Bath Rugby 21 – Northampton Saints 20

GP: Tuesday 20^th April 2010

MATCH REPORT

Pride and Prejudice revisited

Or, Bath and Saints play ‘pass the parcel’…

Saint Dom enjoys a literary excursion

Rugby in the Westcountry – not for the fainthearted. My heart is still hammering with the stress of last Saturday’s exercise against Glaws… Just three days later and here we are at a game we should have played in January, when temperatures were sub-zero, Barf were struggling in the nether regions, and Saints were emphatically in the ascendant. That was then.

What a difference a few months make, a touch of warmth in the sky, a greening of the grass, and the little matter of Premier Rugby rescheduling this critical match to an April evening at 8pm.

And talking of rescheduling… I should have been working in Jordan this week, with exiled Iraqi ex-Ba’athists, not swanking around in Jane Austen territory with Somerset Bathists. Well, there but for the grace of an Icelandic volcano, etc: I thank you, Eyjafjallajökull…

The Wreck, as it’s quaintly known, is a muddy old patch in one of our great ancient towns: Bath of the Roman baths (clever name that), and Bath of the Georgian architecture, the Georgian design and the Georgian approach to rugby – Roman, square and basic.

The playing surface was brown in parts, hard, crusty and rough – rather like a gnarled old prop (something Saints could have done with during the spell of recurrent, backpedalling scrums that took place on their 5-metre line). Whenever a player hit the ‘turf’, a puff of sand arose (or was it volcanic dust?).

And talking of Miss Austen (of whom, more later), I do recall from a close reading of her novels that most of the action and the great majority of the narrative tension derived from “the prospect of a ball”… And it was just such a prospect, now imminent, now receding, that turned this game into another frenzy of passing, not so much of the ball but, as my hospitable Bathist friend put it: “the whole game was a bit like pass the parcel and Bath were lucky to be holding the prize at the end.”

I cannot disagree with that, as Mr D’Arcy might have said.

But, Dear Reader, I must set the scene… Imagine my delight at arriving in Bath with a couple of hours to kill. Northanger (Bath) Abbey was my destination, where I sat and gazed at the fine roof and contemplated the evening to come. Would the Abandoned One play like an England player, or like a lost soul? Would Polly Barkley rediscover his wit and ingenuity, or play on an out of tune fiddle? How would Digger fare on the wing against Mad Dog Maddock, Bananaman or Michael Stephenson? I lit a candle in a side chapel and enjoined all the Abbey’s Saints to support the cause.

There was talk of visiting Matt Stevens’ Opium Den (once frequented by Coleridge, perhaps, in his Somerset sojourns?), but I eschewed this in favour of a pint of Doom Bar (aaaahh, Cornish Ale of ND1) at the Bath cricket Club, where the Under 11s were gathering for their first training session of the season. There, my Bathists found me and – after a pint or three – we crossed over the river, visited an adjacent barge where all manner of fine snacks could be tasted, and joined the throng, who were being funnelled into the fenced arena that masquerades as a rugby stadium.

The next 2 hours were fascinating, not so much for the rugby which, had I been able to see it (I was in the front row), might have been entertaining, judging by the scoreboard. But more for the constant stream of Bathists tripping up and down in front of me like a fashion parade. For an awful moment, I thought I had wandered into the Sequins or the Pests by mistake.

Occasionally, the ground would fall silent, and a kick would soar between the posts (or not), and then it was back to the smell of the crowd and the roar of the Bathists, as they, and the Saints supporters, railed at Mr Doyle (D’Arcy), too inexperienced a referee to arbitrate over such a spectacle.

And there were spectacular moments, fine flowing moves were sent hither and thither, with the ball whisked parcel-like from hand to hand, until the inevitable breakdown, music stops, killed ball, penalty.

The sinbin was occupied twice, once by Nicky Little, after high-tackling the even littler Digger, and then – in a game-defining decision – by the Best player on the pitch, after Mr Doyle’s patience had worn exceeding thin. Fortunately, Digger recovered from the affront and (while Little was still cooling his ardour) touched down for the game’s first try.

Looking at my notes, I see that Sharman and Cannon avoided each other all evening, refusing to dance at lineouts and, occasionally, in a fit of pique, gifting the ball to the grateful Bathist at the back of the lineout. The second time this happened, Bath surged through until Mears merely swooped over the line and administered the coup de grace. That made it 11-8 to Bath.

Bath missed Butch James and how Saints missed Foden and Ashton, whose cutting edge might have delivered the right denouement.

I was dimly aware (as the women went to and fro, talking of Michelangelo*), that Saints butchered a couple of try-scoring opportunities, botched a litany of lineouts and – with the last of these – passed the parcel to the newly arrived Banahan to collect at speed and touch down for Bath’s second try.

Even so, Tin Tin found time and space to nip and dart at the Bath midfield; the Saints back three contested everything, legally or illegally, but it was ever thus and no quarter was asked or given by either side. Penalties abounded, and the penalty count marginally favoured Saints, bringing them two points in front with 10 minutes to go. Did Saints dare to win, did they?

But then we had the Best moment. Off went the scoundrel! Barkley kicked the ensuing penalty, Geraghty missed a plausible drop goal and… well, then the ball was dead. Fittingly, I will leave it to Miss Austen to utter the epitaph, or summary of the game:

“The ball was now a settled thing, and before the evening a proclaimed thing to all whom it concerned. Invitations were sent with dispatch, and many a young lady [from Bath] went to bed that night with her head full of happy cares as well as Fanny.”

THE END

* The other Mr Eliot, in The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

& the Photos can be found

here

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