Two Scotlands Come to Twickenham
By OLIVER EDWARDS 'Tuns isn't cricket ; Scotland, invited south, arrives in duplicate. One of these Scotlands is the country itself, in the shape of its rugby team, the other an alert, slim 22-year-old who plays in it, surname Scotland, first name Kenneth. Ken- neth means 'the fair one' in Gaelic, and that's what he is. K. Scotland plays full-back, or rather he has developed a rugby position hitherto unrecognised—seven-eighths-back; young men everywhere are imitating him, bringing enterprise and new life to the game. He comes up into the three-quarter line, and actively participates in play generally, far more than is usual with full-backs; he is consistently the fifth wheel of the chariot in attack, and he would have been the downfall of England on Saturday if only he'd managed to place a goal from any of three chances he had in the first half, the third from not a bad position. But no one was able to kick a goal at the south end on Saturday.
The cause, or a cause, was the wind. The result of the match—a draw, at a penalty goal each— was scarcely just to Scotland, which had more of the overall play; but' alas, poor country, it had sealed its own fate before the kick-off, as it turned out—for Waddell, the new 211year-old captain, winning the toss, chose to play against wind and sun. Perhaps he thought his team would do better with their own country geographically behind them, even three hundred miles behind. Twicken- ham is the trickiest of grounds for wind because of the high stands on three sides which canalise and deflect the air currents. This breeze, being already fitful in itself, could not be allowed for in the kicking; one moment it was lambasting your lumbago, the next the cross of St. George and the Scottish lion were hanging limp on their flagstaffs. The ball, too, was dry and light, like a jumping bean with a beetle inside it.
The sun was warming our left shoulder-blades as we took up position among the sandwich papers and orange peel on the south terrace. When London goes to Twickenham its lunch-hour goes to pot. his an orderly, policeman-obeying crowd, though. The bland and measured.banter is not like Cardiff Arms Park, where the butties from the Rhondda swig beer from a communal flagon and pass it, empty, round at half-time in lieu of a chamber-pot.
Now the west stand was putting a third of the field, lengthwise, in shadow. A loudspeaker said a dog in parked car number so-and-so 'is having a pretty bad time.' will the owner please come and help? A black streamer, carried across the ground by two men 'Against all H-bombs for Britain Russia America,' was attacked by unofficial Scot- tish forces, captured and then rescued. The bands- men in long slate-grey coats ended their music- making and left the field. England kicked off with the breeze.
From the start the Scots were the livelier. It was a stirring moment when K. Scotland came into the line on the right and flung a pass to his left, half the width of the field, but Weatherstone couldn't quite round Jackson. The four wing-threes, strong runners all, might almost as well have been ex- changed, like pawns (like prawns, Mr. Glum would say), at the game's beginning. They can- celled out, largely because of the general inade- quacy of the central links. Of these, Phillips had flashes, but on the day's total showing there wasn't
a first-rate centre among them. K. Scotland's spirit was infectious—the gaiety of his play, the way ho turned corners within half a yard, the angling of his punts under pressure, his acrobatic tackling (he was the lightest man on the field). Because of the spirit with which the Scots attacked, and which somehow managed to survive their lapses, the
game was usually an exciting one. There was so little achievement that it ought to have been dull, but it was varied enough not to be. At half-time, which came with England in the lead—a penalty by Risman—the loudspeaker told us that Mr. What had come in third and Mr. Pratt was wanted at the office. (Or was it Jean Prat they were calling for—to give some impartial instruction to both sides on goal-kicking and other crafts?) The second half started. There were almost too many Smiths to sort out, but one strong saving tackle—the Scot G. K. landing in the brawny arms of S. R.—stays in the memory. S. R. Smith is England's scrum-half, noted for his length of pass.
It was utilised in this game in longitude perhaps more than in latitude (let the goals be the poles)— doubtless to thwart the very active Scots back row —but seldom did stand-off Risman or anyone else gather it at real speed.
It was a delight to see full-back Hetherington learning, as it were, from K. Scotland and attack- ing with the rest. Of course he had done the like while this Scot was still at school, but this time his junior seemed to be teaching him.
Hetherington had worked a pretty scissors with Jackson, tried it a second time and it nearly brought disaster. But this match was a series of incidents that nearly brought disaster. English Smith burst through on the left. Challenged, he passed. It went to ground and Thompson picked up and dived over. But the pass had been forward and the referee, Mr. Walters—the programme said he was 31, but he looks 18—signalled the scrum. (This referee—a red Welsh buoy among the surging blue and white waves—was near- perfect in all he•did and didn't.) K. Scotland kicked his equalising penalty, from the same spot as Risman in the first half. There was a careering run by the same Smith down the right touchline (the left leg of his shorts much in need of repair)—dribbling and booting and some- how conjuring the ball to stay in play. He was nearly through, but, as often, Robson was the obstacle. S. R. Smith can be good, but not always in a specifically scrum-half capacity. Have you noticed, England, that whenever you take the field this seaspn without Jeeps you lose or only draw?
Jeeps might have made the difference in the Cardiff mud, and the championship might not now depend (as it probably will) on the forthcoming tussle in Paris between the Pays de Galles and the pays de Gaulle.
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