RUGBY LEAGUE: ST HELENS 30-14 WIGAN WARRIORS... MY FIRST EVER LIVE Rugby League match...

Fumbling Warriors Punished By Saints…

Langtree Park...

Eddie Waring’s commentaries of exaggerated accents and “…up and undahs…” which I first heard in earnest as a kid watching the BBC’s ‘Grandstand’, have become legendary and often imitated over the years. I recall Billy Boston’s name most of all, for the bruising, straight-ahead assaults of the Wigan winger were eminently watchable on muddy pitches, perhaps against “Hull Kingston A-Rovahs…”, as described by the aforesaid Mr Waring. I was brought up as a soccer player, yet attended a Grammar School which offered only Rugby Union, in Birmingham, so I settled to play full-back and scrum-half, which I really enjoyed. At college, I was even coached by the legendary Bev Risman, who complained about my frequent disappearances to watch Aston Villa, when he needed his fly-half to be available. Awkward days…

Wigan fans...

As a 9 year-old though, when mum disappeared to the shops, I grabbed any available ball and played Rugby League in the lounge against an immovable opponent: the three-piece suite, which was, in my mind, Wakefield Trinity’s tackling corps. I ran at the arm-rests and was tumbled spectacularly to the ground, twisting and turning but rarely fumbling the ball. It’s no wonder I became a wicket-keeper, a gymnast and a 5-a-side goalkeeper too, after the falls and dives I had made over the furniture. 

Saints seats...

I had never seen a live Rugby League game, however, but last week, I managed to secure a ticket for the much anticipated local derby clash between St Helens and Wigan Warriors, played on 12th June. Unfortunately, this involved a tough journey northwards on the M6 from Solihull for an evening kick-off and by 2.15 in the afternoon, whilst out buying fuel, my satnav informed me of a 40 minute delay already… Gods, I knew I had to simply drop everything and leave, in case the traffic worsened. Even using the M6 Toll Road, the 106 miles took me a minute shy of three frustrating hours but it was with relief that I pulled up on the Birchley Steet Car-Park at around 5.30pm. I strolled off towards the town to find food and came upon a fierce statue of Queen Victoria, quite black and foreboding, like she was still in mourning, but a McDonald’s restaurant was visible along a tired street and I trooped in with some early arrivals from Wigan, some in cherry and white shirts, some reflecting Queen Victoria’s mourning clothing of black.

Victoria's evening mourning...

It was then I realised that my accent was quite different to almost everybody else in the joint, for eyebrows were raised when I ordered my cheeseburgers; I felt as much at home as a Bulgarian migrant working on a Somerset cider farm. Following my meal, I walked about and came upon St Mary’s Church, which rose like a soiled Gothic monstrosity on the nearby skyline. I was scared enough to have confessed anything, to anybody, but instead scuttled away unnoticed. I soon joined a throng of spectators marching towards a white bridge, which spanned a waterway, then on towards the Langtree Park area, where I could see floodlights poking above the giant and busy Tesco supermarket. I made my way to the stadium and stopped to buy a programme, naturally, but the female vendor seemed shocked that I’d travelled up from the Birmingham area to watch the match and was even intending driving straight back after the finish. Her companion, a cheery chap from Liverpool told me he wasn’t from the area either and told me he was a Scouser… He honestly didn’t realise that I had already sussed that out from his distinctive accent… I was disappointed when the lady remarked that I didn’t sound Brummie. Relieved, but kind of disappointed too…

Grim northern bricks...

Heading for the bridge...

Tesco...
Bet they sell Typhoo...

I took some photos of the outside of the stadium and despite the red and white Saints shirts on male spectators, the pink female versions looked really smart. Loved the sponsor’s name Typhoo on the shirts though; my mum used loose Typhoo tea. She couldn’t wait to pour it from her pot when I was a little kid, so that I always believed tea was weak, milky, sweet and fawn in colour, until I met my future mother-in-law, whose dark, murky brown offerings were like nectar to me… I drink strong, stewed tea to this day. Typhoo, eh? Well Yoo Hoo, I had arrived for the contest…

Programmes and turnstiles...

Smart...

Tough to kiss this badge...

Lots of supporters were visible climbing steps to their seats carrying trays of four pints of beer in plastic glasses, like waiters in a curry house and not a drop was spilled, not even a globule of froth. The family to my right, of parents and a pleasant little girl, affected the game considerably by going to the loo, whereby tries were scored in their absences and I hoped that they might stay there perhaps, for a spectacular scoring spree to occur. Me? I kept quiet, watchful and learned what I could… St Helens band The Patriots played a set of three songs on the pitch too, impressively I thought and I’ll certainly investigate their music further.

St Helens fans...

Where I sat...

Country dancing...

The teams, huge flags, dancing girls, school-kids...
Was I the only one NOT on the pitch?

My eyes are Rugby League untrained but obviously the game has advanced considerably since the days of Billy Boston; the pitch was pristine, flame-throwers announced the teams, dramatic music abounded, but this was not muddy 1960s Hunslet… However, typical soccer chants made me feel more at home, as well as the abject hate the Saints fans held and made public for their ex-player Ben Flower, who really battled throughout, as did their own Walmsley. This reminded me of Villa’s fans verbally abusing ANY ex-Birmingham City player appearing at Villa Park, with such horrific venom and hate, so again this was a parallel to soccer. I was fascinated by the numbers of ‘trainers’, physios, stretcher bearers and drinks-offerers who invaded the pitch whenever a combatant became a casualty, despite the fact that the game was usually still flowing. I wondered if any of these beings ever gets flattened by a prop forward or a rampaging hooker… And anyway, why was one linesman wearing such short, tight, silky shorts that he looked like he was attempting to resurrect 1970s soccer kits, like those of Mark Lawrenson, perhaps? 

During the pleasant warm-up routines, when players rhythmically and collectively went through gentle and disciplined manoeuvres, I was put in mind of heavyweight wrestlers performing Morris Dancing routines but when the action started, muscle, size and speed exploded into hard, harsh tackling, plus hard, harsh yardage won by fleet or bruising runs into brick-walls. Saints gained good yardage from quick runs by dummy-halves, like George Roby and the element of surprise rarely failed, yet in a fast, furious, frenetic opening, the first score came from Wigan, when Sarginson bundled in at the left corner, although Saints complained about it. Warriors spurned a certain two point penalty to increase the lead to 8-0 and failed to capitalise upon a decent start, allowing Saints to ignite a late first-half flurry of three tries. They scored in the left corner too, through the swooping Swift, following a penalty against the out of sorts Tomkins, then 4-6 became 8-6, when a sparkling 40-20 kick into the right offensive corner by stand-off Burns, whose cheek bore quite a swelling, set up another try in the left corner, this time for the powerful Turner, following some quick and accurate passes and a ramming run by the huge, aggressive Masoe.

Sarginson scores...

Wigan’s tackling had become more stoked up by the inclusion of Tautai, whose pony-tail lashed like a whip in any number of entanglements but with his team defending again as the opening half waned, Saints turned over possession and Warriors winger Burgess, who had suffered an earlier head injury, scooped up the ball and ran clear, like he’d nicked somebody’s skateboard. Grimacing, long thighs pumping, he was finally able to touch down and regain the lead for his team, as well as displaying an interesting gumshield. The interval reached, the visitors led 8-10, mainly because 3 out of 4 conversions had been missed by respective kickers Percival of Saints and Wigan’s Smith. 

The runaway Burgess Express...

After the break, Saints benefited with three tries springing directly from surprising Wigan errors; two penalties were converted too and thus the still physical, often cruel, sometimes farcical contest was dragged out of the Warriors’ reach. So much so that during the final 20 minutes or so, a number of Wigan players made little or no attempt to get back and defend St Helens kicks, leaving the work to one, or perhaps two receivers, deep in their own territory. Tautai had been replaced just when Saints appeared to gain supremacy through their opponents’ mistakes, which might have been pertinent to the outcome of the game. 

The two full-backs, Moran of Wigan and McDonnell of Saints, were integral in the way the game swung. Both made a couple of fine last-ditch tackles, kicked well enough and ran fairly elusively at times but the handling of opposition kicks couldn’t have been more contrasting. McDonnell always held on well but Moran made two errors, which both cost tries. Firstly he bent to collect a scrubber of a kick by Wilkin, which unaccountably bounced over his left shoulder, as if a mole had leapt from its hole and back-headed it over the goal-line for the ebullient Burns to ground ecstatically. The second error was more embarrassing, for a huge, skied punt by Wilkin was watched for several agonising seconds by Moran but like a greasy inflated cow’s bladder, the ball slipped through his grasp, then his attempted dive onto the loose ball was beaten by the toe of opposite number McDonnell, ironically, as if the captured mole had escaped from a sack and the Saint dropped onto the bobbling ball for another 4 points, leaving the hapless Sinner clutching grass.  

The mole has struck...

Moran: DESPERATION...

The full-backs clash...

Finally, a loose pass across a defensive line by Sarginson was not anticipated and the deserving Wilkin gleefully prodded the ball forward over the try-line and touched down again. Percival was more successful as a kicker during the second period and even added that second penalty for Saints to reach 30 points. A try by Tomkins in between Moran’s blinders, after a passing movement left to right and a subtle touch by the desperate Moran was small consolation to the guests, as their fans oozed from the terraces in dribs and drabs well before the end.

Wilkin drops in...

The game over, I felt I had really enjoyed the action. I was still troubled a little though by the fans’ extreme agitation to the odd wild arm thrown, some obvious heavy-handed tackling and a few sudden drops onto floored players, like the one brilliantly executed by Masoe, as if he was in a wrestling ring and for which he was penalised, because in truth, the general tackling was tough, tumultuous and terrifying at times anyway… I trudged back through the gloom of the St Helens town-centre at dusk, found the barriers lifted in the car-park and drove home in an hour and three-quarters. 

I want to see more…

It’s what I do.