Memories of a season

By SaleGangster
July 3 2007

And so into July and less than two months to the next home game (52 days, but who's counting?). Continuing our mini-series of personal reflections on the season just gone, SaleGangster dons his fedora, black shirt and white tie, opens his violin case and offers a tale of Guinness, cramped conditions, foolish bets and a screaming bundle of joy...

How I nearly called my first son Sebastian and other stories

Memories of a season by SaleGangster

First game of the season, sun blazing down, there I was stepping off the Funbus at Welford Road wearing my 'Sale Sharks - Guinness Premiership Champions' T-shirt. The final score at Twickenham emblazed across my chest, looking for eye contact with anyone in Tigers shirt, 'If this doesn't start some chat I don't know what will', I thought as I sauntered through the turnstile with a smile on my face. Big Tim muttered something about ‘looking for trouble’ and ‘tempting fate’ but I was still basking in the glow of that fantastic win and convinced we could turn them over at home on our way to back to back titles. Two hours later, the t-shirt did indeed lead to some chat as we limped away after a fantastic performance from the Leicester pack, with Martin Corry in particular giving his demons, and a fair few Sale bodies, a damn good pummelling. Big Tim muttered a bit more, this time something about ‘I told you so’ and ‘it’s your fault’. I tried some diversionary tactics, pointing to Spreaders being a bit whistle happy on the penalty try when our scrum was under pressure, but deep down I knew it was my T-shirt’s fault. As punishment I relegate the T-shirt to gardening and DIY duty.

Another bright, sunny day, this time in October on the way to play Irish. The Funbus is running a bit late so lunch is rushed. Poor old Big Tim only has time for a main course, no starter. He mutters something about ‘wasting away’. I look at the 6’4” 19 stone lump of ex-lock and tell him I think he’s exaggerating a tad. We arrive at the ground just outside Reading with a few minutes to spare before kick off. Plans to meet my director from work (a bigwig at London Irish too) are scuppered and I see pints of complementary Guinness disappearing over the horizon. I’m soon cheered up by some great rugby from our lads. We literally take Irish back to school and give them a lesson in rugby. We are powerful and direct up front and razor sharp in the backs. The tries come and the Guinness takes hold, a beautiful combination. My good mood is short lived though. Being an ex-scrum half (shut up at the back there, I know I’m hooker shaped now), my mouth has always been a well developed part of my game. I express some displeasure at a refs decision and Mrs Gangster lashes out on account of my use of a semi-naughty word. Instead of connecting with my thigh, she connects not only with my shiny new pint of Guinness, but also the shiny new pint of Guinness I had recently purchased for Big Tim and was holding while he went to rid himself of a few previous pints. I feel cold, wet, ashamed and alone. Mrs Gangster is chuckling merrily away as I stare in disbelief at my lap and my newly browned jeans. I threaten to remove my sodden strides. She threatens to drench the rest of me with her shiny new pint of Guinness. I stink of Guinness all the way home. No change there then.

October 27th 2006, Calvisano at home. I leave work early as Mrs. Gangster phones to say that she has had a wee on a stick and stork has drawn a blue line across it. I’M GOING TO BE A DAD!! My first child is on its way and I am a gibbering mess. I phone my dad to tell him the good news. “Was it planned?” “Yes dad”. “And you’re a mess?” “Yes dad.” “Well imagine how I felt when your mother told me you were on your way then.” Dad was a scrum half once, too. The evening turns to celebration and not only because we put 67 points on Calvisano. We bump into some pals we hadn’t seen since the San Sebastian trip and by the time Mrs Gangster arrives to pick me up from the Olde Vic, most of the pub congratulates her as she comes in to get me. She is a little shocked that apparent strangers know she is pregnant. I’m a little worse for wear. I go to bed with naughty thoughts, secretly hoping it’s a boy and planning his rugby career. I start to recite “As long as its healthy I don’t mind” as I fall asleep, Mrs Gangster rolls over and says ”You’re not fooling anyone you know”.

Fast forward to a chilly November evening in Swansea, rain lashing down and a taxi that was ‘by there’ and not ‘by heur’, where it should have been. Me, Big Tim, Mr. Tickle and Matty had all made the journey down on the Friday afternoon, arranging to see work mates from Swansea for a ‘meeting’ and a cheeky Vimto or two prior to kick off. We start well and maintain the pressure, leading into the final minutes. One of the Swansea pals has had enough. He’s a passionate rugby man and losing to an English team at home is more than he can take. He makes his excuses and leaves a few minutes before time. Schoolboy error. Those of you that remember what happened in this match can take some solace from the fact that a grown Welshman shed a tear because his petulance led to him missing the winning try from a certain Mr. Shane Williams in the dieing moments; and a great touchline conversion from Mr. James Hook.

Friday 8th December 2006, 04:00. Robin Hood airport, somewhere near Doncaster waiting for our flight to Paris. “I thought Robin Hood was from Nottingham” mumbles Big Tim. It’s too early for a history lesson so I throw a piece of croissant at him and mumble “dumkopf” instead. I had resigned my post as social secretary to our gang for this trip. The mantle had been gamely picked up by Mr. Tickle, however, I’m worried. This is a man who has had previous difficulty in organizing something as straightforward as a drinking session in a place that makes alcohol, if you get my meaning…. We arrive in Paris a little bleary eyed and settle into a local café to wait until we are able to pick up the key to the apartment that Mr. Tickle has booked via the Interweb for us. “Bonjour madame, nous sommes ici pour l’appartement qui vous avez pour louer”. My schoolboy French dives in at the corner for a fantastic opening try. It’s all coming back to me. “Pardon???? Vous êtes cinq person!!??? “Oui….cinq person, il y’a une problème madame?” “L’appartement avez seulement un chambre monsieur”. “Mr. Tickle, there’s five of us”. “Yeah?” “This flat has one room”. “Oh”. “Muppet”. My schoolboy French has problems convincing madam that ‘cinq’ blokes in rugby shirts will be perfectly fine in her one room apartment, but eventually she shrugs, hands over the keys and smiles. “Comportez-vous” she shouts over her shoulder as she leaves us to figure out who will sleep on which patch of floor. “I think she fancied me” mumbles Big Tim as he folds down the double bed from one wall. Mr. Tickle, being the blindingly fast ex-winger that he is, launches himself onto the bed claiming it for himself with a firm shout of “shotgun!” Standard Shotgun rules do apply, even on French soil. So we fold it back up to the wall. With him in it. The spectacle that Stade Francais put on for us was amazing. A great atmosphere, great entertainment, just the wrong result. Scouse Neil reckons one of the can-can girls was giving him the eye. I tell him that she probably spotted he was a scouser and was just watching him closely to make sure he didn’t try and nick the golden match ball that they brought out. Dominici showed that, for an old man, he still had the pace to go around the Sale backs, including Robbo and Foden. Hernendez showed why he is a world great at full back and Chabal made a case for his inclusion in the French squad with some very physical work and a great interception try. Two key injuries put a downer on things: Cueto with a groin strain and me with a dodgy back from sleeping on parquet flooring.

24th March 2007, Millennium Stadium EDF Semi Final. A chance to salvage something from the wreckage of our season? Perhaps, but more importantly it was an opportunity to tap my cousin up for seats in the box her employer has at the Millennium Stadium. This is a cautionary tale: complimentary Guinness affects your judgment. As we await the start of the match, talk turns baby names. We have found out that we are expecting a boy due to him sporting a fairly convincing bit of evidence at the last scan. Just like his dad! But hopefully taller. Now, Mrs Gangster is a big Chabal fan. This is a woman who elbowed small children out of the way in order to have her picture taken with the man at the French evening organized by the SSSC. I have to see that photo everyday as it is attached to my fridge. This should give you a clue as what Mrs Gangster is planning in name terms for my son. I could blame it on the sunshine, I could blame it on the moonlight, but actually I blame it on the Guinness.... Before I knew what I was doing I made a bet with my beautiful (and sober) wife... ”If Chabal scores a try today we’ll call the baby Sebastian. If he doesn’t score a try you have to take down your photo and allow me to choose the name”. Well what can I say, Chabal pops up on the wing after a restart and it’s try time. I’m cheering my heart out. Then, as I see the smile on Mrs Gangster’s face and her hand gently patting her bump, it dawns on me.

It’s been a tough season. We’ve gone from an incredible high to almost the lowest low in a short space of time. There have been angry and cynical exchanges betweens fans on the message board while we all try to make sense of what has happened. Looking back on the year, amidst all of the heartache of lost games and injuries, there has been a massive amount of fun, good humour, camaraderie; and, for me at least, life changing events that give a sense of perspective. I have spent the last few months pleading for Mrs Gangster to let me off the bet and, after having her photo with Chabal blown up to poster size, she has agreed. By the time you read this I’ll probably be a dad and looking forward to introducing my son to my friends at matches over the coming season. Here’s to life moving on and a new season. I’m off now, pre-season is about to start and my Guinness arm is in desperate need of conditioning. Cheers!