Handré Pollard doesn’t simply point to the poles. The South African metronome, his face stuck in a perpetual scowl, thrusts a meaty finger towards the uprights as if he owns them. “You’re mine,” he growls, with the promise that in just a few short seconds an oval ball will be spiralling through them courtesy of his swinging right boot.
If there’s such a thing as a Test match animal then it is Pollard, the only fly-half present at the final whistle of two victorious World Cup campaigns. And Test match animals win Test matches. Whatever transpires across 80 minutes is almost immaterial. All that matters is the result.
