Edited by Clive Hilton, Tuesday, 1 Mar 2011, 11:09
I've been an avid supporter of the England rugby union team since I was introduced to the sport at a rugby mad school - Caludon Castle, in Coventy - as an 11-year-old. Caludon had a number of England international old boys playing at the time; David Duckham, Fran Cotton, Keith Fairbrother, but those early years - especially the 1970s were spectacularly grim for any serious England fan and to see the boys in white being routinely thraped by France and the other home nations - especially the majestically and magically talented ranks of the legendary Welsh side of that era - installed in me, at an early age, the powerful reality that losing hurts. And losing a lot of the time really hurts a lot - and England really did lose a lot of the time. And frankly, losing doesn't get any easier with age. Which served to make all the sweeter the occasional wins that England managed to somehow steal from the table of the rugby gods. It trascended mere ecstasy.
I remember when Bill Beaumont's side did the Grand Slam in a year in which Gareth Edwards was unequivocal that the only certainty prior to the start of the annual bloodletting was that come the end of the tournament it would be England, as usual, who would be left clutching the wooden spoon. How utterly, deliciously wrong he was.
Of all England's victories, in my memories, it still ranks second only to England winning the World Cup. (I understand that there is also a football tournament of the same name, but it isn't very important, I believe.)
Strange then, that when England faced up against a formidable French side on Saturday, for some reason it evoked in me the same sense of dread, apprehension and tension that I can only recall when I watched Beaumont's side play for that Grand Slam against Scotland decider in 1980 and again against Australia in 2003. It's not that this game decided anything - either side, win or lose, could still go on to win the tournament. It was more, I think, the barely palpable sense that this was a moment of nexus; that either England had turned a corner and were once again gelling into a side capable of beating the very best; of becoming feared again. Or, as with so many times in the past, that once again, this would be a false dawn; that when tested to the limit they would be found wanting.
It wasn't a beautiful game. It was error strewn, both sides trying to do too much, too quickly. What it was though, was unutterably majestic and relentlessly compelling. The irresistable force meeting the immovable object. The sheer physicality and brutality of some the tackling was shuddering. No quarter asked, none given. It was only with something less than two minutes left on the clock did I allow myself to relax and recognise that France would not win this time. England had won and they might just be on the verge of being a truly great side. That is the bigger, heart-stoppingly tantalising prospect.
With barely any voice left I've been on an emotional high for a couple of days now. To know this exquisite level of pleasure at winning is only possible when one has experienced the abysall despair of losing far, far too many times.
With England, you can never be certain when the next crushing disappointment will come along.
To know the joy of winning...
I've been an avid supporter of the England rugby union team since I was introduced to the sport at a rugby mad school - Caludon Castle, in Coventy - as an 11-year-old. Caludon had a number of England international old boys playing at the time; David Duckham, Fran Cotton, Keith Fairbrother, but those early years - especially the 1970s were spectacularly grim for any serious England fan and to see the boys in white being routinely thraped by France and the other home nations - especially the majestically and magically talented ranks of the legendary Welsh side of that era - installed in me, at an early age, the powerful reality that losing hurts. And losing a lot of the time really hurts a lot - and England really did lose a lot of the time. And frankly, losing doesn't get any easier with age. Which served to make all the sweeter the occasional wins that England managed to somehow steal from the table of the rugby gods. It trascended mere ecstasy.
I remember when Bill Beaumont's side did the Grand Slam in a year in which Gareth Edwards was unequivocal that the only certainty prior to the start of the annual bloodletting was that come the end of the tournament it would be England, as usual, who would be left clutching the wooden spoon. How utterly, deliciously wrong he was.
Of all England's victories, in my memories, it still ranks second only to England winning the World Cup. (I understand that there is also a football tournament of the same name, but it isn't very important, I believe.)
Strange then, that when England faced up against a formidable French side on Saturday, for some reason it evoked in me the same sense of dread, apprehension and tension that I can only recall when I watched Beaumont's side play for that Grand Slam against Scotland decider in 1980 and again against Australia in 2003. It's not that this game decided anything - either side, win or lose, could still go on to win the tournament. It was more, I think, the barely palpable sense that this was a moment of nexus; that either England had turned a corner and were once again gelling into a side capable of beating the very best; of becoming feared again. Or, as with so many times in the past, that once again, this would be a false dawn; that when tested to the limit they would be found wanting.
It wasn't a beautiful game. It was error strewn, both sides trying to do too much, too quickly. What it was though, was unutterably majestic and relentlessly compelling. The irresistable force meeting the immovable object. The sheer physicality and brutality of some the tackling was shuddering. No quarter asked, none given. It was only with something less than two minutes left on the clock did I allow myself to relax and recognise that France would not win this time. England had won and they might just be on the verge of being a truly great side. That is the bigger, heart-stoppingly tantalising prospect.
With barely any voice left I've been on an emotional high for a couple of days now. To know this exquisite level of pleasure at winning is only possible when one has experienced the abysall despair of losing far, far too many times.
With England, you can never be certain when the next crushing disappointment will come along.
And that's precisely why I love my England rugby.