THE TRY

THE TRY !!!

Barnsey: OK, Ollie. There’s a pause in the play. Let’s see how that move has unfolded so far.

Ollie: Well first of all, Stewey, that’s a mighty fine mess Saints have got themselves into. It started (roll VT) with…

Craig stealing Saints lineout ball on our 5m line, in the shade of the willow tree, the sun-drenched green sward stretching before the 15 men in blue and gold, the noise from the Southies -- Warriors! Warriors! -- drawing them like a siren towards the try line, 90m away…

… Craig taps down, straight into the waiting hands of the seasons most under-rated Number 9, Matt Powell…

… Powell, realising that the ref’s indicated an infringement in the lineout and signalled a Wuss advantage, tries his trademark box kick and finds that the Saints aren’t concentrating... the chase is on (VT playback drowned out by “Warriors! Warriors!”)…

… Matt plays everyone onside, but the ball takes an awkward bounce and comes back 3 metres into the outstretched arms of Horse, who takes the ball forward another 12 metres before being tackled and going to ground. He lays the ball back and the ruck goes over him...

… Tim Collier picks up at the base of the ruck, head down, doing a Desperate Dan impression, swatting tacklers out of the way, over the half way line, tap tackled, OH NO! Knocks on into the hands of Tom Smith... advantage Saints...

… Saints about to be given advantage, but touch judge calls ref back to some foul play he spotted in the lineout, the ref calls over the two captains…

(As the chant of “Warriors! Warriors!” dies down momentarily, the sound of Hylts --doing an impression of JP -- drifts in from out wide: “I’m on the wing boys!!!!”
Chuntering away as he drags himself back again…

“Rotten out here on the wing, freezing mi bits off, its alright for the bl***y forwards having lots of cuddles, no-one comes and cuddles me….
“Oh, we’re off again. Go for it! Bl***y hell captain Njinsky couldn’t have got that…
Might as well start talking to myself again.
“I’m here guys, over here, I am still alive you know.”

(Back to studio) Barnsey: Let’s hold the VT there, Ollie. Is that JP over there on the wing, or is it Hylts, or is it someone asleep in the West stand?”

Ollie: Take no notice. Back to the ref (Yes Sir)

Barnsey: Could I check the team sheet please? Is JB back yet? Is TH on at 10 or in the centre to take the long-range kicks?

Ollie: It doesn’t matter. The ref calls both teams back to the lineout. It would appear that the offence is supporters chattering among themselves and not concentrating on the thread started by Bagsy the Bun. Ref tells the captains that if their supporters don’t discipline themselves, then a penalty will be awarded…
The line’s re-set to where Virtual Athlete left it. Northampton to throw. Looks like two minutes left on the clock but, due to a huge hunting horn blocking the view, it could be a bit more. Normal programme errors mean that there could be just about any player on the field and on the bench….

Play resumes... musical chairs in the line, everyone misses it (even Craig!), too long and over the back. James is on to it but runs straight into two tacklers and loses the ball forwards....

… However Spreadbury is in charge (?) and calls a penalty to Saints as we’re getting too close to scoring a try.

Barnsey: What do you mean ‘we’re getting too close to a try’?

Ollie: There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you all season, Stewey…

… Meanwhile, My Babber can take no more.

“What’s the bl***y score!?” he rants. “I can’t see because the South Stand score-board boys are absent without leave again! This is no good for me! Matron! My pills!”

“6-6, two minutes on the clock,” Virtual yells…

… Shane Drahm picks up the ball and wipes it dry on his chest. He eyes the touchline along the West Stand, squinting into the afternoon sun, as he calculates the ball’s intended trajectory…
“That’s the spot,” he mutters to himself. “Straight towards that bloke in the Warriors hat and the glasses.”

He picks out the Warriors supporter jumping up and down, waving his arms about like a possessed dervish, manically screaming the monolyrical club chant, “WAAARRRIIIOOOORSSSS! WARRRIIIOORRRSSS!” among the mass of dozing Westies quietly sipping their luke-warm cocoa…

… Drahm applies a muddy boot the the ball and it sails towards the half way line, before veering right in the direction of the North Stand. JP’s off-putting behaviour has worked -- he’s missed touch!…

… The crowd roars as the ball falls with a dull thud into the arms of Thinus Delport…

… Tenuous French Connection slides to the edge of his seat.

… Thinus drops it! But the Spreaders waves play on, as it’s gone backwards! Mass “Phew” from the crowd. Our South African oke recovers the ball and sets course for he posts, running as always in that upright style, ball in both hands....

 

… In comes the first tackle, hard and low. Thinus steps left hits the gas and is past. The crowd ROAAAARRR…

… Cohen, with his head swathed in bandages to protect his cheek, bears down on Thinus, his arms outstretched like some demented mummy!…

 

… Thinus steps right and Cohen flies past him, bandages flapping behind him in his slipstream...

… There’s thunder rumbling beneath the feet of the Easties…

… There’s about 90 seconds to go....

… and JP seems to have white line fever!

“Come on JP, keep your eye on the ball, this is your moment for glory,” Virtual screams.

… Thinus hits the incoming openside with both forearms, lifting him off his feet and slips a beautiful inside layoff the Matt Powell coming up in support... D-Dum....D-Dum...D-Dum.... as the heart rate increases the roaring from the Westies takes over the stadium... (Bagsy: Steady on now, JP, this is only fantasy after all!)

… Matt flicks it to TC....

… COME ON TC!!!!!! WWWWWAAAAARRRRRIIIOOORRRRSSSSS!!!!

… TC thunders upfield with bodies flying left and right, Crunch! Down goes big Tim on the halfway line. In like a striking snake comes Sanderson and Hickey. The ball’s there, can’t you see it?
“Get the bl***y thing out!” scream the crowd as Horsman comes into view....

“Quick hands! QUICK HANDS!”

(Cut to AK, who’s red with rage. Read his lips. He’s shouting:

“THIS ISN’T THE BL***Y GAME PLAN. STICK TO THE BL***DY PLAN!”
Someone’s in for a Keasting after the game…

… Ahhh, the game plan! Horse piles in, quickly followed by Pat and Drew. The pill appears, beautifully presented between Drew’s legs (!!!). Matt collects, passes to James, who drills one down toward the player’s watching families...

AK: “That’s more like it!” (Red fades to pink)…

Our lineout inside their 22, Andre asks for some quiet as he can’t hear the call. The Easties respond with a few blasts and a chant of “Worcester!”
The ball’s tossed into the air, Craig leaps clear of the Saints line…

… And doesn’t catch it! A superb act of deception as just about everybody in the ground thought the ball would be thrown to him. In fact, it’s an attacking throw caught unopposed by Hickey at 6…

… Drew turns and drives backward through the Saints forwards and towards the line, flanked by Tim and Horse...

… the Saints pack put all their effort into trying to stop the drive by the dominant force that is the Warriors pack…

… In their panic at being unable to stop the pack, they pull play down. The ref gives the pen. but plays advantage to Warriors as the ball pops out to Matt Powell…

… Who knocks on, but still penalty to Wuss. Oh dilemma! What do we do now? It could be the last decision of the season. What will Captain Pat do?…

… A win is a win is a win. It’s obvious... James nods to Pat, Pat nods to Spreaders, Spreaders raises two hands towards the posts. Kick this and it’s 9-6 with only seconds left on the clock…

“WARRIORS! WARRIORS! WARRIORS!”

... But wait. What about JP’s moment of glory. What about the predicted final score? What about Hylts’ glorious return?…

… James crouches on bended knee shaping the ball on its tiny tee, waves of sound cascade around the ground gradually fading to silence as James steps back, looks up and.... Oh no, it’s going wide... or is it? (Thump!) The post quivers, the ball somersaults....

… Who’ll be first to react? Saints behind the line, or Hylts?…

… James retrieves the ball and eyes the left-hand touchline. Forwards pick themselves up and fill the blind side. Saints players match them. He’s going to pop it into touch and take the lineout…

… Suddenly, James turns to his right, glances up and spots Hylts out on the right wing, on his own, waving his arms, eyes wide, meeting those of James, mouthing silently one word: “YYEEEEEESSSS!”…

… To the astonishment of the Saints players, panting to regain their breath, James swings his left boot and sends the ball skywards, towards the far corner…

… AK’s eyes stand out on stalks in astonishment: “Oh my God! I’ll sack the b*****d for this. STICK TO THE GAMEPLAN!”…
… But it’s too late. The ball spirals high in the air. Spectators in the hospitality boxes spill their glasses of Chilean Shiraz as they crane their necks skywards to follow its flight…

… After 79 minutes of “WWAAARRRIIIOOOORRRRSSSS!” cacophony, now there’s total silence.
Duh dum... duh dum... duh dum! rings like Irish drums in everyone’s ears.
AK buries his face in his red hands as the ball appears to hang tantalisingly high in the air, caught on the spring breeze like a balloon...

“JP you decide!” screams Virtual Athlete. No answer. “JP?”

“What’s happening now?” asks My Babber. “Much more of this and matron will be upping my dose!.”

“Has Hylts been tripped, or is he diving through the air to catch the ball?” asks DnT. As the ball hangs in the evening air, time stands still at Sixways.

“My heart can’t take this! CATCH THE BLYDI BALL JP PLEASEEEEEEEEE,” DnT yells.

The hearbeats of 8, 477 instant christians can be heard above their prayers, saying:  “Please let us score and I’ll never do that thing again!”

“I’ve fallen off my seat now and have started to turn blue… can’t hold my breath much longer!” Tenuous French Connection sobs.

“The clock’s ticking. Someone finish it, please!” Curly Warrior joins the fans begging for JP’s return to the move.

“Four pints of Guinness please,” says a part-time supporter in the South stand, fresh from the Gents, unaware of the drama unfolding. But the bar staff don’t hear. They’re peering out into the daylight, searching the air for the ball.…

… Duh dum... duh dum... duh dum... Keasty on the touchline is going nuts: “IF THAT HYLTS DON’T CATCH THAT £$%^*^*()*%&$£((&% BALL HE WON’T HAVE ANY TO PLAY WITH ANY MORE!”

… Pat can be seen to be muttering a prayer in the middle of the pitch…

… and still the ball hangs in the air…

 

.... The eery silence is matched only by the pervasive aroma of hot pork and apple as a gentle breeze floats across the hallowed arena...

… Is the ball stuck on something, only it seems to have been up there a very long time?…

…. Every supporter’s blowing into the sky to keep it up there until Hylts is ready to catch the blydi thing…

… The ref, as if in slow motion, starts to raise his whistle to his mouth, and his other arm begins a motion upwards. Oh God! Has Spreaders got it wrong again? He was never offside. Or is he foretelling a try?…

… But wait…

… a Saints player’s going for the interception!

… Hylts’ hamstring screams in pain as he takes off at full tilt, eyes focussed on the ball, which is plummeting just short of the corner flag...

… A Saints man leaps for the ball like a tin of John West’s … But misses it !!!!

… Who? Oh Cohen... that’s the fella that misses it...

… Hylts is underneath it! Travelling horizontally at 19.6 mph, arms outstretched...

… THUNK !!!

… He’s held it! But Reihana’s flying like an exocet towards Hylts....

… Calm as you like, wandering JP spots the gap... can he re-concentrate?

“Hurrah! The JP has awoken and risen like the phoenix from the flames,” cries DnT.

… We can hear the Npowerettes singing as they pom-pom out the message: “JP! JP! He’s our man… If he can’t do it, nobody can!”

... But can he evade the grasp of Reihana? Charging behind Hylts is the ever alert Dale Rasmussen, who comes to Hylts’ support, taking Reihana out as he binds onto JH. The crowd screams with delight as bodies are flying everywhere.
On the line, the ball’s secured and recycled. JP sees his chance, takes the line just outside James diagonally for the line.

“I can see it, guys! It’s like a barn door. I CAN DO IT!” he screams.
The ball comes out. James goes right. Coming off the left wing, the flying JP hits the gas. The balls’s slipped perfectly into his path.
JP takes the ball, half steps left and then right.... The line looms as the noise reaches a crescendo.... The defence hits JP like a Centurian tank but, undeterred, he strides on....
Suddenly...
He’s hit from the rear by a force of nature so fast it knocks the wind from his lungs.
The crowd rise as one… as Hylts storms in. He grabs JP and, as one, they dive over the line!
What’s this? Spreadbury calls for the camera?

The crowd’s hushed as the moment’s played from several angle....
Did the ball go down?????
Was Hylts offside????
Was there an obstruction?????
The wait is awful as seconds slip by...
The East Stand waits with baited breath. Have we or have we not scored? Prayers are offered up to the adjudicator...
… In homes across the nation, TV screens show and re-show the unravelling drama.
“Where’s the ball?” ask thousands. “I can’t see it.”
“That’s never a try!!!” shout the population of Northants.
“Oh God!!!” pray the population of Worcestershire and much of the West Midlands.
Camera angle after camera angle is played and replayed. But the ball remains hidden under a pile of multicoloured bodies.
Suddenly a shout from touch judge Jackson.

“HERE IT IS!” he calls out, running onto the pitch waving a small camera aloft.

The crowd chuckles: “He’s ballsed up this time!” they mutter.
“NO, it was handed to me by a spectator. It’s a digital camera... Look what’s on the screen!!!!”
Taken from Row D in the East Stand, in the corner, there lies the ball, just over the tryline. A hand, strong and muscular, presses the ball firmly to the ground. But whose is it?
“Let me look at your left hand, number 14,” says Spreaders to Hylts. He holds out his hand. There, on the back of his hand is a friend’s phone number, written in a hurry that very morning after a chance greeting.
The ref looks again at the camera screen.

“Well, I’ll be bu****ed,” he mutters. “The camera never lies!
“TRY!” he shouts, before blowing a long blast on his whistle…

… “At last! I can breathe. That must be some sort of world record,” Tenuous French Connection sighs.

As he lights up the Churchillian-sized cigar, a man in a black suit shouts out in the East Stand.

“Put that light out!”

… “YEEEESSSSSS! We’ve done it!”
The Easties erupt into voice as the stand begins to vibrate under the sheer volume of noise…
… Is that the Westies leaping to their feet? No, sorry. One of the poor old dears has cramp.
“YYEEEEESSSSSS!”
Spreaders’s whistle blows and blows and blows... beep... beeep... beeeeep...

… JP’s hand reaches out and bashes the top of the alarm clock…
“Oh well,” he groans, “We’ll just have to wait a few more weeks!” as he totters off to the shower. “Oh, for.... Where’s all that bloody water come from? I’d better get on the message board and see who knows a good plumber!”

Unable to shower, JP runs himself a nice relaxing bath. Whilst soaking in the bubbles, he thinks back to his glorious dream...
Suddenly, he leaps from the bath like an ancient Greek shouting “Conversion! Conversion! We haven’t taken the conversion!”
Still dripping wet, he races back to bed, willing himself to sleep, knowing that a successful conversion will lead to a Heineken Cup place following our recent wins over Bath, Saracens, Wasps and not forgetting the record-breaker against Newcastle which resulted in Rob Andrew’s public eating of humble pie.
He soon returns to slumber. The players and crowd are still celebrating.

Who will take the kick?…

… Chris Horsman steps up…

… “Have a tee, James,” he says…

… The crowd sighs in relief...

“... and can you also hold the ball for me,” says Horse, “as the wind has got up!”

… The crowd, James, Keasty… they all stand open-mouthed in disbelief!

… “Had you going there, didn’t I?” grins Horse. “‘I don’t need you to hold the ball!”

JB can’t find the words to respond.

“Pat, Pat! … Tell him… He can’t, he can’t!”…

… A coach runs on with a pair of size 12, silver football boots, the style favoured by the likes of Henson and Healey. It must be an ‘H’ thing!

… Chris changes his black bone-crunchers for the silver dancing shoes, and places the ball on the tee…

… James lies down, holding his digit on top of the ball…
Distance: 28m
Angle:45 degrees
Wind: WSW Force 5.
“I’ll lean it a tad to the right, Big’Un,” says James, well-versed in the art of goal-kicking.
Chris nods, deep in concentration.
Neil Jenkins-style. Two steps back, two to the side, a little half-step more. Looks up, picks out Wusschamp in the South Stand -- gripping his Guinness tightly, like a man who’s just walked across the Kalahari Desert -- as the target.
Eyes back to the base of the ball.
He takes a step forward.
“MISS IT, YOU PILLOCK!” shouts the same Saints fan who did it at Franklins Gardens. He’s promptly clubbed senseless by the aptly-named Sean and two of his fellow stewards.
But Chris doesn’t even hear it, deep in concentration that he is.
A second step, swings the big, bejewelled right boot back and through to the back of the ball.
THUD! It flies out, wide of the right hand post. Oh no! It’s going to miss!

 

… Just then, the wind picks up. A gust hits the ball and alters its course to the left. It tumbles end over end, over the cross bar, through the posts, hitting Wusschamp clean between the eyes…

… The crowd go wild, just as the heavens open and the rain buckets down. As the flood at Sixways rises, JP wakes up again.
“Bu99er! I left the bath taps running.”