As I recently mentioned to someone, the start of the Six Nations always puts me in Tigger mode. No fireworks, no arrogant claims. Just that familiar tightening in the chest as the New Year dawns with the anticipation of 2 months of international rugby, reminding me of how it all started.
For me, the tournament always begins with people rather than fixtures. Watching mates arriving at Marcoussis to collect their room key, pulling on jerseys. Boots laced with care. That look that says they know exactly what the next few weeks will demand. Supporting friends at this level is a strange balance of pride and restraint. I want to shout, I restrain myself to the usual pre match music tract. Mostly, I just sit hugging my rugby cushion and hope for that magic that gives me goosebumps.
Being the current titleholders brings a weight that does not need spelling out. It sits quietly in the background of every warm up and every anthem. The champions everyone wants to beat are still the same players who have to survive to Super Saturday on March 14th with joints intact and lungs that forgive the cold. Titles are not defended with swagger. They are carried with discipline, patience, and no small amount of wear and tear.
This is why I never do predictions. Rugby does not reward certainty. It rewards presence. The small, unglamorous things done properly under pressure. Prognostics are easy when you are not the one getting folded into a ruck by someone who has waited twelve months for this fixture.
What I do hope for is simple. No injuries like that horrific day in Dublin last year. No long walks down the tunnel. No seasons ending quietly in moments that never make the highlights. If the Six Nations gives us nothing else, let it give the players their bodies back at the end.
Then there are the youngsters. Every year, someone steps into the noise and looks like they belong. I am watching players like our Kevan Gourges with a particular kind of hope. Not hype. Not expectation. Just the wish that when the moment comes, it feels familiar enough for him to play freely like he does for us at EW; here’s hoping for more of the magic we sa when he came on against Australia in last year’s autumn internationals. When that happens, the future stops being an idea and starts being real.
There is joy here too, even with the tension. Weekends shaped by kick off times. Messages that begin with “did you see that?!” and end with something that echoes the spirit of the game. Rugby works because it is shared, quietly as much as loudly.
So my kick off track for this year’s tor=urnament is “Blue” by Eiffel 65. Not because it is subtle, but because it is relentless, unapologetic, and slightly ridiculous. Much like supporting your team through five weeks of emotional whiplash. The beat keeps going. You stay with it. You accept that you are all in.
So here we are again. Same competition. Same nerves. Same hope that skill outweighs attrition and courage looks like calm execution rather than bravado.
No forecasts. No grand claims. Just support for my mates and the rest of our team on the pitch, respect for the weight they carry, hope for the youngsters finding their feet, and a quiet wish that when it is all over, everyone walks away in one piece.
Blue, after all, is not just a colour. It is a passion.
