After it was all over on Saturday night, England’s players peeled away to seek out their loved ones in the stands. Fin Smith’s parents, Andrew and Judith, were awaiting their match-winning boy and the shared family embrace, when it came, was among the more heartwarming things you’ll see in sport all year. All those unsung hours on school and club touchlines, all those youthful ups and downs, distilled into a tight group hug of the purest emotional joy.
In a strange way it also captured the tangled charm of the Six Nations. Andrew Smith is a proud Scot who met his wife – whose father Tom represented Scotland and the British & Irish Lions – at a post-match curry night in the clubhouse at London Scottish. What a Proclaimers-style 500-mile walk it has been from there to celebrating one of England’s more stunning modern wins with their red-rose-wearing son. Heaven knows how they will feel when Scotland head south next week for a Calcutta Cup clash now laden with even more resonance.
Welcome back to a tournament with an annual capacity to confound that never grows old. There is a good reason why seasoned overseas coaches, including Eddie Jones, believe a grand slam can be almost harder to win than a World Cup. Saturday was another classic example: just when France felt they might have restored some order they were unzipped by the deftest of English fingers, splendidly fashioned by Smith and finished by Elliot Daly, which has opened up all kinds of unexpected new title possibilities.
As recently as mid-afternoon on Saturday the tournament vibe felt distinctly different. Wales were getting ritually thumped in Rome and heading up from Twickenham railway station the majority of the hordes were expecting to witness the last rites of England’s title prospects. Aside from a cheerful bunch of Frenchmen, all dressed in cockerel onesies and clucking their way towards the ticket barriers, there was limited optimism in the drizzly air.
All of a sudden it is a different ball game. Sometimes it only takes a solitary result to transform a team’s entire trajectory and this one has that potential. We have said and written as much before, admittedly, but the positive manner in which England shed their last-quarter blues to punish France’s early profligacy did suggest an important corner had indeed been turned.
While Ireland’s win at Murrayfield underlined the fact this season’s Six Nations is far from done, home games against Scotland and Italy followed by a last-weekend trip to Cardiff to face a downcast Wales has morphed into a schedule with opportunity for England spraypainted all over it. In parish churches across middle England you could almost hear the faithful renewing their vows as they murmured Twickenham’s revised Lord’s Prayer: “Give me this day our Daly bread. And forgive us our trespasses.”
The next step is to find the holy grail again and again. Those of us who have followed England around for a while have seen more false dawns than an AI photoshop lab. This time, though, it felt as if something fundamental had finally clicked into place. Marcus Smith remains a sizzling runner but his 22-year-old namesake, after a tricky start, brought a calm assurance to the No 10 jersey that appeared to ripple outwards and compose those around him.
It is no longer a case, consequently, of Smith F lurking in the wings while Smith M wields the baton. The understudy has grasped his big chance and Borthwick’s selectorial puzzle may finally have solved itself. Tom Willis made an excellent impression at No 8, Tom Curry appeared revitalised on the blindside flank and the bench looks better prepared for nip-and-tuck final quarters with Jamie George and Daly on it.
Add Smith M to that mix – a looming probability once George Furbank is back fit to strengthen further the Northampton connection in England’s backline – plus Immanuel Feyi-Waboso and the balance of the squad will, at last, correspond with the individual talent at Borthwick’s disposal. Unless, of course, they contrive to lose to Scotland on Saturday week and their supporters start to pull out their hair again.
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Talking of which, what on earth were a wasteful France doing? At times it brought to mind those old Pink Panther films where the bumbling Inspector Clouseau reduces his boss Dreyfus, played by Herbert Lom, to a gibbering wreck. “Ask my psychiatrist if he can see me, five days a week, twice a day,” Dreyfus groans in the Curse of the Pink Panther. It was easy to imagine similar emotions forming in Fabien Galthié’s head as his side’s latest grand slam campaign disintegrated.
Come to mention it, there is a slight hint of the cartoon Pink Panther – minus the long tail and the Henry Mancini soundtrack – about the tracksuited Borthwick’s distinctive loping gait around the field before games. Appearances, in his case, are similarly deceptive: the tactical side of his brain is forever active and here, finally, was a precious jewel to tuck away after too many empty-handed missions.
What happens next will be equally fascinating, both for England and the overall destination of the Six Nations trophy. In many ways, though, this year’s championship is already a triumph, having cemented itself back in the wider public imagination (albeit possibly not in Wales) and underscored its ability to refresh the parts other tournaments cannot reach. One former World Cup-winning captain even got in touch on Sunday to salute “the breathtaking quality of Test rugby these days” while even the bedraggled cockerels heading home on Saturday could not dispute the entertainment value. And the most delicious thing of all? We are not even halfway through the set menu yet.
