, sharp, bright, inventive and physically formidable for the entire campaign thus far.

I am speculating that a dogged England will defend well enough to narrowly account for Wales (though the Welsh on one of their better days could certainly prove me wrong, and we can be sure they will approach this fixture like wild animals). If they get the job done, England will then head to Rome on closing day in a position of playing furious catch-up, mounting an all-out assault on the scoreboard. But the mouth-watering reality is that if we win in Paris, it should secure Ireland the championship. To apply some sense of historical perspective, it’s worth bearing in mind that it would only be our second in 29 years, an undeniably poor return for a team which (since 2000) has consistently posted a roughly 65% win rate and generally been a match for anyone.

Minute analysis of the French team is probably a waste of everyone’s time, since no-one can foresee with any confidence which starting line-up they will pick, what sort of mood they will be in, or whether they will be undermined from within by the innate over-confidence that has tended to define them. The fear is that they can’t possibly be as incompetent as in Cardiff, where the amount of dropped balls and squandered opportunities beggared belief. It should be borne in mind that on opening day, they raced into a 16-0 lead against England; and though they subsequently did their level-best to throw that one away, still had enough left in the tank to seize the win with an almost-casual late flourish.

On the face of it, this one would seem well set up to be a heartbreaker of the cruellest kind. And I accept I may have been guilty of excessive optimism at various points in the past. But I believe this Irish team is at least the equal of 2009’s Grand Slam vintage in terms of talent, tactical savvy and intuitive teamwork. If there is a relative weakness, it’s in our comparative lack of explosive point-scoring proficiency, but this is more than offset by remarkably bloody-minded defensive fortitude (22 points conceded in three games). I expect us to win, possibly quite emphatically, a redemption which would atone for decades of unremitting torment in the City of Light.

Journalists’ reverence for Brian O’Driscoll can sometimes approach the realms of the ridiculous – and he’d be the first to admit that his pace isn’t what it once was. But he still gets through a positively shocking amount of work at an extremely high level of efficiency in any given 80 minutes, and there would be a glorious symmetry if the great man were to finish his career with a historic triumph on the very field where he first announced himself to the world with that preposterous hat-trick in 2000. Was it really fourteen years ago? It has been an astonishing roller-coaster ride; it is probable that even today’s primary-school kids will never see a better Ireland player.

O’Driscoll’s status as Ireland’s greatest sportsperson of all time ought to be completely beyond dispute by now, and after the frustration of last summer’s Lions tour, the stage is perfectly set for one heroic last ride. This is the one we’ve been waiting for: a date with destiny. And the prize is immense. Paris, here we go.