It wasn’t quite the worst of times.
There is no defeat in sport worse than Wales losing to
England. I appreciate that some Arsenal
fans may be wanting to argue the matter, following yesterday, but Wales versus
England in the rugby – in particular in the 6 Nations – has a history and a
significance that outweighs all other sporting fixtures. Perhaps The Ashes comes close.
To stand in a pub in England and watch Wales lose yesterday
was quite the experience: mainly because the experience was not unpleasant.
I returned to the pub from last week. This time, the small TV room was packed. It appeared that this group of rugby watchers
were both a) all one group of friends, and b) there celebrating the birthday of
one of their number. Needless to say,
the birthday celebrations were augmented by the result of yesterday’s match.
Stereotype Alert: both of me and of them.
Yesterday was the first time I’ve watched England play rugby
in the company of English rugby fans and not felt like I was part of a
conflict, not felt like I was being patronised, not felt like I was surrounded
by a sea of conceit. This group were
determinedly English and determinedly supporting their team. This group, though, were funny and fair. They were equally critical of their team as
mine. They were quick to cheer and just
as one eyed as you would like a supporter to be – “Never a try!” “He said the
ball was out!” – and they were simply willing their team to victory.
It sounds stupid but one of the better aspects of their display
was their relishing the defensive display of their team. The appreciation of the way in which England
snuffed out Welsh attack was awesome. At
the same time, on the few occasions Wales broke through, their desire for
England to stop the attack never boiled over into anything like the manner Mike
Brown displayed on the pitch (which was shame as Mr Brown had a superb game, I
thought). Their celebrations as each of
the attacks were smothered out were brilliant: euphoric and full of passion,
just as was their response at the final whistle.
It was an absolute pleasure to be in their company,
yesterday. They didn’t even seem to mind
that there was a Welshman in the midst.
Even when they started a celebratory Mexican wave, the act was dripping
in irony. It was tremendously
funny. To be able to write those words,
“it was an absolute pleasure” feels completely at odds with what occurred
yesterday and how I’ve always ended up feeling after watching these games in
the past. Perhaps this group civilised
me. They neutered any jingoistic
feelings on my part and allowed me to watch a game and enjoy the sterling
performances of players from both sides.
I have rarely come away from a Wales versus England game and
been impressed with English players – no matter how many points they had put on
us (as someone pointed out online, yesterday, you score more points than Wales but you never beat us). Yesterday it
was chastening to see how well Brown coped with the Welsh kicking, how intelligently
Ford and Farrell marshalled the English backline (Farrell’s bravery in defence was
also inspirational), and Vunipola, well, being Vunipola: out on his feet. Shingler and Navidi for Wales continued to
impress, as did the front five. It is
amazing how Alan Wyn Jones is evolving his game. It was a pity the Welsh backline didn’t fire,
as they had the week previous – England’s fault. The appreciation of how close that game was
yesterday was another factor in making the company in which I witnessed it more
enjoyable. At the final whistle there
was the celebration and then, in a moments hush as the initial cheers lulled,
there was a voice, “That was a lot closer than I thought it was going to
be.” Then there were murmurs of
agreement.
It was not quite the worst of times. It was a beautiful game. I hate the fact we lost it but I’ve never
felt so sanguine about this type of result in all my days. People, like Marmite, change.
No comments:
Post a Comment