What happened to the flair? A rugby whodunit

Has flair in rugby disappeared forever or is there still hope? After narrowly surviving a dip in the Danube, The Roar’s globe-trotting, code-swapping private sports detectives Mill Pharlowe and Miss Danno have been enlisted to solve the mysterious disappearance of rugby’s flair.

Our story begins in the beer garden of Sydney’s Coogee Bay Hotel…

The last time I had seen my client was in the early eighties. Back then we were knocking back gin and tonics at an exclusive men’s club in the city. How times had changed.

His tweed jacket was worn out. Even his leather elbow patches had holes in them. He guided me a little way down the street.

“Take a look Mill, what do you see?” He asked.

“Why that’s Coogee Oval, home of the Galloping Greens,” I replied.

“Galloping Greens” he snorted. “More like the Plodding Clydesdales. Whatever happened to the days when freakish players thrilled the fans? Mill, I need your help to find out what happened to rugby’s flair.”

“Money talks,” I told my client, “your coffers are as empty as the ARU’s.”

“Look Mill, when I get back on my feet I’ll pay you handsomely. You have my word as a failed entrepreneur with a drinking problem. Please Mill, think of the children.”

I pondered his words for a moment then my softer side kicked in.

“Well as a private eye with a drinking problem, I’ll help you.”

We spent the next few hours drinking Brandivino and talking about the old days of running rugby.

***

Next day, a seagull with a chip in it’s mouth squawked at us down near the harbour. I crossed the cobblestone street to the coffee shop.

“So what are we here for Mill?” asked Miss Danno. “It can’t be for the coffee, it’s as listless as the England backline.”

Crash! The sound of cups smashing preceded a booming voice. “Who said that?” asked the angry barista emerging from behind the counter.

It was none other than David Campese.

Recognising us, he retreated to the kitchen. Following close on his heels I managed to wrestle him onto a nearby table. It wasn’t a table though, it was a conveyer and at the end was a giant coffee grinding machine.

As we moved ever closer to the grinders I shouted, “What happened to the flair Campese, I know you had it!”

Campo shouted back hysterically, “It was the stats men! Percentage passes completed, time in possession, yards made. It took the whole fun out of it.”

The grinders sounded real close now.

“So where is it now Campo!” I screamed. Only a few coffee beans separated us from the grinder.

At that moment someone flicked a switch and the grinder ground to a halt.

“Russell Fairfax?” Campo and I said together.

“Russell, you were the union convert who brought flair to rugby league.“ I said. “With chip and chase kicks on the first tackle and the long hair – you were too beautiful for league. What happened?”

“It was the stats,” Russell bemoaned. “Completion rates, tackle counts, that and the haircut. Look, we don’t have it – but…” He looked around and continued in a whisper, “the flair is not dead.” Campo nodded his head in agreement.

***

The cool, fresh New Zealand air was a welcome relief from the fug of Campo’s café. There were climbing nets, rows of tyres and various pieces of exercise equipment. Conspicuous were a number of brick walls with holes in them the size and shape of our next suspect, Jonah Lomu.

“Pharlowe and Miss Danno. Welcome to the junior All blacks training session,” said Lomu with a menacing giggle.

“We sure are going to get a first hand view Lomu. Is there any chance you can untie us from these tackling bags?”

“No can do,” replied Lomu. “There’s a lot of competition for places this year.” He giggled again.

“Where’s the flair gone Jonah,” I called out trying not to sound too desperate. It stopped him in his tracks.

Lomu produced a tablet and showed me a video. “What do you see Pharlowe?”

“I see you sidestepping around 15 defenders to score a try,” I replied.

“For a private eye you aren’t very observant. Watch in slow motion.”

I watched the video and realised, “I see now, the defenders are sidestepping you.”

“The quick ones are. The others just get trampled.”

“See what I mean Jonah. That’s flair. What happened to it?”

He slammed the tablet to the ground and issued just one word, “Stats!”

As he untied me from the bag he whispered in my ear, “I don’t know where it is, but the flair is not dead.”

***

“It’s pretty cramped in here.”

“You were the one who insisted on flying with me,” the pilot replied.

“I didn’t realise you would bring the Spitfire.” As I said that, flight-officer and ex-England winger Rory Underwood put the plane through a double roll.

“So what happened to rugby’s flair Rory?”

In the reflection of the cockpit glass I saw his expression change from annoyance to one of pure hatred. He put the plane into a nosedive. His shouted reply was drowned out by a burst of machine gun fire aimed at the haystacks in the farm below.

Slightly alarmed I said, “there’s no Messerschmitts today Rory, what was that you said?”

He swooped again, “Stats” (rat-a-tat-tat) “error rates” (rat-a-tat-tat) “kicking percentages” and another prolonged burst at the haystacks.

On the airstrip Rory had calmed down a little. “I can’t help you,” he said, and leaning a little closer whispered, “the flair is not dead.”

***

The market square in Paris was bustling with people. I was admiring the work of a swordsmith when I caught sight of my quarry. We both instinctively grabbed a sword and the clash of metal rang out across the square.

“Serge Blanco!” I yelled as his swing narrowly missed me and sliced through a pair of melons. “Where did you learn such fancy footwork?”

“It is the Gallic flair we learnt on the rugby field,” he called back as my thrust skewered a banana.

At that moment Miss Danno arrived in the market square, fresh from her Paris shopping expedition, looking real swell.

“Hello Mademoiselle Danno,” Blanco said, momentarily dropping his guard. I used the diversion to do something most rugby players couldn’t – tackle him to the ground.

With the swordpoint at his throat I asked, “So what happened to the flair Serge?”

“Sacre Bleu! It was the stats men!” he cried and spat on the ground. “I can’t help you Mill but listen carefully…” and he whispered, “le flair est pas mort!”

***

The mountain looked flat enough in the brochures but the climb up was a real doozy.

“There he is!” Miss Danno pointed. ”He’s no Matt Damon but he’s our man. Quick he’s running for the cable-car!”

We caught up to his cabin just as the doors were closing. Like a caged lion, Francois Pienaar pounced on me with a copybook tackle that knocked us both out of the cabin doors. Hanging on to the rail and dangling thousands of feet above Cape Town I asked him, “Francois, we are here to find rugby’s missing flair. We know you had it once.”

“I’m flattered that you Aussies would think us Springboks had flair.”

“We don’t, but you are the only footballer I know who has been played by a leading Hollywood actor,” I answered, struggling to hold on.

“All I know is the stats men came in and ruined it all.” With superhuman strength, Miss Danno managed to pull us both to safety.

At the bottom of the mountain Pienaar joked, “By the way, how did you find out about me, Wikileaks?”

Miss Danno gave my arm a real hard pinch. She had come up with another one of her wild hunches. Before we left for the redeye to Heathrow, Pienaar sidled up close and said in hushed tones “die flair is nie dood nie!”

***

We made our way to a modest brick building in the London suburbs. We were led in to the small drawing room.

“Gee, it reeks in here. Do you mind opening the window Mr Assange?” I asked by way of introduction.

“No, I can’t,” said Assange, “I like to keep the outside world at a distance.” He opened a drawer and took out an object which he placed carefully on the desk – it was rugby’s missing flair.

“How did you find it?” I asked, somewhat awestruck.

“Let’s just say I know plenty of secrets.”

“So the whole Wikileaks thing was just a cover?”

“That’s right,” he said. “And now I have rugby’s flair it will be my ticket to Ecuador”, he remarked, grinning like a madman.

“Book him Miss Danno,” I said coolly.

“Not likely Mill,” replied Miss Danno with a shake of the head. “With the representatives of 37 foreign governments waiting outside I don’t like our chances.”

***

We caught up with my client at a restaurant near the Sydney Opera House.

“Mill and Miss Danno,” he said. “You gave it your best shot. Methinks the flair was never meant to be recovered.”

“The flair is not dead!” Miss Danno exclaimed suddenly. “Perhaps what all those legends were trying to tell us is that rugby needs to find the flair from within. Hopefully in time for this year’s World Cup.”

“Capital notion. Let’s drink to that. Why don’t you choose a drop?”

“Here’s one,” Miss Danno said, perusing the wine list, “it’s called Sauvignon Blanco – le vin de flair.”