Match Day

A real-life story based on my first experience of a rugby league game in September 1978

I had waited so long!

Years of watching my dad and uncle, nan and grandad disappear every Sunday afternoon—climbing into my grandad's old Triumph and driving down the road, scarves trailing from the rear windows, taunting me.

I used to stand miserably, with my chin on the window ledge, refusing to move until the car was out of sight, the last of the exhaust fumes carried away on the wind. Until my mum dragged me away with the luke-warm promise of an exciting afternoon; a trip to the park or a new comic from the shop. On any other day I'd have been thrilled, but not on match day.

I had asked my dad loads of times if I could go with them, but the answer was always the same, 'It’s no place for kids, you can come when you're older'.

Well now I was older - eleven to be exact - and the new season was about to start. My dad had bought me a season ticket for my birthday in June and a bubbling excitement had taken hold immediately, growing like a grumbling volcano or a dam about to burst, until it was finally match-day and I couldn't keep still; hopping from one foot to the other and mithering the living daylights out of my dad until he threatened to leave me at home if I didn't pack it in. I couldn't stop, so I spent the next couple of hours throwing a ball round in the street to burn off the energy of my anticipation. 

Who could blame me? It was the first home match of the season, and ahead lay the wonderful promise of Sunday road-trips and maybe even a thrilling Wembley encounter and eventual silverware. I always assumed we would win (still do), and only three days previous we had beat Huddersfield away in the first game of the season, proving me right - in my eyes at least. 

I had seen matches on TV, of course, but somehow I knew it would be so much better in real life. I couldn't wait to be part of the Sunday gang and had mapped out every second so many times: piling into the car, decked out in hats and scarves; the billowing roar of the crowd; the highs and lows—riding a wave of emotion as the game progressed; a Pimblett's pie at half-time, followed by the KitKat in my pocket. I could even imagine the inevitable debate on the way home as my dad and grandad gave the game a thorough post-mortem.

My dad parked half a mile away (for a quick getaway later, he said) and as we approached the ground on foot I could sense the tension in the air.

We queued up at the home end, my dad gripping the collar of my jacket, until it was finally our turn to pass through the turnstile. Once inside, the noise doubled. The crowd were singing their anthems and goading the opposition fans with well-practised chants. Someone was banging rhythmically on the corrugated iron fencing at the back of the stand, and a relentless indecipherable chatter assaulted my ears: the banter of men, chatter of women, laughter of giddy boys and girls weaving between their parents’ legs playing tag, smaller kids on their dad's shoulders, and over it all, a stream of names being read out over the tannoy. Every so often there would be a loud cheer as one of the star players was named, and then a long hollow booing at the names of the opposition. Me and my dad squeezed into a space behind one of the rattling wooden barriers and I jiggled around, perching on my dad’s steel-capped boots, until I could see a patch of green turf between the people in front and the goal posts rising like giant H's above a sea of red and white.

A deafening roar crashed like a wave as the players emerged from the tunnel, and I was suddenly overwhelmed by the smell of wintergreen mingled with freshly cut grass and warm beer. My eyes stung while the chanting of soon-to-be familiar names rang in my ears followed by a sudden, shrill whistle - they were off.

Unless you have been to a rugby match it's hard to imagine the brutality. As the whistle pierced the early autumn air, twenty-six pairs of boots thundered across the emerald field towards each other, whilst thousands roared with pure delight. For eighty minutes, bodies collided like crashing waves as shoulder met shoulder, the crowd gasping then roaring after each crushing hit. Mud and sweat became a second skin and ragged breaths were taken between tackles, a storm of bodies with steaming nostrils and burning muscles, their boots carving up the hallowed turf in a relentless tide of collisions.

Amid the battle, moments of sheer elegance: the full back sliced through the line like a blade through silk, skipping beyond the last line of defence to score beneath the posts. In response, the opposition scrum-half accelerated like lightening, leaving defenders clutching at shadows. At half time it was five all.

With only minutes remaining, the deciding try unfolded like a masterpiece. The crowd held its breath and time seemed to stand still as our star player took control; In a game of force, he answered with finesse as the ball became an extension of his hands, his feet gracefully painting a path across the field, the roar of the crowd rising as the white line welcomed him home.

Agony and ecstasy experienced simultaneously; the home crowd erupting into joyous raptures as the visitors held their heads in their hands in disbelief. 

The home crowd spilled onto the pitch as the full-time siren sounded, players and supporters celebrating as one, whilst the defeated opposition melted away down the tunnel.

We were giants. Triumphant. Unbeatable, for now, and the short journey home was everything I thought it would be as we celebrated a battle hard won, as though we had fought it ourselves.

It would not always feel like this. There would be losses to balance the wins; highs and lows are part of the ebb and flow of sport, after all. But for now, I was elated; part of the story and part of a community—the start of a love affair that would last my whole life and create memories to cherish forever. I was hooked.