I have cursed David Duckham every winter's day since late in 1971, which is an odd state of affairs as he was/is probably my all-time favourite player.
An explanation of sorts is therefore required. It was entirely down to England's glamorous wing that I broke my thumb while scoring a try with no player – opposition or colleague – within 20 yards of me.
Cruising under the posts after a very decent team move against Sutton HS this idiot and halfwit couldn't resist showboating and slamming the ball down one handed to score in Duckham's trademark style.
Duckham effortlessly executed such moments with a well honed theatrical flourish – hadn't the great man scored six such tries in just one game for the Lions against Buller West Coast that very summer? – whereas I, with considerably less practice, managed to jar my thumb horribly as the bone hard ground resisted. I could both feel and hear the cracking of bone. Served me right.
I soldiered on until the end. I was in denial and ridiculously a few days later mum – having rubbed it with TCP (don't ask!) strapped me up and pumped me with painkillers – got me to the start line for a crunch game against John Fisher Purley. Expulsion would have been a near certainty had I cried off that and the family couldn't face that shame. If it wasn't broken before kick-off it was well and truly busted by the final whistle when I fessed up and headed to A&E where an X-ray revealed a complicated fracture resembling aerial pictures of the Nile Delta. Season over.
The bloody thumb has given me hell ever since, a foolproof two-day advance harbinger of any incoming ‘weather' and a cruel tormentor on deadline when I start pounding rather than stroking the computer keyboard. It often locks altogether which is alarming or sometimes just conks out, resulting in spilt tea or grog depending on what time of day it. All this is down to David Duckham but I forgive him 1,000 times over.
Duckham wasn't the absolute best there ever was – that would be Gareth Edwards, JPR or Mike Gibson, or possibly Dan Carter, Richie McCaw, Antoine Dupont or Christian Cullen – but no player has ever lifted the spirits higher and run with such grace and elan. He was part Roger Moore aka The Saint, part Alexander Obolensky. Cool as hell and dripping with X-factor. Every sport needs such box office players to draw in the neutrals and undecided.
Indeed, it was watching the Coventry wing fly down the left flank to score for the Barbarians against South Africa in 1970 that convinced me to unceremoniously dump football for rugby union. There and then. A Damascus moment in front of the old black and white TV.
Until that point, rugby's charms were proving elusive even though it was a religion at Reigate GS. Back home it was still football most nights until dark down the Rec, or cricket in the summer. Rugby hadn't won me over. Goal, Shoot, Charlie Buchan's Football Monthly and – remember Billy's Boots – littered my bedroom not Rugby World. It was Match of the Day not Rugby Special; David Coleman not Bill McLaren.
David Duckham changed all that and you hope that the 12- and 13-years olds today have similar rugby heroes that ignite their interest and passion. It's why the likes of Finn Russell, Marcus Smith and Louis Rees-Zammit to name just three are so important even if they can also occasionally appear flawed and vulnerable and can frustrate coaches who demand more consistency and “work rate”. Genius does what it must, talent what it can.
Duckham continued to be my hero throughout his playing career even though Wales were pre-eminent. This side of the Bridge we genuinely admired their virtuosity but even Wales would have killed for Duckham and that offered solace. Mention of Duckham's name was the trump card we played when Welsh school-masters on the circuit became too cocky and insufferable. It stopped them in their tracks for a few minutes.
It was Duckham who was most people's MOM in THAT Barbarians match of all stars when he was at his absolute peak. A month later he scored a couple of crackers in a fine England win over France and frankly could have claimed two more and then came the big day. March 17, 1973 and a school visit to watch England play Scotland at Twickenham. Our first ever visit to HQ for a live Test match. Early kick-off for us sweaty tyros, Keystone Kops drive to Headquarters in the creaking school minibus with Mr Bligh at the wheel. Running late we abandoned the minibus somewhere near the Winning Post and sprinted into the ground, cramping up from the morning game. But we were there.
Duckham didn't disappoint. He didn't actually score that glorious March day although we were dead opposite when he crossed the line with three defenders on him after, yet another mesmerising run and I remain convinced he touched down. Mr Kelleher alas thought otherwise but he ran Scotland ragged in spectacular fashion. Andy Irvine in particular remembers it as one of his toughest ever days at the office.
Objectively Duckham wasn't super quick although he was no slouch and once contested the England schools 220 yards final. His genius was unquestionably the purveyor of the dummy step-swerve, a unique triptych of brilliance which carries probably the highest degree of difficulty ever seen on a rugby pitch.
Many can step brilliantly – Phil Bennett, Gerald Davies, Cullen, Beauden Barrett, Shane Williams et al – and some glory in the outside swerve, mostly centres like Jerry Guscott. Others meanwhile were masters of the dummy – think John Dawes and Richard Sharp – but Duckham patented a move in which he set off on a wide arc at the exact instant that he dismissed a defender with an exaggerated dummy and step. He was a biggish guy but incredibly balanced and when he made his move if he didn't completely bamboozle the defender with footwork he also had the power to push through a trailing arm. Impossible to stop.
In later years I got to interview Duckham many times, most notably for his reminiscences for Behind the Rose the official England players history which felt like a rare privilege. He was everything you would hope for, modest to a fault and full of insight. By the way, he attributed the dummy step-swerve to long schoolboy hours at Coundon Road watching his schoolboy hero Peter Jackson but he was surely being too modest. Only those who saw Jackson in his pomp – adecreasing number – can confirm the similarity or otherwise. There is precious little footage of Jackson but that we do possess depict excellent pace, a sharp step and a nose for the try line. But not the heady higher tariff stuff that Duckham unveiled.
Talking of modesty it should also be noted that he was a key player in getting England to Dublin in 1973. Originally Duckham was one of the doubters, feeling Wales and Scotland had probably been right the season before in not travelling but his strong friendship with Willie John McBride prevailed. The big Ulsterman phoned to convince him that it would be safe, Ireland would stay in the same hotel as England – the Shelbourne – and the respective wives could enjoy a weekend in town together. If terrorists fancied a pot at England they would have to get past himself,
Fergus Slattery, Sean Lynch and the rest of the Irish boys first. Good luck with that. Duckham was convinced and as a senior voice in the England squad others listened.
So farewell David Duckham. Unique and throwback to different times. He once told me that against Buller Coast that famous day he ended up running away from the posts towards the corner for his last couple of tries just to annoy Bob Hiller and give him kicking practice. Different times. He was often described as the Ferrari gathering dust in the England garage. Alas true…but the sheer thrill and adrenaline rush of occasionally witnessing that Ferrari unleashed on the world stayed with you for a lifetime.
