He turns his gaze on the rest of us and there are universal murmurs of assent. The conversion attempt fails again and so it is 6–5 to Python’s and mercifully the half-time whistle goes shortly afterwards. I have only touched the ball twice and that is to throw it in from touch, a fact that does not escape Garth’s attention.
“Right,” he says as we suck our scrag ends of lemon. “Get your knees brown this half—all of you. We’ve nothing to lose, so get stuck into them. You won’t be able to live with yourselves if we lose to this shower of shit.”
I will be able to live with myself very happily, but I don’t thing it is a good moment to say so. I feel my ankle, hoping that some sinister swelling will give me an excuse to hobble off, but it seems as strong as a Hashamite’s hampton.
“Right, lads,” says Garth in a voice that would warm the cockles of Cronky’s heart, “let’s be having you.”
The whistle blows and we start another seven minutes of agony. This time it is our turn to kick off and Garth gives the ball a cunning side-foot jab which sends it bouncing up invitingly in front of the bloke with the eighteen-inch fringe, who has an empty field before him. No doubt remembering Garth’s words, he snatches at the ball and knocks it on. Garth’s scream of rage and pain drowns the referee’s whistle and there is another scrum which claims the flagging energies of the two small fat men and the big fat man. The big fat man is not in the middle, which means that the scrum spins round and round like a dog chasing its own tail and the ball cannot be put in. Everybody except me gets their knickers in a twist and the minutes tick happily away with the score still 6–5 to Python’s. Eventually the ball squirts out on the Python’s side and despite another crushing tackle by Garth, they work it out to their wing, who comes haring towards me. Remembering my instructions, I dare not let him pass and crouch expectantly, waiting my moment to spring. No doubt sensing my resolution, the winger artfully chips the ball over my head and attempts to race after it. I say “attempt” because a reflex action makes me stick out a leg and he doesn’t touch the ground for about ten yards before landing smack on his face. Cries of outrage from the touchline mingle with those on the field and the referee awards a penalty try.
“Hard luck, boyo,” says Garth who doesn’t give a monkey about playing the game if it is a choice between that and winning. “You couldn’t do anything else.”
The kick is in front of the posts and should be a formality but the man who takes it is in too much of a hurry and slices it past a post. Nevertheless we are 5–9 down and with seconds left to play I feel a sense of relief that my afternoon’s sport is over without me suffering serious injury.
I reckon without Garth; the Pythons are watching him like a monk on a nun’s outing and seeing them all bunched up in front of him, he kicks the ball over their heads and jets off after it by himself. One of them gets there first but hardly have his hands closed round the ball than Garth sends him flying and snatches up the bouncing ball. Two blokes jump on his back but he strides on carrying them with him until the line yawns in front of him. Only then does he begin to falter but with one last superhuman effort he twists free and hurls himself over by the corner flag. It is stirring stuff and even I find myself cheering. I don’t want to play another game but as I watch Garth carefully placing the ball by the touchline, I have an unshakeable feeling that it will go soaring between the posts. Garth carefully brushes the mud from his toes, rubs his hands thoughtfully and—thud! The ball soars into the air and curves smoothly over the bar. The final whistle goes and we have won 10–9.
“You’re bloody lucky to have that bloke playing for you,” says one of the Pythons as we trudge back to the changing room. “We’d have pissed on you otherwise.” I am about to tell him to get stuffed when an old geezer wearing a Sherlock Holmes hat with the flaps down shuffles up and jabs at me with his shooting stick. “You’re a cad, sir,” he squeals, “that was the worst foul I’ve ever seen and I’ve been playing and watching the game for over fifty years.”
“Stick around for my next appearance,” I tell him. “You haven’t seen anything yet.” But there is nobody on the touchline for my next appearance. A lot of faces pressed against the windows of the clubhouse but only fourteen poor sods and the referee out there on the pitch.
For some time the sky has been darkening and ugly black clouds have been bumping into each other menacingly. As we are about to leave the changing room, there is an enormous clap of thunder and the rain pisses down like it’s under pressure. I expect us to wait till it’s all over or pack it in, but no, out we have to go.
In no time, the pitch is like a kids’ paddling pool and the ball more difficult to handle than a bar of soap in an Italian restaurant. We are playing R.A.F. Great Grunting or the Gee Gees as their big-mouthed captain keeps calling them. On a dry day they would probably have murdered us but in these conditions they keep dropping the ball or falling over and the more mistakes they make the more rattled they get. This, coupled to the fact that the two teams are soon so covered with mud that nobody can tell the difference, helps us to score our vital try, and natural Lea modesty will not prevent me from saying that I am responsible for it.
One of their big blokes is making progress towards our line with the ball when Lanky earns his keep at last by leaping on to his back. This slows the bugger down a bit and he looks round for some support. “With you,” I shout, and like a lamb he passes me the ball. Garth is hovering about and quick as a flash I hand it on to him and he is away loping through the puddles to score under the posts.
“You dirty bastard,” shrieks the airman who is being viciously abused by his team-mates. “I’ll get you for that.”
“Don’t be soft,” I tell him. “You want to use your eyes.”
There is nearly a punch-up but the referee gets between us. Garth kicks the goal, and play is resumed.
After that incident a certain amount of needle creeps into the game and this is totally to our advantage. Most of our team are only good at close range fouling and as curses and threats rebound round the field and a pall of steam rises from the scrum, the minutes are ticking away.
Half-time comes with the score still 5–0 to us and it is late into the second half with the rain still pissing down that the airmen get near our line. Despite the miserable cold and the wet I am hardly aware of either and have now totally abandoned myself to winning at any costs. With this in mind, I blatantly obstruct their winger who is about to receive the ball in a scoring position and a penalty is awarded against us, from which one of their big men forces his way over between the posts. They only have to convert and it will be five-all.
“Try and charge the bugger down,” orders Garth as we wait poised behind the line for their kicker to move. The bloke makes a Cecil B. de Mille production of getting ready for the kick and then, as he runs forward, I let out an ear-splitting shriek and charge at him. Obviously unnerved, he pauses and I am able to get to the ball first and lash it into his goolies. He collapses, screaming in agony and the referee’s whistle nearly fractures my ear drum.
“I’m warning you for ungentlemanly conduct,” he hisses, barely able to keep his hands off me. “The kick will be taken again without a charge.”
“Oh, ref. It was an accident,” I bleat. I ruffle the writhing airman’s hair in the hopes that this will be interpreted as a sporting gesture of true penitence but the referee waves me back behind the posts and turns to the stricken kicker.
“Nice going,” says Garth admiringly. “I think you’ve buggered him.”
In fact, I have, because the poor sod is borne away still groaning and an anxious conference takes place amongst the opposition as to who should be the kicker. Their fears are justified because there is now a pool of water in front of the posts and it is necessary to build a small island of mud to raise the ball above water level.
“No charge, and no shouting,” says the referee sternly and all eyes are turned towards the Gee Gees’ kicker. Their captain has decided to take on the job himself and, also, that the best method of succeeding is with a hefty belt. To this