At school, I was never much good at football. Unlike many kids my age the 'beautiful game' never interested me and I found myself looking forward to soccer sessions with all the enthusiasm of a Roman slave in the coliseum. Even if you were up for a footie match, the would be Kevin Keegans and Brian Robsons ensured you never got a sniff of the ball. When I moved up to High School things changed - soccer was still there but so was rugby.
I'm not sure why rugby hooked me so much. Was it the way you could (sometimes) bang a try in over the touchline, and the satisfaction of sending an opposing kid crashing to the mud in a 'crunching tackle' ( as our games teacher gleefully described them)? Or was it that you could admire the collection of bruises you generally aquired after a rugger session? One thing was for certain - I enjoyed playing rugger and for the first time actually looked forward to games lessons. To my long regret I never took my rugby any further at school and stopped playing when I left at sixteen. As part of my OU course I wrote about my school experiences and included a rugby scene as part of the story. Here's an extract from the story featuring that scene. Hope it brings back memories of freezing playing fields for some of you guys.
An icy wind knifed across the playing fields from the direction of the old colliery mound. The group of lads stood huddled at the edge of the pitch, waiting to learn the basics of rugby. I hoped we’d do something soon as my legs had started to turn shivery blue; as blue as the tinged collar of my football shirt, where it’d had been washed on the wrong setting.
I knew a bit about rugby as I’d seen Bill Beaumont and Gareth Edwards on A Question of Sport; my dad also told me our local vet had played rugby for England. Those guys certainly seemed a different breed to glamorous footballers such as Gary Linacre. The tall, track-suited figure of Mr Jones the games teacher, paced down the line of lads.
‘Today we’re going to start practicing some passing and tackling,’ his battered face scanned around for ‘volunteers’. ‘Let’s have Rob and Gavin for starters.’
It was a pity he hadn’t picked Jamie as his extra size could have been useful. Gavin was like me – a half pint.
Jones grinned wickedly, ‘Let’s make it interesting. Against Rob and Gavin we’ll have Mick and Jason.’
I glanced towards Gavin and rolled my eyes as the two heavyweights stepped forward. Mick ‘Tank’ Haines and Jason ‘Chopper’ Everard. Interesting? You sadistic sod Jonesy!
‘Rob and Gavin are going to try and get past Mick and Jason and score.’
Some of the class exchanged grins - this was going to be fun they thought.
We began a tentative run towards the heavier lads who came out to meet us. Tank Haines moved to intercept Gavin who quickly passed the ball over to me. I made to dodge around Everard and reach the touch line. Nearly - but not quite. Two bear like arms grabbed me and I slammed into the boot-churned pitch.
‘Crunching tackle!’ called out Jones from the sideline. ‘Good effort though Rob!’
‘Are you all right?’ Everard held his large paw out to help me up.
‘Fine,’ I replied, feeling strangely elated.
Next came the turn of the other lads, and they lumbered forward with surprising speed. I managed to bring down Everard, just before Haines, living up to his nickname, battered through Gavin’s slender defence.
‘Not bad at all lads,’ called out Jones encouragingly.
The rest of the class were paired off, and we carried on this friendly, albeit slightly rough game of two on two. The final whistle blew - and a couple of titches had held their own and banged in a couple of tries. I was tattooed in mud and sported a potato coloured bruise on my thigh; but as we headed back to the changing rooms I felt contented - I had actually enjoyed a games lesson
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