Return To The Crumbie

By Chris Chaplin
May 5 2003

Due to changing circumstances and the welcome interest of my wife in Tigers' rugby this season I have watched Tigers from the comfort of the A&L

But this weekend with the lure of a “girly” day out at Fosse Park proving too strong an urge for the Memsahib to resist I was alone and returned to the Crumbie where I was struck that, as in life, how much stays the same and how much changes.

The last time I stood on the Crumbie terracing was during the last home match last season when again London Irish were the opposition. On that day we stood on the terrace secure in the knowledge that Tigers were again league champions and we awaited the usual ritual dispatch of our opponents at Welford Road and how we cheered our heroes to the rafters of the grand old stand when they duly obliged.

On Saturday I found that with the arrival of a positive rash of Yellow Lines policed by stewards devout in their desire that nobody should encroach on these sacred areas had also arrived a new atmosphere amongst the supporters or more correctly spectators.

I never felt we were arrogant but we were always confident and certain of our place in the World but now that old order had been over turned and as the match unfolded the sense of stunned disbelief of that which was unfolding before us was palpable. To lose to Saints at Welford Road was one thing but to London Irish - surely not!

The London Irish supporters were the same in their robust support of their team and we were, I hope, as courteous and gracious in defeat as we were in victory but the order had changed. Tigers had lost at home to the club propping up the table not imperiously despatched them as had been the case when they too were flying high at the end of last season.

The Tigers team were there just as they always are but with different names suddenly appearing and this disquieted the Crumbie. Johnno was all fire and brimstone Garff grunted and groaned his way around the pitch like a relic of rugby when it was rugby and not this figment of a marketing man’s imagination but somehow the feel of the team had changed beyond that occasioned by new personnel.

No longer were they striding their home stage as of right but were somehow by turn timorous, nervous, unsure, bemused as to how this situation had come to pass. Had they not worked hard? Had they not given of their best? Were they not the same group that ruled England for four glorious years and Europe for two?

What had happened? They seemed as perplexed as were the occupants of the Crumbie, who in part cravenly railed against their erstwhile heroes and made their cowardly early departures as the disaster unfolded. Such is the change in this bastion of all that is Rugby.

So Johnno glowered and cajoled, Corry fought like the Tiger he is, Freddie ran at everybody and while Geordan’s twinkling feet tried in vain to work their magic Stimmo battled those demons of uncertainty that lately plague his kicking. Desperately they kicked and ran and then suddenly it was over. The referee’s whistle sang it’s last strident blast and so the match concluded.

The London Irish team and their support jubilant while Tigers’ stood stunned as the enormity of their failure arrived. Those of us who had cheered the departing Freshwater, I do believe that I saw a look of relief as he left the fray, and the wonderful Darren Garforth, mustered a last cheer for our boys as they trudged to salute the visiting victors as they left the arena with their hard won and deserved reprieve from the ignominy of relegation.

The bars were packed as usual, the queue to spend hard earned money in the shop formed as usual with miniature Tigers spewing forth as from a sponsor’s machine, resplendent in their new 2003/4 strips extorted from their compliant parents. Juniors ran on to the pitch to dream their own dreams of glory, kicking tiny rugby balls hither and thither before the newly strident voice of corporate Tigers bade them depart.

Their heroes though were nowhere to be seen, whereas last year they gave so generously of their time to sign their names on shirts, hats, programmes and skin, in this year when support has been so desperately needed and from some quarters in such short supply the team were absent licking their wounds. Only Backy remained manfully signing away his name and speaking to the still adoring multitudes.

Dorian was to be seen with his family and Sam mingled with the crowds but otherwise signs were their none of our idols and so the day meandered to it’s end and I was somehow left with the feeling that nothing would ever be the same again as my beloved game falls ever further into the grasp of the marketeers and bean counters.

Still there is always next year and having seemingly sleepwalked our way to mediocrity in this unhappy season we of the faithful remain optimistic that next year will see us back at the top where we surely belong. We have been here before and will be there again.

So much was comfortingly familiar back on the Crumbie but so much had changed. and as I wandered back to my car in the drizzle of a Leicester Spring evening, swathed in my Tigers’ shirt, fleece and cap and feeling that out of the context of the Crumbie I cut a slightly ridiculous middle aged figure, I at least received a cheery wave and smile from Peter Tom as he sped away in his sparkling, black, top of the range Mercedes coupe, he at least probably content that I had invested so heavily in pursuit of my fervent support of my team and that like the rest of the true supporters I’d be back again for more next year as indeed I will.

That at least will not change.