Why To We Do It?

By Toni
August 3 2003

November 2nd 2002, Saturday afternoon, somewhere around 4pm. The place is Welford Road, Leicester. The teams playing; the Leicester Tigers and London Wasps. The weather; dour.

I stood on the terraces, lamenting the fact I’d been too cheap to buy a seated season ticket, and got thoroughly soaked. The rain was lashing down from every direction, it was bitterly cold and I couldn’t even see what was going on in front of me. As a glasses wearer, as the rain tipped down my vision was completely blotted out, and every ten seconds I’d turn to my best friend and say “who’s in possession?” (that match actually prompted me to go to the opticians and get contact lenses, something I’d sworn I’d never do, but I couldn’t put up with another visionless Tigers match).

I knew the next day I’d have a cold, as I’m the type of person who catches colds with ridiculous ease. I knew I’d feel like hell when I went into work the next Monday morning. I knew there was a good chance I’d meet one of my all-time heroes, Rob Howley, after the game and that I’d look like a drenched rat in the subsiquent photograph. I could imagine showing the photo to my friends, “here’s me and Rob Howley. Look at the water dripping off the end of my nose.”

I didn’t move though. I stood, cheered when someone informed me Tigers were in possession and risked my health. I didn’t care. I did meet Rob Howley afterwards, warning him not to stand too close to me in the photo but he did anyway. He was left with a huge wet patch down his side, bless him.

I did have a cold the next day and felt shocking for work on Monday and I trooped in and admitted that yes, I had stood outside in the pouring winter rain just to watch a rugby match that Tigers only just won [9-6 - even then our home record was looking perilous].

But was I put off? No. Did I do it again the next Friday night when we took on [and beat] Gloucester? Yes. Did I renew my season ticket for the next season, knowing I’d come through the past season with no less that three rugby-inflicted colds, sore feet every Saturday night from five hours standing and a sore throat that meant I couldn’t speak for a week following the Munster game? Yes, of course I did, because I’m a rugby fan.

It’s madness, really. My parents, who have lovely sheltered seats in the Crumbie Stand at Tigers, have often remarked that I’m insane. I have two choices; buy a seated ticket and therefore prevent being rained on week in week out, or stop going altogether.

I have a friend who’s a Saints fan [yes, we know, that’s weird - even Matt Dawson has commented on it] and when I took myself to Franklins Gardens with her I spent a good ten minutes looking at the roofing over the terraces there and thinking she was so lucky.

So, buy a seated season ticket. No thanks. Despite the fact I’m horrendous at managing money, I love the atmosphere on the Tigers terraces. Standing right behind the dugout, I like watching as Martin Johnson has a paddy after being sin-binned [I am referring to the Worcester Powergen Cup game, his little hissy fit reducing me to tears of laughter]. And not go?

You’re joking! Don’t be so ridiculous. Do you tell a Christian not to bother going to church anymore? Of course you don’t, so why tell me to stop attending my place of worship? My non-rugby friends join in the fact that I’m most likely a candidate for the funny farm. Sometimes, when I’m wringing the water out of my Tigers jersey and trying to blow-dry my hair straight again, I think they’re right.

I’m a young teenage girl, surely this isn’t normal? No, it isn’t, but it is for me. I’m not the only one. I stand on the terraces in the company of equally insane people. So why do we do it?

Why do we put up with it? I risked the sack when I went to England vs. Italy, knowing full well I wouldn’t be going in to work the next day. But I didn’t care. Maybe that’s because it was only a temp job, but I still didn’t care. I’ve wondered for a long time why we bother, and I can’t answer for other people, only myself. The true fact is, I don’t know. I can’t answer that question because as often as those around me, I question my sanity. I’m still there the next week though.

I once tried to muster up an answer and came up with the rather weak, “it gives me something to believe in and look forward too”.

This is true. I booked a trip to Ireland for what went on to be the Grand Slam decider this year in September, and on those bad days we all have in between, I had something to look forward too. Don’t worry, I’d tell myself, only 123 days until you go to Ireland.

Well the Ireland trip raised another interesting thought. All my life I’ve been terrified of planes, airports, flying, heights - you name it, I’m meant to be boat bound for the rest of my life. When I told my friend, Clara, I was flying to Ireland, she told me to wish Naomi - the girl I was going with - good luck. Clara had flown with me to Glasgow to visit a friend and had witnessed first-hand my absolute paranoia about flying. Right, I thought, I’ll go to the doctors and get some Valium so I can go to Ireland without scaring the hell out of myself [and Naomi, in all honesty, “we’re going to crash” chants can be a problem].

My doctor was lovely, handing over the precious pills, but I was sick from sheer nerves at Gatwick airport so how much I actually absorbed we’ll never know. As I sat on the plane, shaking and stuttering, I asked myself why I was putting myself through this.

Surely, it would have been easier to watch the match at home?

Yes, it would have been, but as much as those two flights tortured me I wouldn’t give up my memories of that day for anything. I later watched the match on video and realized how special it had been, how I can say I was there. If I’d watched at home, I’d have missed the banter with the Ireland fans, the atmosphere, the general wonderfulness of match day in Dublin.

No, better to have nearly killed myself with fear than have watched at home.

So I return to my original question - why do we do it? We’re a strange breed, us die-hard fans. I’m not talking about the fans who go along for a “good day out” and only say “oh well, better luck next week” when we lose.

I’m talking about the people with tears in their eyes when Tigers home record goes bye-bye, the people who actually care. The people who believe that rugby is life, the rest is just words.

That Wasps game, the Ireland game and the countless one’s in between were some of the best days of my life. I like caring about something this much. If the day comes that I turn into one of those intolerable “oh well, there’s always next week” people then I’ll hand my season ticket back and call it a day.

Rugby fans are a strange breed but some of the nicest people in the world. Following Tigers and England has allowed me to meet some thoroughly decent, amusing people. On the day, they may be the opposition supporting The Enemy, but when the final whistle goes I still find it in myself to shake hands with them, win or lose.

Then there’s the game, the players, so much to learn and so many changes. I could support football but I’d be one of many, looked on only as a girl who was there for the guys running around in shorts. I’ve been to football matches and that’s what I got. I don’t get that at rugby, and even if I do, ask me anything about rugby and I can answer it. People soon learn the truth, that I’m just another rugby fan who’s risked sacking and their health for the game. I’ve met so many like me.

So why do we do it? Who cares, as long as it continues.