All the best rugby teams are striving for the same things. An identity. A tight-knit culture. An environment in which words, eventually, are superfluous. Where what really matters is not individual ability but the unbreakable bond of togetherness. And where, after a while, winning becomes so natural it feels almost preordained.
Until, that is, the magic dries up. Star players retire or get injured, coaches come and go, supporters grow restless. Worse still, the arch rivals up the road are flying. History, all of a sudden, counts for little. Which is roughly where Munster, once the European Cup’s ultimate feelgood story and guardians of what used to be the continent’s most fabled culture, currently find themselves.
