Serge Simon writes about sports journalists: “Some friends have decided to follow the French team. Ibuhos ang financer le voyage, ils se proposerent d’écrire quelques comptes rendus de matchs pour le journal du pays. They could not imagine that a wicked spirit would decide to do a profession. Since then, thousands of types have been paying for their trips in kind, without anyone being able to do anything. Note: Antoine Blondin was a model for sports journalists. Oh, the picolait sec. Suddenly, many journalists were put to the test believing that the talent was at the bottom of the bottles. With a boomerang effect, a package of alcohol has been launched into sports journalism for free travel. »
I am a sports journalist. This is at least what is printed, in capital letters, on the back of my press card. The syndrome “Serge Simon”, I frowned very quickly. And very often. I heard a thousand times that I had to remember, to talk about rugby all year. I was asked “If the matches, finally, weren’t all the same”. If a rugbyman doesn’t call another. If the rebounds from this oval ball had not reduced my professional life, long twenty years, to an eternal recommendation. And if I would no longer be useful in the world as an institute, baker or whatever I know yet. Having never myself plunged into such introspection, having also sometimes been abandoned by the division, I did not have long to answer those who questioned me about the fundamental interest of my work. Is it experience or old age, I know today why it never left me…
In fact, rugby can be considered in a variety of ways: technically, through the domination of one mixer over another, the greatest success against the punches of a scorer on his face; psychologically, as long as the Anglo-Saxon is confined to a fixed framework it offers regularity in performance and a linearity from which it is also forced to freeze, or that Latin supports, by pretense, of triumphs or delays that surprise no more than him. But there are so many other things, or rugby. There are so many other things in him that bring us, powerful or miserable, to our own lives, our own humanity. There are in him so many stories in History that his existence, in the end, could not be merely a toad of happy few or worse, a “Lubie du Sud Ouest”.
So today, I respond to those who ask me that I love rugby because it allows me to discover the history of Lubin-Lebrère, a French international from the beginning of the century, prioritizing match preparation in Ireland at a Dublin pub, under the guinness of Guinness alongside a few IRA fanatics. I reply that I loved listening to Dimitri Yachvili evoke his roots and the journey of Chaliko, a Georgian bird held prisoner by the Nazis. I will tell the story of Bismarck du Plessis, the champion of the Springboks, of African descent and raised among farm boys, these blacks who speak only Sotho. I retell the story of Joe van Niekerk, who evaporated into the Costa Rican jungle alongside a handful of hippies after having known everything, under the RCT jersey. I explain in what state I found Napolioni Nalaga, in his small village of Sigatoka and after thirty hours of travel, at a time when depression had made him unable to return to Top 14. I finally think how, a night of brought to Wellington, the account of Mathieu Bastareaud provokes, on the other side of the world, the official excuses of François Fillon, the New Zealand Prime Minister. I say all that, whatever. And I always end by paraphrasing Jean Lacouture, journalist and writer: «Rugby is a world. »