Going to the match

    Thankfully the train was on time because, even if it all went smoothly, I would only have about 30 minutes between arriving in Stockport and kick-off, barely enough time for even one pint.  My mate Simon had some England tickets for me so I had to get there come what may.  What a pain it was to be working in Leeds right in the middle of the busiest part of the season.  My bosses just hadn’t fully grasped the idea of Friday night rugby and the fact that I needed to be back over the Pennines in good time.  With a bit of forward planning, however, I’d brought my Sale gear with me and was proudly wearing my shirt as I left work to commute back home.

    The train was pretty busy but I’d bagged myself a window seat with a table.  The other seats soon filled up and one was taken by a tall, thin bloke with a big sports bag.  He sat down opposite me and nodded in a familiar way.

    ‘Are you going to the match?’ he asked.

    ‘Aye, that’s right.  Hence the shirt,’ I smiled.

    ‘I’m going too.  Should have been there ages ago but the bloody car conked out.’

    ‘We’ll just about make it before the match starts,’ I reassured him and settled into my book.

    He persisted with the conversation in a friendly, northern way.

    ‘Do you go to many games?  Are you a season ticket holder?’

    ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘for a few years.  You can’t beat it for a night out.’

    ‘Do you not find it’s getting a bit rowdy these days?’

    ‘How do you mean?’

    ‘You know, the fans getting a bit mouthy, booing kickers, giving the referee gyp all the time, that kind of stuff.’

    ‘I don’t think so really,’ I answered truthfully.  ‘It’s a long way from being like football.  You know, we’re always very polite and helpful, offering our advice if the ref misses something.  We all do it, don’t we?  I’m sure they appreciate the assistance.’  Seeing him look unconvinced at my irony, I continued.  ‘You get a good set of people down at the rugby.  Take my mate who I’m meeting tonight.  He’s got some club contact who’s got him some international tickets and he’s passing them on to me at face value.  All nice, all above board, no one’s getting ripped off.  It’s a friendly little community.’

    The bloke nodded.  ‘I like international rugby best,’ he said, picking up on my comment.  ‘It has all the best players in their countries really going for it.  You get the best games, the most important ones.  I’d like to see it come before club rugby really.’

    ‘I don’t think so, mate,’ I told him.  ‘It’s us buggers watching the clubs week in week out who pay for the internationals.  The money the clubs need to develop players comes from us and, when they do that, the bloody RFU comes along and takes the good ones away.  For all the effort the club makes we’re left without the first team for half the season.  The club games have got to come first and let the internationals fit in around them.  It’s the only way it’ll work.’

    Realising I was ranting, I sat back in my chair and the bloke leaned back too, staring out of the window.  Dingy backstreets, broken down terraces and car wreckers’ yards passed by.

    ‘I sometimes find it a wearing experience,’ he said while continuing to look out at the grim scenery.  ‘These games are such a mental effort, you know.’

    ‘I know,’ I said, ‘but I like that, I like the difficulty, the way you have to watch a hundred things all at the same time.  It keeps your attention.’

    ‘And those crowds – ’

    ‘Them again!  There’s nothing wrong with them.  I love the atmosphere, the intensity, the way you lose yourself in the crowd and start shouting whatever comes into your head.  I was watching a game in the pub once and found myself shouting at the TV like I would shout at a match.  It was a bit embarrassing for my mates but that’s what it’s all about.  When you get into it, there’s nothing like it.  All those people around you, all willing the team on.  You feel you’ve got some sort of special strength all together like that.  It’s tremendous.’

    He seemed to settle down after that and took out a black hard-covered notebook which he scribbled away in, sometimes consulting a dog-eared, closely printed handbook whose title I didn’t catch.  I looked out at the countryside, the hulks of the Pennines looming in front of us like a massive knot of players in a scrum.  The train flew into the melee, a crooked feed between the bulky limbs of the outlying hills.

    When we finally got into Stockport the bloke and I said cheerio and wished each other the best for the game.  It was only afterwards that I realised I hadn’t asked him who he was supporting.

    The lads were in the beer tent at the ground and had got me a pint of Guinness ready to go.  They gave me a noisy greeting at turning up so late.

    ‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘have you seen this bloke with the tickets yet?’

    ‘My brother-in-law, yeah,’ Simon answered.  ‘He was in a bit of a hurry so I’ve not got the tickets yet.  I said we’d see him in a bit.  He said he’d been stuck with a right mouthy fan on the train down.’

    ‘Mouthy rugby fan?’ I laughed.  ‘Can’t imagine what they’d be like.’  The boys cheered.

    Soon enough we were settled in our seats.  The ground was buzzing as everyone rushed in with minutes to spare.  We said hello to our regular neighbours and talked about our chances for the game.  The dancing girls did their flips and Sharky did his infamous haka.  The opposition team trotted out to polite applause, then, with a roar, the Sale boys sprinted out.  We jumped up and clapped and cheered them on.  Behind them in their fluorescent stripes the match officials jogged out too.

    ‘There’s my brother-in-law,’ said Simon, pointing to the ref, a tall, thin bloke.

    ‘Bloody hell,’ I cried.  ‘It’s the whinging bloke from the train.  No wonder he had the hump about the fans!’

    ‘Come on, Sale,’ I yelled then sat down chuckling to myself.  I couldn’t wait for the first chance to shout, ‘Well spotted ref!’ 

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