It Hurts

By Big Rich
March 26 2007

It hurts so much to be a Saints Supporter. For so many years now we have been accurately labelled ‘underachievers’. We have the best club rugby stadium in the country, and one of the most generous, supportive (not to mention wealthy) club owners around.

 

We have been privileged enough to see some of the true greats of international rugby playing week-in, week-out for us. We have seen some mesmeric rugby that truly takes your breath away.

So why are we languishing in bottom spot in the premiership, with every likelihood that on April 28th, our rivals from Reading will sign the death warrant that condemns us to at least a season in the first division. Please don’t mention the possibility of the Premiership being ringfenced at that point.

I sat in front of the television yesterday afternoon at around 5 pm with tears in my eyes. As the coverage began some two-and-a-half hours earlier, I commented that I could hardly bear to watch, so nervous was I. This was after all our game in hand over fellow strugglers Worcester, but it was against a team that for most of the season, against all the odds, have topped the table.

And as the game unfolded, feelings of great joy were mixed with absolute despair. It was the usual Saintly opening, giving the opposition a ‘starter for ten’, and I feared a massacre about to be witnessed. And it got worse when it appeared that our kicker had left his kicking boots at home. None seemed as disappointed at Myler’s failings than Myler himself.

But then, wonder of wonders, we began to see what the team could do. The forwards won ball in an attacking position, and Myler’s kicking from hand was pin-point perfect. Our two big wingers combined beautifully, and we were back in the game. At least, briefly! The rest of the half saw the long down hill roller coaster ride as a succession of errors saw me blasting expletives at the screen, and a sinking feeling in the stomach.

The second half began with a fantastic uphill run, as once again the team looked like world beaters. Fifteen men played team rugby with drive, verve and passion, and it was the other winger who finished off a wonderful move. Oh Saints, why can’t you play like that for eighty minutes per game, every week?

Then we had the nerve jangling fourth official moment as Cortese showed immense strength to carry three defenders over the line and still manage to ground the ball. We had a losing bonus point, and things were not as bleak as they might be. We attacked some more, and my hopes were lifted higher as the potential of a fourth try loomed – we were certainly playing the most attacking rugby, and we came so close to the line.

But disaster! Another string of errors saw the home side snatch that life line from us. The whistle went, and we were forced to watch the once Saintly AB hugging his former team mates. What a man! What a player! What was he doing in blue? That hurt.

But why does this supporting a sports team hurt so much? It’s only a game. I wasn’t at the match yesterday because we had spent the weekend with a friend, who 18 months ago was widowed at the age of 41. My neighbour is seriously ill. My granny is 96 and confined to a nursing home barely able to move: until ten years ago she would come to the Gardens most weeks with me. I can consider myself to be lucky enough to have a good job that provides me with a great lifestyle, and allows me to do daft things like spend next weekend in Southern France and Northern Spain. So why should another loss, which the realist in me expected, hurt so much? It doesn’t matter to me in the greater scheme of things.

All these arguments I know are rational, and that real life shouldn’t be confused with supporting a rugby club. But support is not about being rational. It is about unswerving faith, and a desire, sometimes, to see that faith repaid by those in whom it is placed. My support for the club has been there since before some of our current players were even twinkles, and will be there long after they have hung up their boots. My support goes on despite the results and associated frustration.

It’s not a physical hurt such as that suffered by our heroes who shed blood for the shirt and team in the name of entertainment. It’s a gut-twisting gnarly sick feeling that starts in the pit of the stomach, and spreads through the chest to the heart and head, and leaves an achy feeling in the limbs. It is because we follow the team and believe in them. Our mental hurt is for the players’ physical hurt, that they give so much, and yet still fail. Is it anguish at the ribbing we get from our work-mates on a Monday morning? I don’t think so, because we know that we give as much as we take, and the banter is part of being a supporter. It is the anguish for the perceived slight that we are failures. For in wearing the supporters’ jersey, we are inextricably intertwined with the rise and fall of the team on the pitch. It is the prospect of not being in our rightful place – in the top-half of the Premiership. Except that isn’t our rightful place. Our rightful place is in 12th spot, because we haven’t got enough points, and we face first division rugby. We have to accept that with good grace, and look to the future.

And is the prospect of First Division rugby really so bad? I think not. Sure, we may lose some players from our own squad, but should keep enough ‘stars’ to provide us with entertaining rugby at ‘real’ rugby grounds, the vast majority of which I’ve never been to. We may not see the world-class stars of the international game, but you can bet we’ll see teams give their all to beat the fallen premiership giants. And in the longer term it might provide us with the rocket up the backside to take us to greater things. How long was it between us getting promoted to the premiership last time and winning the Heineken cup? And we’ll get to see rugby at 3 o’clock on a Saturday.

So doom and gloom. Woe is me, etcetera, etcetera. Except it isn’t really. I went to the pub last night, where I met some friends, drank some beer, and actually laughed. I did some commiserating as well, but I did laugh. And the sun rose this morning, my train was on time, and I’m writing this on the way home and the sun is still shining – I do like this British Summer Time thing! And on Thursday, I’ll fly to Spain where I shall meet some friends I haven’t seen for some time, I shall visit some towns and cities I’ve not been to before, and I expect I shall do some more laughing. I’ll just try not to let the rugby get in the way of a great weekend!

So why have I felt the need to unburden this upon you? (Yes, you, the only one still reading this!) Well that’s about it, just to unburden myself. To make it public that my belief in the team and shirt is unwavering, to make it known that I shall renew my season ticket next year regardless of division, and that I shall still travel away whenever possible. I shall still sing and shout, and take photos, and drink beer (probably more cheaply than I do at the moment!)

But deep down, I’m still hurting.

 

Richard Slater. 26 March 2007