2012-13 Uncovered: Saturday 2nd February - Odd Shaped Balls And Some Rugby

   Another weekend, another bleak outlook for getting to the game.  East Thurrock United and Billericay Town wiped out.  Brentwood Town away at a place that was two buses, two trains, forty quid, and a number of hours away.  At 11am and with less in my pocket than a Scotsman's sporran, radio coverage was yet again out of the question.

   Other options dissipated as the morning progressed.  Southend Manor, Bowers & Pitsea, Tilbury, all off.  Basildon United's trip to Burnham Ramblers was on at the moment, but a bus and two trains it'd take, with no guarantee it'd still be on by the time I got there.  Southend United, at £21 a pop, was out of my price line.  This wasn't good.  Have to get out somewhere on a Saturday, however cold it was.

   Concord Rangers were at home.  Well, that was a last resort.  Thorney Bay Park was the last resort you'd go to, after all.  But hang on, if they're playing on Canvey Island .... Hmmmm, it's the start of the Six Nations today.  A little look at the rugby fixtures for the Phoenix FM area.  Bingo.  Old Brentwoods are away at Canvey Island.  That'll do.

   Paradoxical as it may seem, rugby union is in the Groyne clan DNA.  A father that made it to England representative level and top class club rugby, a brother than was denied a professional career by a broken leg on his pro debut (and only appearance at that club).  Regular trips to Six Nations and other test matches up until the recent past.  And a multitude of cold Sunday mornings in my teenage years at Godforsaken places like Bancroft.  And, erm, Canvey.

   Yep, Tewkes Creek was one of the least appealing places, out of a number of bleak rugby venues in the county.  Just a bit of grass and some posts by a roadside.  Totally open to the elements.  Whenever I played there, right by that creek and estuary, the wind howled across the pitch.  No wonder I preferred the clubhouse bar to the game itself.

   The sport, however, is something its' round ball companion could learn a great deal from.  For one, the referee is always right whenever he is wrong.  Dissent at a penalty?  Back 10 metres.  You want to carry on?  Off you go, 10 minutes in the sin bin.  Players, unless they're particularly hammy and put a fake blood capsule in their mouth, only go down and stay down when they're really hurt.  If they're only a bit hurt they get up and get on with it.  And amongst the supporters on the touchline, no malice, no menace, no abuse, all mixing together backing their team.

   The only drawback, to my mind, is that it isn't as eye-pleasing as the so-called beautiful game, or rugby league.  Play gets bogged down in forward battles.  A good 'kicking' game is seen as much as a virtue as creativity and try scoring.  Three points for a penalty or drop goal, as opposed to just two and one respectively for it's league counterpart.  I enjoy the game but not as much as the others.  Though I tend to admire the people involved in rugby union that bit more.

   I was fearful of one of those froward dominated games as I arrived.  It was bitterly cold and, as ever, the wind howled in from one set of posts to the other.  Using the wind advantage best would probably be the deciding factor.  There was something riding on this London 3 North East game too.  Old Brentwoods were a lowly eighth out of 12, a bit too close for the relegation zone for comfort.  Canvey Island's position was even more precarious, a place and three points behind their visitors.  Result foremost, performance irrelevant today.  This could be a right barrel of laughs.

   Try as I might, the wind ensured that any attempt at recording a match preview was futile.  It was just a case of sitting on a park bench, suffer the elements, and hope against hope that there was a half decent game to report on.  Wales v Ireland in the clubhouse ensured that only 30 or so hardy souls joined me and the players in this sporting masochism.

   Which made the opening five minutes or so all the more surprising.  Old Brentwoods have a scrum in their own half.  It's delivered quickly out and through the backline.  Lovely bit of running down the right hand touchline and in at the corner.  An excellent move and the visitors 5-0 ahead.  This could be a real good 'un.

   It was a false dawn though.  The Canvey pack, much to the home supporters delight, took a vice like grip on their opposite forwards.  They ground them into the ground, so to speak, shunting them clean off their own put-in on occasions, making hard yards, tying things down, then relying on the healthy turnover of penalties, which were inevitably conceded, to keep the score ticking over.  At half time even my ribs were sore, let alone the Old Brentwoods props.  15-5 to Canvey at half time and thoroughly deserved too.

   The saving grace for the Old B's, if there were any, was that they hand the wind at their backs in the second half.  The Canvey forwards were so dominant, however, that it seemed as if it would be rendered useless by their scarcity of possession.  It had been a less than entertaining first half, and the cold made it feel that much worse.  I couldn't feel my feet and the visitors were struggling to find theirs.  This could be a long second half for one side.

   And so it proved to be.  For Canvey Island.  Old Brentwoods learned from their frist half pummelling up front.  They made sure that the ball stayed with the forwards as lesast as possible, letting the back line run, with the odd kick ahead to gain territory.  Within a quarter of an hour they were level with a couple of decent tries from running moves sweeping across the pitch.  The game had suddenly become absorbing.

   From the sidelines, though, came something very familiar.  The Canvey Island supporters, up until then very happy with proceedings, began to berate the referee for what they saw as wrong decisions.  Out of the ref's earshot, one big lad even swore at him.  Maybe rugby and association football people aren't so different now.  But that lad knew what he was doing.  If the ref had heard him, he would have been sent from the touchline, and play stopped until he had gone.  That would be fun to see at Roots Hall.  It'd take an entire season to finish one game at that rate.

   The game had swung irrevocably and with a quarter of an hour left, the Old Brentwoods full back made a lovely mazy run, finishing just a yard or two from the tryline in the left hand corner.  The ball's recycled quickly and it's a try under the posts.  From 15-5 down, Old Brentwoods were now 22-15 ahead.  The turnaround was as impressive as it had been unlikely at the interval.

   The Canvey pack tried to re-assert their authority.  Another vice like squeeze, another penalty, this time a visiting player sin-binned to boot.  It seemed like game on again.  But soon after, again Old Brentwoods don't dwell on anything, surge forward, and kick a penalty of their own.  They're the ones now believing in themselves.  It's they who have the confidence.  And now, it's they who have the points on the board.

   Canvey Island again go forward with their forwards, as normal time passes into injury time, and the Old Brentwoods tryline gets ever nearer.  But you can see it, almost feel it.  Canvey think they could salvage something.  But, vitally, didn't believe they would.  Old B's think they could and would win now.  The belief is the difference as the defence holds firm.  Eventually the ball is cleared and the ref calls time.

   I finally get to file a radio report of sorts, the wind at last dying down, and head off home, barely able to feel my ankles, let alone feet.  One way or another it had been a great game, against, I suspect, most people's expectations.  And all these players, coaches, and the like, being paid not a penny for their endeavours.  Doing it for the sheer love of the game.  And asking not a penny in admittance.  There's something very, very right with rugby union.

   Despite no football, it had been a great day.  Oh yes.

   Canvey Island 18,  Old Brentwoods 25