It was a departure not intended to make a splash. It came with the soft hiss of the airlock at the entrance to the bunker and the flutter of a single piece of paper into the unseasonably cold Friday evening. “It’s the right time to go,” said the communiqué, and late on this day was the right time to do it without a fuss. The bunker door closed again automatically and, one last time, the air was sucked out of the lock that separated the Rugby Football Union’s director of professional rugby from the outside world.
How different it might have been. Once upon a time, Rob Andrew was both darling and rebel in the deeply cautious world of English rugby. As a player he was outstanding in an understated way, easily seeing off the challenge of the more flamboyant Stuart Barnes and winning 71 England caps, going on two Lions tours and playing in three World Cups. He was brave – a tackling outside-half in his day was a pioneer – and pinpoint-accurate with his kicking and much more ruthlessly determined than would ever be revealed by either his fresh countenance or his nickname of “Squeaky”.
This steeliness prompted him to leave Wasps – where he had played outside the scrum-half who now replaces him at the RFU, Nigel Melville – for Sir John Hall’s Newcastle at the turn of the game from amateur to professional. These were rugby’s Yukon days, and in its rush the poor souls of the governing body at Twickenham were crushed underfoot, with their hands held aloft, eyes raised to heaven and the words “Let’s all respect the moratorium,” dying on their lips.
Andrew was at the head of the charge: a winning player, a transforming coach and the talent-spotter who discovered Jonny Wilkinson. He was the baron of Newcastle and a long way from Twickenham. There, once the RFU picked themselves up, dusted themselves down and thought on how to regain some measure of control, somebody had the traditional idea of ordering a report, but gave it a brilliant twist by suggesting that it be written by one of the insurrection’s ringleaders.
And so it was that the Andrew Report was commissioned. It turned out to be wonderfully ahead of its time, with its promotion of a structured season in which the domestic, European and Six Nations elements worked as a progression, one leading to the next rather than as overlapping rivals for space in a crowded calendar.
Such glorious nonsense never became reality, but it helped the far more achievable goal of turning the rebel. Andrew stayed on the outside long enough to be the yelp on BBC radio that greeted the drop goal landed by his protege, Jonny, at the World Cup final of 2003, but by 2006 he was part of the establishment, the RFU’s director of elite rugby. And into the bunker he descended, deeper and deeper, changing his title – to operations director to professional rugby director to director of professional rugby – but unable to check the equally downward direction of English rugby after 2003. He oversaw the sacking of England coaches Brian Ashton, Andy Robinson and, after 2011, Martin Johnson.
The old rebel was now the establishment’s master of survival: changing titles, moving sideways, losing influence, but still there. In his defence, from deep underground came the agreement he brokered between England and the clubs on the matter of player release. And he leaves with the update about to be signed. They are important, but hardly the output of a visionary.
In his place comes the older Melville – 55 to Andrew’s 53 – who never fulfilled his promise as a player, thanks to a whole catalogue of injuries, but who has at least, after coaching Wasps and Gloucester, been out in the world. More specifically, he has been selling rugby to America as CEO and president of rugby operations for USA Rugby. Now that’s a title.
It means he’s used to the sound of a fanfare, which will make a contrast with the soft hiss of the airlock at Twickenham. Rob Andrew is leaving the bunker; strike up the Melville trumpets.
