By The Crusader
September 10 2003

I really didn’t enjoy that Not-So-Friendly we played against Bedford. It was nothing to do with the match itself. It was all August’s fault. Summer and rugby just don't mix. Watching rugby in my shirtsleeves just doesn't do it for me. To nick Mr Barnes’s favourite phrase – I’ll tell you what! I need January !!!

You can keep your polo shirts and shorts. Give me a Saturday in January with a really scary weather forecast. You’re phoning a couple of mates "Hey, do you think they'll play?" "Hmm, I’m not sure, I'll check Ceefax." "It's OK, they say it's on." "Whew, see you in an hour"

Get out the lucky T-Shirt, pull on the heavy fleece, struggle into the GB & G. Heave that Big Disgusting Coat off the hook and onto the shoulders, wrap the gold, black and green scarf round the neck, fumble in the pocket for the hat, tug it down over the ears, to hell with the thermal gloves you got for Christmas, how can you clap in gloves, tap the back pocket to check the season ticket's there and waddle out of the door looking like the Michelin Man on steroids.

It's a big game today; we'll never get parked near the ground, so we leave the car in the Station Car Park, and march up and over the railway bridge, breath steaming, faces reddening, ears tingling. “Look at that lot, they’ll never get parked.” “Yep, Uncle Geoff will be calling their number-plates out.”

Round the corner past the Thomas A Becket and the wind catches us full in the face. "Kicking's going to be tough today" and we’re swinging our arms and all the while we're marching faster and faster and faster like light infantry men in an old silent movie, because secretly we're very excited and like kids we want to break into a trot, but of course we can't, because we're grown up and we don't do things like that.

At last we're there, puffing and gasping like 60-a-day men. It's letter K today. Drag out the season ticket book, freezing fingers frantically fumbling for letter K, Oh Mother it's not here, it must have got ripped out with letter J, I've had it, I’m going to miss the game, no, wait a minute, I've got it, thank you God, you had me worried there.

We've got so many clothes on, we’re bigger than the bouncy castle, we can barely squeeze through the turnstiles. Home in on the prettiest girl for the programme, what's the time, that late huh, beer or chips, it can't be both?

"There's no way I'm drinking an ice-cold beer in this weather, I'll be in the khazi fourteen times during the first half." So it's in line for the chips, come on, hurry up, hurry up, why don't people have their money ready, 6 portions of chips please. Shake enough salt over them to give a pygmy a heart attack, slop on enough ketchup to ensure a dollop will escape over the side and become another campaign medal on the Big Disgusting Coat.

“Might be enough time for a swift pint.” Quick, into the bar, no time for normal courtesies, they’ll be out soon, drop the shoulder, sorry mate, sorry pal, get to the bar, £20 note held high and obvious in the fingers, pleasant but beseeching look in the eye, please, please, please, serve me, serve me, serve me.

Clutch the glass, big swig, look around. “Bloody Tetley’s! So what do you reckon, then?” “I think we’ll do well to hold this lot to a draw.” “Naah, I’ve got a warm, fuzzy feeling about this one.” “It’ll be the only thing that’s warm out there.”

Into the stadium and the sleet begins, slanting malevolently straight across the ground and driving into the faces of the Tetley's Stand punters. Dirty clouds scud across the sky behind the Lift Tower. The floodlights are already ablaze.

"You wouldn't want to be a winger today" you say to no-one in particular. "You're dead right, mate" says one of the opposition fans "Stick it up your jumper today." He spins the top off a small hip flask "Fancy a quick swig of brass monkey juice?" he asks and you accept, reflecting that in 90 minutes time he might just have become your best friend.

Suddenly, without warning, the visiting team run onto the field. While Uncle Geoff makes his announcement, your new best friend is muttering under his breath "Come on Jez, come on Baz, come on Tez, come on Moz" like some mystical Hogwarts spell.

Jeez, they mean business. This match is important to them and they are not here to mess about. They huddle together, you could cover them with a large handkerchief, heads bowed as if in prayer, while a fierce forward crouches in their midst, pounding his fist on his hand, while the rain drives into our faces and makes us blink.

And then you notice the man in front of you. He has rolled his shoulders into a hunch like boxer, and when he straightens up, you see his neck muscles bulge and a little vein on his temple pulses slightly. He sucks in a roomful of air and suddenly bellows at a decibel level that would make Metallica's sound engineer buckle at the knees and might make a passing Jumbo Jet drop from the sky.

OHHHHHH.................WHEN…………....THE………....SAINTS!

And away we go.

January rugby – my kind of rugby.



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Copyright of COYSDC Ltd 2003. Please contact coysdc@aol.com if you wish to reproduce this in any way or form.


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