Why I don't watch rugby

I wasn’t ever naturally sporty. At primary school, my least favourite playtime activity was when the other boys decided we should have running races. In fact, I didn’t even like playing ‘it’ and that was even before an inspired evasionary tactic took me at top speed through the climbing frame, which I had forgotten had a cross bar. Fortunately - miraculously, in fact - it was at the exact right height such that I didn’t break my nose or lose my front teeth and I was left only with a small scar on my upper lip. 

Returning to England from Hong Kong and taking up a place at grammar school resulted in 'Games' every Wednesday afternoon at Grists, the school’s playing fields out near Hampton Court. This meant rugby in the winter and cricket in the summer, with the occasional - and much hated - “long distance” run thrown in from time to time. (It was actually only about a mile and a half.)

Looking back, at the age of twelve I was a stocky little fellow and I found myself playing prop in the front row of the scrum. To my surprise, after a few weeks I found myself in the ‘B team’ and later, probably the following academic year, in the ‘A team’. By this time I had grown a little, vertically, and I moved to playing second row in ‘the pack’.

Possibly due to my daily, early morning paper round, I seem to have been reasonable fit and over the next couple of years I grew taller and faster, playing as both number eight, which required a little more tactical nous than I possessed, and on the flank, which I enjoyed. I even had a stint as team captain. One unexpected divided of all this position was that I wasn't required to play cricket in the summer. (I always felt the ball was too hard!)

I never came close to being in the school first XV but I captained the Thirds all through sixth form; I enjoyed the games but I wasn’t interested in lunch time training, especially as there wasn’t the time or facilities to shower afterwards. Perhaps my proudest moment, though, was being selected to play in a cobbled together school side to play against London Irish Under-21s, where a brief moment of glory - a well-timed break from the scrum and the skilful collection of a badly bouncing ball - was ended by the most perfect tackle that I ever endured.

All this probably goes to explain why rugby was the one sport that I enjoyed watching on TV or at the pub; I not only knew a bit about it but I felt a keen, visceral pleasure when watching a game. That came to a head with the 2003 Rugby World Cup, which, after a slow start, saw England playing against the hosts in the final.

To be honest, you couldn’t have scripted the match any better: England ahead at halftime, a draw at full-time, and a penalty for each side in extra time. England had scored first, so there was this constant sense that we were going to win only to be frustrated, time and again, by the Australians. 

There was way less than a minute to go when the scrum half, Matt Dawson, broke through the Australian line, gaining a good bit of distance before he was brought down. The ball came out of the ruck in England's favour and I assumed the ball would go back to Jonny Wilkinson, who was "in the pocket" and ready to kick. I was on the edge of my seat...

... and then Martin Johnson came and took the ball back into a fresh ruck. Less than thirty seconds on the clock! What was he doing?! In fact, he was giving Dawson the time and space to get up and back into position so that when the ball came out again, it was the scrum half who would make the critical pass to Wilkinson. Can you believe just how clearly they were thinking under such extreme pressure?

And the ball went to Wilkinson who, in the best advert ever for muscle memory, casually scored the winning drop goal. After all these years and having watched it over and over, those twenty-four seconds of rugby still make the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. 

And it was all so perfect that I've never watched a game of rugby since!

Anyway, I was reminded of all that today when I saw the fellow on today's photo, on his plinth just outside Woodchats in Chorley, which I'd popped into to get a cup of coffee and a scone before going into Manchester.

****
-10.1 kgs
Reading: 'The Sound Of Tomorrow' by Mark Brend