By Richard Harris

The Telegraph, London

May 24, 2002





How do you explain a love affair?

It belongs to the heart, not the head. Something to be embraced, or spurned - there can be no middle ground.



There are those who stare blank-faced when I talk of rugby but others instantly understand my breathless enthusiasm and stomach-churning anxiety. We are the lucky ones.

Munster rugby, Limerick rugby. Through gritted teeth, as we approach Saturday’s historic occasion at the Millennium Stadium - Munster v Leicester in the Heineken Cup final - I must also acknowledge Cork’s wonderful contribution to Munster rugby over the years, but the essence of the game I know and love is to be found in Limerick.



The heroes of Limerick rugby are my heroes. Gladiators, square-jawed warriors who represent us on the battlefield. They are also heroes off the field - men who can drink, sing and talk of great deeds. I am intensely proud of individuals such as Peter Clohessy, Mick Galwey, Anthony Foley and all the boys. Keith Wood, whose father I used to play alongside, is another hero. He lives the rugby life we all dream of.



It was a bitter-sweet day two years ago at Twickenham when we lost to Northampton, but the sweet lingers longest. There must have been 30,000 Munster fans in red - an unforgettable and moving sight - and they conducted themselves beautifully. Supporting his rugby team is almost the only way a Munsterman can display his allegiance; we have no other comparable sporting or cultural outlet.



Rugby has always been there for me, even if I have occasionally gone AWOL. I have enjoyed its many pleasures, as a player and spectator. Perhaps it is the sociability or possibly it’s just the sheer physical pleasure that appeals. Very little on this earth can beat soaking your body back to life in a warm bath after an afternoon of cold rain, mud and pain with the prospect of pints and high jinks ahead. A warm glow envelopes you.



Or maybe rugby simply brings out the best in people. It’s a chicken and egg situation. Does rugby simply attract the sort of person whose friendship and qualities I enjoy or does the game itself - the actual physical confrontations and challenges it presents - help mould and create those people? Answers on a postcard, please. There is an instant recognition and understanding between rugby people. Would that it be so easy in the ’showbiz’ world where, you may have noticed, I am not universally popular.



I remember phoning Sir John Gielgud on his 90th birthday. I didn’t know him really but admired the man tremendously from afar.

“Happy birthday, Sir John,” I bellowed down the line. “This is Richard Harris phoning from the Bahamas, just to wish you Happy Birthday and thank you for everything you have done for British theatre. We are hugely in your debt.”



“Harris, you say,” replied Sir John. “I don’t know a Harris. Of course there is that very loud, vulgar chap from Ireland. Did the Camelot thing. Very bad reputation with drink and women I believe. Very bad indeed. Rugby chap. Anyway, thank you so very much for phoning from Bermuda. So sweet.” “Bahamas, Sir John, Bahamas.” “Yes, yes, yes, yes. The sun shines there as well, I believe.”

I was a second-row at school but seriously miscast. I should have been a flanker. I loved roving, snaffling tries, putting in big hits - though we called them tackles in those days. I attended Crescent College, played in two Munster Schools finals and represented Munster Schools and Munster

Under-20 - I still wear that very red shirt and intend to be buried in it, I have left instructions - before TB struck and I discovered books, women and a hitherto unsuspected, or submerged, desire to act and show off.



God, they were great days. To play rugby and glory in your fitness. To feel invincible. If you could just bottle the moment. Rugby was lif