FORMER HAWKS STAND OFF EUGENE MARTIN CAUGHT UP WITH JOHN BEATTIE RECENTLY
Ruthless management is needed to make pro teams viable
JOHN BEATTIE
MY NEW Year wish is that somehow the current generation of rugby players will play in a sport with the same kind of kudos enjoyed by me and my generation (to quote an old Who song). And I think we should be looking to England for hints on how to run our rugby, not the Southern Hemisphere.
You see, it's plain that while rugby in all parts of the world is burgeoning, here in Scotland professional rugby isn't working, and new SRU chief executive Gordon McKie admitted so in The Scotsman this week. I went to the Borders game against Glasgow at the weekend and it was a match of such crushing boredom that at one point in the first half I was hoping I would die before even Pete Townshend had suggested in the words of his aforementioned song - say about half-time.
His namesake Gregor at least brought some sparkle to proceedings but I don't think the players fully understood the duty that comes with their job: which is to win, play for places in the Scotland team, and at the same time entertain us.
I can see the Borders coaches will be pleased with their win but for me the game was a mess and, frankly, killed as a spectacle by what can only have been a dark collusion between the players, who broke most of the laws in the book, and the referee, who added in a few extra penalties for good measure.
These pro teams now need a kick up the backside with the kind of professional management that can only come with some outside funding. The SRU has to audit the teams and ask a few searching questions. And those questions include: do the teams provide us with value for money; is this the only way to prepare players for international rugby; is the marketing effort at these teams adequate; is the coaching adequate; is the culture within these professional teams the very best winning culture; and is the SRU a ruthless enough employer?
My old pal Eugene Martin, formerly of Glasgow Hawks and Waikato, was around during the week and he is coaching at a club playing in the Yorkshire first division. This is way below Guinness Premiership, national leagues, or even regional leagues, but there are nine players employed by the club's benefactor and, my goodness, they know their necks are on the line. Surprise, surprise, they are winning their league again and going up.
Ironically our professional players are paid peanuts compared to yesteryear, with players stepping on to the turf earning less than £20,000 a year and internationalists on under £30,000 - less, frankly, than some Scottish club players are earning and even less than players at Eugene's club - and it's still not a pressurised or professional enough life.
What I want to see is the players and the staff knowing just how much we pin our hopes on them, because I don't think they really do understand. They do not live in the kind of atmosphere that, for example, Hawick and Gala players had to cope with 20 years ago where a whole community bayed for your blood and God help you if you lost when you went back to work at the mill. It's different in Auckland and Canterbury because they have been marketed and are part of the community. You could never argue that Edinburgh and Glasgow are part of their communities. But I was impressed by the Borders, who now seem to have more going for them than either of the other two teams.
Every club in England is funded principally by the RFU, but benefactors top up the money and it has the desired effect. It seems quite clear that the SRU has to allow the three teams to be, in effect, taken over by investors for a minority stake because then the players and staff will fully understand just who it is who pays the wages.
Unless chief executive Gordon McKie can change the culture of the SRU, only outside investors can bring the drive for a marketing effort, the hard edge of business and the ruthlessness our game needs on and off the pitch to win back respect, not to mention supporters.
This article was posted on 2-Jan-2006, 17:47 by Hugh Barrow.
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