Rugby: The Shield Hangover

There are the rugby players from Stade Toulousain, who know me really well and enjoy sticking a signed club sticker ("It's ours") behind my plate. It's funny, it scratches my back. And then there are the others, the fans, who chase me all year long to make me experience the worst atrocities. Between them and me, it's tough love

Oh no! Not them, not again... What did I do to the good Lord of the stadium to deserve this? French Federal 1 champions in 2023, the Langonnais couldn't be promoted and immediately crowned National 2. And yet... I may be friendly, but I'm in pain. "We spend so much time and suffering to get it that, nine times out of ten, the players break it or lose it." And, two times out of two, I end up in the fountain in the city center . President Benjamin Barbe is nice, but I make as many bubbles as oil with this bubble bath. And meanwhile, the players improvise the local car wash. The drivers laugh, normal. No one imagines what awaits me.

They literally took me apart: trunk, rivets, bronze. I ended up in the dump. Wood from the dumpsters.

And what I've already experienced: hands on the ass of a whole bunch of strangers when they don't take me for a photo booth. I force myself to smile despite the abuse. "It's true that he suffered from the night of the victory." Thanks, Julien. He's Graffouillère. Pillar of his trade. Two months before the title, the coach encouraged him to postpone his wedding date. And he did! The guy preferred to touch me that evening. I could have done without him. Like his friends. They literally took me apart: trunk, rivets, bronze... Everything was there. I ended up in the dump. Wood from the dumpsters.

My circular license plate was saved. You're in luck, I was out of hinges. I got one for the price of two: the 9th and the 10th. Max Deguin and Christel Bertrand improvised as mechanics. They offered my dented hubcap face to every passing car. Who wants an insurance penalty?

Luckily, there's Titi. The owner of the Bouchon Langonnais took care of his players like I did my carcass. I have to say I'd already had enough. Like them. "Everyone wants to achieve their feat with it. When they threw it into the fountain, the shield didn't like it." And Bertrand questioned my ice-box build. "It's still a replica, eh. It doesn't have the same solidity as the real thing. You can feel it at the first aperitif." That'll teach me to serve as a cocktail table, mind you. At least Titi paid tribute to me with the opening of his next business, a hotel-restaurant. Its name: Brennus .

Given Stade Langonnais's season, I'm not going to be enthroned there right away. I could have, though. The players gave me a little makeover. "We have two or three guys tinkering," they said. It was more like friends of friends and partners of the club who took on the task. I had to, otherwise I wouldn't have been able to parade at the town hall. "After two days, there was no more shield." Whose fault was that, Graffouillère? "It was annoying, everyone wanted to see it." The management got a bit angry. But Benjamin Barbe didn't have to pull out his wallet. "We weren't forced to buy one like BEC, who literally threw it in the Garonne!" It's not nice to snitch.

No problem, I was just about to mention it. We'll soon be celebrating the 30th anniversary of my drowning. It was in 1996. BEC beat Gan in the final of the French three-letter club championship. The Honor match took place in Bayonne, on the Saint-Léon field, the ancestor of Jean-Dauger. A few weeks earlier, the Bordeaux students won the Côte d'Argent trophy. The group was in a simmering conflict with the president of the institution. His congratulatory speech was disrupted by the players. They could have settled the dispute like the Oloron rugby players, Federal 1 champions in 2000.

The captain lifts me up and, hey presto, drops me on the committee president's head. In Béarn, the stitch was involuntary. They have a more outlandish idea: toss me into the Garonne. Their leaders are up in arms. "You can't do that!" The rascals insist. A pact is made on my apple: "If you move up to Fédérale 3, OK." Except that the guys are pretty much guaranteed to reach the next level. New deal. "Only if you're French champions." Touch wood.

The leaders are taking me to safety. France 3 Aquitaine has been notified. The players are heading towards the stone bridge. They want to put their plan into action.

The BEC too. The Bayonne evening is in full swing. The waters of the Garonne are far from the fires of the Adour. They'll forget me. You just have to believe... The next day, naked as worms, the victors parade through the streets of Bordeaux. The leaders take me to safety. The players want to put their plan into action. They head towards the stone bridge. France 3 Aquitaine has been notified. I'm done for!

An amateur club is often a family. Sometimes in the literal sense of the word. Jean-Bernard Saint-Pic is one of the managers. His son Thomas is discovering the first team. The rascal knows every nook and cranny. "I snitched." And I sank Saint-Pic. Live on television. The BEC in the water. "We're not crazy, we threw away the Côte d'Argent shield, not the French champions' shield." That's a nice wooden leg for me.

The leaders pay a small fine. And a new shield. The transmission isn't lacking in salt. Fins and snorkels replace shorts and crampons. Frogmen arrive at the committee. And I, looking dapper, despite a few mussels clinging to my apron in front of stunned officials.

But what do these rugby players, as thick as rocks, have to do with water? Those from Capbreton-Hossegor have at least one excuse: they often swap the ball for the board. Sometimes, they even combine their two passions. And who's paying the price, I'll give you the nautical mile? The 2013 French Premier League champions, the Landais, set themselves an insane challenge. "A pigeon is dumber than a dolphin, all right. But it flies." Michel Audiard's fans slam me onto a skateboard. Off to the beach.

"They wanted to ride the wave, like Dupont." I'm a good scapegoat. Antoine too. A third-row player jumped in. "You're more of a Ducon."

Not so bad, this sliding sensation. Are we going back in now? No. Or rather, yes. Into the water. The nightmare begins again. This time, I make it out alive despite a two-meter swell. I have to say, I'm dealing with an experienced surfer. Pulled by a jet ski, he launches himself into the waves. Back in the wax, facing the sky and feet in the mouth, I hurtle down the wall of water without a hitch. "If this stupidity isn't reimbursed by social security, you'll end up broke." As for me, I ended up dry on the sand. That's something.

And much better than in June 2023. On the Basque Coast, surfing is king. The problem is, the villages of Arcangues and Bassussarry aren't on the front lines facing the ocean. Rugby is pretty well-versed there, as evidenced by the eight titles won in recent years by Emak Hor. Surfing will have to wait. And not on my apron. That hasn't been possible since one afternoon in Anglet, on Corsaires Beach. Overjoyed to celebrate their Regional 1 French championship crown , the fans tried to imitate their idol.

"They wanted to surf the shield, like Dupont." I'm a convenient scapegoat. Antoine too. A third lineman jumped in. "You're more of a Jerk." I've had it. Again. Call to all units to find me, from lifeguards to auctions. Two years later, nothing works, I'm still plumbing the depths of the Atlantic.

One might have expected a barrage of green and red wood from the Basque staff. Calm took over. Force of habit. After all, two years is roughly how long I've been missing since winning the first series title in 2018. I reappeared one day in a bush, right in the middle of the village of Arcangues. The kidnapping alert was lifted. The culprit, if there was one, was never found. One was identified further north, in Charente, in Barbezieux. Twenty years after my kidnapping, the captain confessed. I was hanging out in his bathroom.

For me too, urination isn't impossible. How cramped we are at the bottom of this club! The Caveau isn't very big, but it's a must-see for Biarritz night owls. Or rugby players on tour.

I served as a djembe all evening, as a skimboard in the past, I was even recovered from the bottom of the fishing port of Biarritz by a previous generation, after having resisted assaults of buckshot

Mine went through Saint-Martin-de-Seignanx, Bayonne and Bidart, where the village XV celebrated its victory against Soustons in the Côte Basque-Landes Honor final, on April 27, 2014. I served as a djembe all evening, as a skimboard in the past, I was even recovered from the bottom of the Biarritz Fishermen's Port by a previous generation of the club, in 1991, after having resisted buckshot attacks.

In the end, I'm not doing so badly, getting some fresh air next to the disco. At least, that's what I thought. An hour passes. I'm bored stiff. Two hours. I'm starting to freeze. Four in the morning. It's raining. Oh no. The drunk pulls up his fly. So, where are my new owners? Bidart, you said Bidart.

The next day, President Jeff Bradburn calls his captain, Jean-Louis Daramy. "Everyone has their last memory of the shield, but no one knows where it is." Fortunately, Jean-Claude Garnier is to the people of Bidart what Mother Teresa is to the poor: a blessing. The former owner of the Caveau picks me up early in the morning, in the alleyway alongside his establishment. "It was a bit wrecked." Thanks, but I wasn't the only one.

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One was a French international pillar from the 1970s and 1980s, as rough as a txulet (1) left on the grill. The other is a Fijian three-quarter as elusive as an eel at high tide. The voluble Peio Dospital (74 years old) and the discreet Sireli Maqala (25 years old) were not meant to meet. Iduzki, daughter of the former and partner of the latter, did the rest