LONG READ 'Johann van Graan has, out of rubble and dust, rebuilt the barony of Bath'

We appear to be re-living the 1990s, what with Pulp currently top of the – album – hit parade and Bath, once again, the champions of English rugby. All we need now is (a) the relaunch of the pager (b) the renaissance of neoliberalism and (c) the reunion of Kate Moss and Johnny Depp and it’ll feel as though the last three decades never happened.

But fittingly, given their season-long dominance, Bath deserved their final moment; Ben Spencer’s tears, Johann van Graan’s post-match prayer and Tom Dunn’s hairy kiss for his kid all – perfectly – summed up by Player of the Match, Guy Pepper. ‘It’s just a massive sigh of relief,’ he said. ‘We didn’t play our best, did we?’ And they didn’t. But they did enough.

Out-nudged in the scrum, plagued by handling errors and heftily outscored in the final quarter? This Bath team is famous for none of these things; bailed out on the day by their aerial supremacy, an ‘over my dead body’ defence and a moment of inspired brilliance from Finn Russell. As Ugo Monye said on TNT before the game, it takes a stellar squad to get you to a final; it takes your stellar guys to win it. And so it proved.

But, even then, Russell did it the hard way. Having spotted and snatched Handre Pollard’s ponderous pass and taken off like a scalded cat, he then – with the the line at his mercy – chose to loop a perilous, inside ball to Max Ojomoh for the score; a cherry, no question, but one the cake could quite easily have done without. ‘He’s a kid from Bath that grew up watching his dad …[Steve]… lifting this trophy,’ Russell explained to the BBC afterwards. ‘I just wanted to give him a little bit of limelight in a final.’ All wonderfully selfless but for those Bath supporters dressed in incontinence pads, it would’ve been a soggy couple of seconds.

Crucially, though, was Russell’s thievery born of pure instinct or of shrewd analysis? On TNT, Austin Healey smartly pointed out Pollard’s failure to scan – or even to look – outside him prior to throwing the fatal pass. So was Russell hovering like a cut-purse simply on the off-chance or because the Bath video analysts had themselves spotted a pattern and, therefore, an opportunity? It looked suspiciously – cleverly – like the latter but, alas, in the post-match hubbub, the question was never asked.

Perhaps the most pertinent – again, unposed – question of the day was did Leicester lose or did they run out of time? Given the mighty dents Emeka Ilione and Izaia Perese were inflicting off the bench, another five minutes would’ve tested a few blue and black tweeters.

But perhaps the most pertinent – again, unposed – question of the day was did Leicester lose or did they run out of time? Given the mighty dents Emeka Ilione and Izaia Perese were inflicting off the bench, another five minutes would’ve tested a few blue and black tweeters. But having been first on the scoreboard right at the start, it took the Tigers another hour to score again. They simply couldn’t get a meaningful foothold; in large part, undone by indiscipline. Certainly, they were on the wrong end of referee Karl Dickson’s whistle for much of the afternoon.

Post-match, Leicester Head Coach, Michael Cheika, was trying hard to bite his tongue – ‘if I say something, I’m going to get myself in strife’ – but, typically, not quite managing it. ‘I’ve never seen it before in my life, dominating like that … [in the scrum] …and getting nothing, zero. It’s impossible to manage a field position scenario with that outcome … it was frustrating to say the least.’

And then there was Dan Cole’s yellow card. ‘If we’re sending players to the sin-bin for that … what do I say?’ said Cheika. ‘It’s embarrassing for the game’. Whatever your view – it was ‘harsh’; it was a ‘brain-fade’ – it was unquestionably a wretched end to one of Leicester’s most distinguished careers and the heartfelt hug afterwards between Cole and Tom Croft – each is married to a Ben Youngs’ cousin; they’re family – made for bleak viewing.

Youngs himself, understandably, was struggling to hold it all in. ‘Proud. Emotional. Gutted’, he said after – literally – his final outing; truly, a leaden heart bears not a nimble tongue. Leicester’s indomitable departing skipper, Julian Montoya, was asked what playing for the Tigers had meant to him and offered just one, solitary word. ‘Everything’, he said. As much as sport can be pitiless, it’s emotions can be eloquently brief.

Johann van Graan who, out of rubble and dust, has rebuilt the barony of Bath; a mixture of hand-reared sons, rejuvenated old sweats and rugby refugees, all stiffened by slabs of Springboks and seasoned with a dash of Scottish sauce.

Ten years ago, Michael Cheika was handed an unsorted jigsaw and, within less than a year, put all the pieces together to reach a Twickenham final only to come second to a red-hot favourite. That jigsaw was Australia; the final, the 2015 Rugby World Cup against New Zealand. A decade on, he’s done it again and while two miracles have now eluded him, it takes very little off the shine of what he’s achieved at Leicester. ‘Fascinating … smart … emotionally intelligent,’ said his former Leinster mate, Brian O’Driscoll. ‘He’s totally revamped this team … he’s a shrewd guy.’

All of which might apply equally to Bath’s Johann van Graan who, out of rubble and dust, has rebuilt the barony of Bath; a mixture of hand-reared sons, rejuvenated old sweats and rugby refugees, all stiffened by slabs of Springboks and seasoned with a dash of Scottish sauce. To forge a collective DNA out of that lot – bugger the budget – is the work of a true alchemist. Perhaps the formula is what he carries in that A5 book of his but, whatever it is, it’s made Bath tougher to beat than a straight flush.

As a game, it was more beast than beauty yet no less compelling for that; Old Firm, old school. But as an occasion, it had everything; vibrancy, colour, pageantry and a house sold out weeks ago. It also had the National Anthem plugged into an electric guitar, which divided opinion. Frankly, it’s a plonking, gormless tune anyway, so it’s high-time someone murdered it properly.

But, once again, a final of almost thunderous weights came down to the flimsiest of measures. Did Nicky Smith’s fingertips scoop the ball from a ruck under the Leicester posts or did Bath lose it forward? The TMO, Ian Tempest, decided he didn’t and they did. Did the excellent Will Muir momentarily mislay the ball in the build-up to Guy Pepper’s rampage through Adam Radwan for what looked like the clinching score? He did and it wasn’t. An entire season was being defined by millimetres.

Watching a game freighted with so many consequences, farewells, narratives, historical contexts, jeopardy and screaming tension – a poker table, if you like, sagging with chips – is pure sporting theatre.

All of which, for the neutral at least, is why the whole thing works. There are plenty who’ll argue that topping the log defines the best team in England. And had van Graan’s team lost the final having ‘won’ the league by 11 points, every rugby ‘op-ed’ in every rag and mag in the land – arguably, bar the Leicester Mercury – would’ve plonked the play-offs squarely under the microscope. More than that, someone would’ve needed to hide Bath’s bootlaces and razor blades.

But watching a game freighted with so many consequences, farewells, narratives, historical contexts, jeopardy and screaming tension – a poker table, if you like, sagging with chips – is pure sporting theatre. And, as callous as it may sound to say so, when you know full well that both teams are going end up in tears – albeit for different reasons – you’re almost gleefully stockpiling the popcorn.

The Premiership has now produced six different champions in the last six years; the last seven finals have been decided by an average of just 5.7 points. Anything appears possible and, certainly, Newcastle Falcons’ supporters – reportedly now given Red Bull wings – will look at Bath’s three-year turnaround from bottom to top and think (a) wey aye and (b) why not? English club rugby may still have to work out how to fund the merchandise more prudently but the product itself has rarely looked more of an enticement.

Bath’s day, though, and worthily so. It’s been a while. You need to be a seriously old git to recall their last title in 1996 and, as it happens, I am and I do; namely, standing in the middle of the Recreation Ground pointing a microphone at a wild, wide-eyed Jon Callard while Michael J Catt emptied two cans of lager over the pair of us. Well, okay, over the one of us. All of which reminds me; thirty years on, I still haven’t retrieved that ale-stained jacket from the dry cleaners. I rang them this morning. It’ll be ready on Friday.