Mind Matters: Tryst Williams

Mar 15 2008 by Tryst Williams, Western Mail

As with one of the best times of my life, so too did the national game frame one of the worst

ANOTHER big week for Welsh rugby. And another seven days that have exposed its bizarre sway – or otherwise – on family life chez Williams.

The likes of Russell Grant may argue that it’s Uranus’s convergence with Earth that holds the key to human destiny. But in our house at least, it’s the convergence of our stars on the rugby field that seem to exert an undue influence on big life events.

My first-born Hydref came into this world on the day of a Rugby World Cup match against Italy in 2003.

As the long, difficult labour progressed, the quiet background prattle of commentary from the other side of the world confirmed Wales’ progress to the last stages of the tournament. 

One of the greatest days of my life – and not because of the rugby which, obviously, figured little in my thoughts.

A few days later, my baby boy’s first little weekend home coincided with that fondly-remembered, high-scoring clash with New Zealand when the men in red, playing some blistering rugby, heroically went ahead against the All Blacks at a vital stage before finally fading at the end.

As favourable signs and portents for happy futures go, you could do worse than such displays. 

But not so with some of the later confluence of rugby results and family mishaps. 

As with one of the best times of my life, so too did the national game frame one of the worst. 

Back in the autumn, my son had a catastrophic illness that brought on kidney failure and so nearly cost his life.

As he lay, weak and in agony, in the high dependency unit – just hours away from being rushed to intensive care – the background blather of a distant ward’s telly hinted at a shock win for Fiji in the Rugby World Cup. 

What would normally have been a calamitous rugby result in our house was suddenly rendered inconsequential. The context easily gave the lie to Bill Shankly’s oft-quoted chestnut about sport – in his case, football – not being “a matter of life and death” but “more important” than that.

With that line, the quipping late Liverpool manager would have received short shrift from any tortured parents with a critically ill four-year-old to worry about. I suddenly couldn’t have given a monkeys about the team I’ve supported with a passion throughout my 36 years. 

And so it was last Saturday. A rare Triple Crown win. For me, though, it was viewed (or, more precisely, wasn’t) from the miserable perspective of yet another week-long stay in hospital with my son.

Another stomach bug. Another week hooked up to a drip. And so another rugby match – thanks to its coincidental juxtaposition with more family strife – was, quite naturally, robbed of any of its glory.

Ironically, this weekend promises to hold more general superstitious significance than most. 

It doesn’t take a Julius Caesar to tell you that March 15 is the “Ides” of the month. A time, traditionally, to beware events. 

In times of adversity, it is always a very human temptation to lapse into petty superstition. 

A time for avoiding cracks in the pavement. A time for lapsed Christians to suddenly fall to their knees in prayer. Or a time for the truly desperate to turn to hocus-pocus-mongering charlatans.

Such thinking is for weak-willed suckers.

My son’s home from hospital. And so the signs are good without having to invent any more fantastical portents or omens.

With three now-healthy children back at home, there is already an abundance of points in the column marked W – for “well” – in the only Grand Slam of results that counts.

Anything positive the team does on the field of play today – and I’ll be shouting for Wales with the best of them – can only add to that already wonderful, wonderful feeling.

tryst.williams@mediawales.co.uk