Memories of my first time

Today's contribution comes from DuncanS who has been one of the DWs almost from the start. As a reminder, this is the last of the "stock pieces" we managed to accumulate on the back of our last request for articles from the message board protaganists, so we would be happy to receive some more work - PM me for details. (KtB)

With all the talk of wealthy new owners and a move to a purpose built, 15,000-seater stadium within the M25, those of us who were lucky enough to begin supporting the Black and Gold at the dawn of professionalism must be thinking back with misty eyes to a simpler time. My love affair with Wasps began in 1995. I had followed the club’s results on television and in the newspapers (I happened to be into an American Rock Band in the 80’s called W.A.S.P, and thought it cool to support a Rugby Club with a similar name – and yes, I am aware of the sadness factor here), but post RWC 1995 I found myself beginning my final year of studies at Middlesex University, based in Hendon. As luck would have it, the 83 bus went right past the end of the road on which I lived and headed for Wembley. This was too good an opportunity to miss, so along with my housemate Marcus I decided to blow several pounds worth of maintenance grant (remember those?) on a genuine Rugby experience. Alas, a quick glance at the paper that Saturday morning told me that Wasps were playing away that weekend, so my actual first match was at the Stoop watching Harlequins demolish West Hartlepool in Will Carling’s first match since the scandal involving him and Princess Diana. Fortunately, the ‘Diamond’ experience did nothing to sway my allegiance, and the following Saturday Marcus and I excitedly boarded the 83, destination Sudbury.

First stop simply had to be a Full English in the greasiest Greasy-spoon Wembley had to offer. Magic, and a ritual that endures to this day. Then off to the game. A great match-up to pop our cherry – Wasps versus Bath. The West Country outfit were still, at that time, the side to beat in the domestic game, and boasted a squad packed with internationals. Wasps, on the other hand, were made up of players whose names were known around the club scene but who remained relative unknowns to the ‘only England’ brigade. Of course, we had Rob Andrew at Fly Half, fresh from his 11^th hour drop goal to defeat the Aussies in the RWC quarter final. But other names (Ryan, Bates, Popplewell) were not exactly ‘household’. We even had some unknown young upstart in the back row. What was his name again – Dillydoody? Dollydandy? Anyway, he had apparently played quite well in the Rugby Sevens World Cup a few years early, but the majority of that tournament had escaped my attention. The result of these comparative line-ups was that Marcus and I travelled that day in hope, rather than expectation.

Approaching the ground we received our first shock. Here we were, approaching the ‘Stadium’ of one of the top sides in English Rugby, and yet we were arriving via a narrow residential street that reminded me of where my Grandparents had settled for a ‘quiet life’. It was really only once we walked through the gates that we knew we hadn’t made some navigational error. We paid our entrance fee (£8? Cool!), and looked around for somewhere to get a beer. We must have stood outside the clubhouse for about 10 minutes, wondering whether we were actually allowed in there, or whether we would be immediately ejected by some growling ‘Mongo’ with Cauliflower ears, before deciding to throw caution to the wind and enter. How daring! Well, no-one threw us out, tutted at our being there, or even seemed to notice us (a little hurtful – couldn’t they tell we were uber-cool students gracing the club with our presence for the first time?). Of course, the beer worked its magic, and before long Marcus announced he must inspect the club’s facilities. I stood watching the big screen (‘big’ by 1995 standards) when suddenly Marcus came hurrying back and excitedly announced that he had been standing there, tackle out, when a Wasps player had actually walked in wearing full match kit and started peeing right next to him! We certainly weren’t at a top-flight football match! To this day Marcus claims it was Lawrence Dallaglio. I have my doubts, but that’s probably just jealousy rearing its ugly head.

Finally it was time to head outside for kickoff. We had realised when walking in that this was to be no luxurious sporting experience. The spectator areas were a mixture of main stand (barely stretching between the two ten metre lines, the kind of temporary stand still favoured today by Bath RFC, stepped terracing and several metres of railing to lean on. We managed to find a relatively good position at the clubhouse end just in time to see Andrew equalising an earlier Callard penalty (still not sure how we missed the opening exchanges). The ‘cosiness’ of the ground was demonstrated wonderfully when the Wasps Fullback (Jon Ufton, I believe) kicked for touch, only for the Referee to decide he had been outside his 22. Cue some Wag in the temporary stands, “See this white line? Very important!” When the spectators on the other side of the ground laughed, you knew you weren’t at Twickenham! The rest of the match has faded with time. I do recall our pack getting us into some excellent positions, only for Andrew to shank kick after kick. He even managed to pull one wide from right in front of the sticks that I seriously think Kenny Logan could have landed (sorry Kenny, I jest). Then, just as he lands a drop goal to put us 6-3 up late in the second half and have us daring to hope for victory, Adedayo Adebayo (so good they named him twice) grabs a brace of tries to secure a 15-6 win for the visitors. Andrew did not see the end of the match. Ben Clarke, probably knowing what Rob was about to do to a club which was held in high regard within the English game, decided to boot Judas in the gob. A fitting end to what turned out to be Andrew’s last home match for Wasps.

Game over, and time for a trip to the club shop. We were, by this time, hooked on the Wasps experience and wanted some club merchandise to cement this new and exciting relationship. As luck would have it, the new United Airlines shirts worn for the first time that day by the team were plentifully stocked, and we eagerly handed over £36 each. As it turned out, the club had new sponsors, and therefore new shirts, within a year. This annoyed me slightly (OK, I know the club needs financing) and I have never bought a shirt since. My original is still in good condition, and probably looks better than most of the more recent efforts anyway. There was just time for another trip to the clubhouse. After all, we were part of the ‘in’ crowd now – although the barman had unforgivably failed to learn what my ‘usual’ was. The Big (ahem) Screen was showing the Rugby League World Cup, with a youngster named Jason Robinson skipping round the Aussie defence to score a match-winning try. Good stuff – you know – for a minor sport.

And that was it! That was when I lost my heart to a Rugby Club from North West London. I cannot put my finger on any one incident that hooked me. Was it the cost of the ticket? The excitement of hearing the gladiatorial collisions up close? The intimacy of drinking next to the players, and even urinating next to them (OK, now I’m scaring myself)? I don’t know. Many people cannot put their finger on what it was that attracted them the day they met their future spouse. Somehow they just know. And so did I. Of course, the club has evolved since those days. Chris Wright eased us into professionalism. We moved to High Wycombe via Loftus Road, and scaled the heights of European glory. But for me, my fondest memories will always take place at a small, ‘Postage Stamp’ ground just 10 minutes walk from the 83 route.