The good this about the Stade Jean Bouin now is that I've been there so many times over the past six months that I can get there almost blindfold.  Blindfolds are no good though when the train itself takes forever to get there.  Hopes of seeing the 11.34 kick off of the England quarter-final vanished quickly, so we stopped between the metro station and the ground to chat to some of the Stade Francais Supporters Association, and so impressed were they that we'd made the effort to go over that they gave us a couple of those flags that were everywhere back in April.

Having tickets for the evening meant that we could take advantage of the half-price Sevens ticket offer (6 euros for a day in the sun watching rugby? Bargain!), and with free programmes as well, we got into the ground...just as the final whistle went to eliminate England from the Cup competition.  And to make it worse, we'd got there just as the teams were going for their 50 minute "lunch break".

Nothing to do therefore but find a shady spot (pretty difficult in the open stand) and stay as cool as possible.  The crowd built up during the afternoon, especially as the local schools chucked out, but almost all were agreed on one thing - England were to be jeered at every opportunity, to the extent that they were even cheering the Aussies (come on, they are limits...) in their Plate semi-final against England.  Not for long through, England cruised through.

"I'm fit, me"

Just for a change, there were no Falcons in the England squad, but there was at least one Geordie taking the field, with Sean Davey officiating every so often throughout the afternoon, and it was time for his big match - France versus New Zealand in the Cup semi-final.  Now if you've ever watched sevens before, you'll know that it's one game the French don't do.  This, apparently, was the 51st tournament in the IRB Sevens' six year history, and France had never made it to a Cup final, mainly due to a policy of not picking the "best" players and the clubs' reluctance to let anyone go.

This time however, Vincent Clerc of Toulouse had been persuaded to join in, and he opened the scoring in the semi with a blistering solo run from his own 22.  When 7-0 became 14-0 a minute later, the French support were jubilant whilst the rest of us tried to take it all in.  This wasn't supposed to happen.

And at that point, the black beast was awakened.  Two tries before half time, one of which was converted, and a two point deficit appeared to provide a close enough platform for a Kiwi comeback and another French disappointment.  There then followed a most remarkable seven and a half minutes of rugby, with both sides probing early on, before New Zealand went for the jugular - and messed up.  Two binnings meant that for a few seconds they were down to five, and as the church bell tolled to signify that the game was up, they went at the heroic French defence one last time.  I commented that "surely Wavy won't make himself the most unpopular man in France and give a pen?", and the words had hardly left my mouth when the whistle blew for a penalty.

For France.

Ball summarily hit back of main stand as the French supporters and players celebrated a first final possibly a little too much.  Around the corner would shortly be Fiji, who disposed of Samoa like the world champions they are, and in the process Waisale Serevi walked (literally) through for a try from a dummy which not only did the Samoans buy, but half the stand also.  I certainly swayed.

Two finals followed before England came out for the Plate final against South Africa to even louder booing, which was replaced within seconds of the start when the Boks scored.  England managed to get parity by the end of the 14 minutes, and as the bell rang were camped in the opposition line.  Unfortunately, the ball got turned over, and with a great deal of enterprise, South Africa passed the ball the width of the field in front of their try line, then back again behind it, before spotting a gap, and one pass later the try was scored under the posts.  The better, more courageous team had won.

Hosts versus World Champions.  The French miracle couldn’t happen, could it?  They went out to 14-0 again before being pegged back, but with the halves now being ten rather than seven minutes, they knew that holding on would probably see them losing, so they did what the great French XVs have done in the past.  Throwing the ball about without fear, they backed themselves and scored time and again.  By the end, there was no doubt that the best team in the tournament had triumphed, and for some of the players whose career-high would be here, it was a chance to be rightfully jubilant.

The French celebrate

Just a word at this point about the organisation.  Having been to the Twickenham event the week before, this was a breath of fresh air.  No over-eager stewarding; no-one there purely to drink; no vast cavern two-thirds empty.  If this was an example of what Paris would do and how its people would support any Olympic win, let them have them now and let me go.

Part Three - La Finale

Across Paris on the train, and into view came the Stade de France; to me, the best place I've ever come across to watch a game of rugby.  Part of the excitement for me last year was the fervour outside the ground; twelve months on, it was still one long party.  Everyone seemed to be in club colours in some shape or form, and the walk from the station to the ground was like entering a sweet shop for the first time; so many flavours, where do you start?  Our tickets meant that we could walk round the perimeter and see everything without going out of our way, but without doubt the biggest shock was Lom being recognised by a friend from Agen and his colleague, one Daniel Dubroca.  You only had to look at the esteem that he was held in by supporters of both sides to realise just how good he was, and he still looks like he could do a job today.  I probably should have asked him if he was free in September...

We had seats in the top tier, roughly on the 22.  We didn't realise that they'd be in row 85 (of 86), so having got all the way up there, I went back down for the rest of the mountaineering gear and (the more important) two beers.  There was quite a good mix around us, mainly Biarritz (who I'll refer to as BO from now on), but Stade, Bourgoin and Perpignan also in close proximity.  It was a novelty preparing to watch a game with an 8.45 kick off, and it still being daylight.

All we needed now was the start - and boy did it kick off!  It was like watching a production of Beauty and the Beast.  Yachvili kicked BO in front, before the first of the evening's fights, with locks David Auradou and Jerome Thion going at it hell for leather.  With this being a French game, there were no warnings - both binned with just seven minutes on the clock, and Skrela kicked Stade level.  BO then pulled clear, with the largest (as it turned out) lead of the night, with another penalty and the first try when winger Jean-Baptiste Gobelet forced himself over on the blind side of a five metre scrum in the corner.

Yachvili opens the scoring

Whilst we didn't get a good view of that (wrong side), we got an excellent view of Stade's response.  A penalty each was exchanged, before on first phase possession from a scrum in their own half, Brian Liebenberg broke and fed Christophe Dominici.  He was brought to his knees by two BO tacklers, but as he wasn't held, bounced up in the same movement and raced clear to score a quite fantastic try.  As he was going over the line, another fight set off and went through the advertising hoardings.  No action taken this time, but no quarter being asked for or given...

That was 26 minutes in, and the last time that either side were more than three points behind.  By half time, the game had gone to 19-all, more glimpses of the beautiful game, and yet more beastly, with ex-Gloucester man Rodrigo Roncero becoming the third card, yet again for fighting.  Discipline in finals is such a big thing that it was a surprise that Stade captain Auradou who seemed to be walking the thinnest rope - if it were not a final, the referee may have been tempted to produce a red card, such was his continued involvement in off the ball activity.

The tied scoreline was fully justified, this being one of the tightest matches I had ever seen.  As day turned into night and the clock passed ten, the penalty exchange continued, broken only by a 41 metre drop goal by Liebenberg that started its descent as it was going through the posts.  That gave Stade a 25-22 lead just seconds after Yachvili had pulled it level - it was one of those nights.

With about ten minutes to go, BO finally went back in front at 31-28, and I turned to Lom and said that I thought we'd end up with 31-all and extra time, which would not be a hardship given the quality and tension.  For a game with so many penalties, this was indeed high quality rugby - stuff your Munster-Wasps matches, I'd take this every time.  Auradou was finally replaced, having added lippiness to his aggression, and Stade got the inevitable penalty with two minutes to go.  The final play of normal time saw a kick through that Nicolas Brusque had to cover, and we had those "prolongations".

And that's where we got caught out.  Expecting ten minutes each way, when Skrela kicked yet another penalty in the eleventh minute and play continued, we were totally confused.  It turned out that the French way was for fifteen minutes each way, which in hindsight seems better as it reduces the chances of the extra time period being "first to score wins".  Indeed, five minutes into the second period, Julian Peyrelongue dropped a goal for BO to level it up again, and now we were clueless about what would happen if it were still level at the end.

Perhaps it would have been fitting to be all square, as there was absolutely nothing between the two sides, and reminded me of the cup final last season, where the last team to score won (thanks again Dowse!).  Twas not to be all square though.  Yet another transgression from Stade brought yet another Yachvili penalty, and with it the individual points scoring record in a final. 

The kick that won a championship

The Basques smelt glory, and lifted the colour and noise levels up several notches to try and cheer their boys through the last seven minutes.  Stade changed their game plan, as there was no way the BO were going to give away a kickable penalty now, so the ball had to be thrown about.  As the hooter sounded, the supporters in front of us got up to cheer but Stade still had the ball and were pressing.  One loose pass though, and…

Note the time...

The memories of last year’s celebration came flooding back, but this was French style.  It was 11.20 at night, but no-one wanted to leave just yet.  With the Brennus collected, it was time to celebrate with the supporters, and if that meant going in amongst them, then so be it.  And once again, those doing a job of stewarding the place were excellent; you could stay as long as you wanted to share in the joy.

Two views of what winning a championship is like

The walk back to the station meant going under a bridge in complete darkness, and the sound that those Biarritz supporters who had left early will stay with me forever.  The sound of ecstasy.  The sound of pride in your team.

And one more point.  We got back to the station at ten past midnight, with just two trains left to get us back to the centre of Paris, and thousands trying to get on them.  Sense reigned, with the ticket barriers opened up and no fuss made whether you had a ticket or not.  I couldn’t see that happening at Twickenham, could you?

Footnote

We found out the following day that if the scores had been level, it would have come down to number of tries, then conversions, then drop goals, then something to do with discipline!  It was also Biarritz’s fourth ever title, and the third time that they’ve taken extra time to win it.  The game was also the highest scoring final ever.

Biarritz came second in the season long competition, then beat the European champions and the first placed side in the semis and final to win the championship.  Not a word of complaint.  That’s why I have no grumble with the play-offs; the best team wins over the whole season, league and final combined.

The trains back to Biarritz were leaving at seven on the Sunday morning, which naturally meant a night in the bars of Paris.  Even those BO supporters who stayed for a Sunday in the capital had been out as well, by the number of people with sore heads that we saw in the Basque restaurant that evening.  And can you blame them?