SPORTING ASPECT
For Victory
By J. P. W. MALLALIEU 0 NE of the great thrills of sport is to see a team pull some match out of the fire in the closing seconds. Years ago Leicester led the Harlequins 3-0 until fifteen seconds from time when, instead of kicking for touch, H.' L. V. Day passed towards his wing and the Harle- quin flier, J. C. Gibbs, intercepted. The moment Gibbs's try had been converted the referee blew for time. I shall never forget that thrill. Ever since then I've waited for it to happen again. As I settle myself into my seat or edge myself into a clear space on the terraces I say to myself : Will it happen today ? But it never does. Of course it happened this season at Cardiff Arms Park where, with only minutes to go, the All Blacks were leading Wales. Perhaps you remember how Thomas, hopelessly en- circled on the left touchline, suddenly kicked through a crowd of players across the field and how the ball bounced just right for Ken Jones. 1 would ,have given all my past and future sporting experiences just to be lifted to the stars at that moment with the Welsh crowd. But I had no ticket. I saw the match only on television. Then, bless me, it happened again at Twickenham where, after Wales had levelled the scores in the closing minutes, Winn raced over in the last stride of the game to snatch victory for England. Though a Twickenham crowd is too well-bred to experience ecstasy, .I should have liked to have been there. But I had- no ticket. I could only listen on the wireless. But last Saturday when England met the All Blacks at Twickenham I had a ticket, secured on the Friday night by a stroke every bit as inspired as Thomas's kick across at Cardiff Arms Park; and as I drew my coat more closely around me and peered at the snow clouds in the sky, I said to myself : Will it happen again today ? Of course, it did not. But some- thing did happen in this match which will make it memorable for me. _ The day was sharp. A wind blew across the ground, stirring and swirling the few wisps of straw which still remained on the pitch itself. Though for the moment a weak sun was showing through the clouds, snow was not far away, and., indeed, as the teams came out, a few teasing flakes danced around their heads. At half-time the snow ceased to tease and came in earnest for a good ten minutes, then cleared so that in the last and greatest quarter of this match the starkness of this winter afternoon was mellowed by the reddening sun.
This, clearly, was a day when outsides would have difficulty in feeling their hands, let alone the ball, when high kicks ahead would be hard to judge and harder still to hold, when heavy forwards would be worth more than clever three-quarters. It looked, in fact, a day for New Zealand and so, in the end, it was. But only just. The game began as all Rugby games seem to begin now- adays. Excitement in the ground rose steadily before the kick- off until those who wereepot yet in their seats panicked and rushed feverishly this way and that. They had minutes to spare, but had suddenly been gripped by the terror of missing something. Then, at last, to a great roar, the teams came out and the game began. Nothing happened. All that mount- ing excitement, all that last-minute- panic, and then nothing at all for a good ten minutes except the referee's whistle.
Then suddenly England nearly scored. Somewhere in their own half the England forwards got the ball and away it went, beautifully passed for such a numbing day, all the way to Woodward. Woodward ran, all fifteen stone and six feet of him. He ran like a thunderstorm. He ran right round Jarden and right over the New Zealand twenty-five. Then he met Scott, the New Zealand full-back, and when you meet Scott you pass. Woodward passed, and there was Regan streaking for the line. Two yards short he was tackled but, in falling, he managed to throw the ball to an England forward who hurled himself over the line. But the great shout was suddenly frozen, for the pass was forward.
That one move, with its supeib passing and determined running, had shown us that if England could get a reasonable share of the ball she would probably win. But she did not get a reasonable share of the ball. The New Zealand pack played as well against England as the Combined Services pack had played against New Zealand a few weeks ago. They got most of the ball in the tight scrums and almost all of it in the line-outs; and when their outsides received it they either kicked for touch or punted down wind, relying- on swirl or bounce. This in a sense was a pity—because when the New Zealand outsides did choose to pass the ball they showed that they could get it at rocket-speed to their wings; and both their wings showed that they could run. But this kicking, if un- attractive to the spectator, was effective. New Zealand scored the only try of the match from a forward dribble which followed a kick ahead, and, in several other moments, they were on the brink, when cold English hands failed to close properly or the wind played its tricks. In the latter end, with the wind behind them, England rightly tried the same tactics. But New Zealand had one thing which neither England nor perhaps any other football side in history has ever had—a full-back like the balding-headed Scott. I can only say of him that he was always there and that danger vanished at the sight of him.
But it was not Scott, not even Scott, who made this match memorable to me. It was the whole English side in the last quarter of an hour. They were five points down and had every- thing to play for, and, my goodness, how they played for it. They were penned, for the most part, in their own twenty-five because of the superiority of the New Zealand forwards. But during these last fifteen minutes they flung the ball almost recklessly—losing line-outs five yards from their line, passing movements on their line—and if recklessness overstepped itself and the ball went loose to a New Zealander there was pin- pointed, deadly tackling to compensate. I have never before seen a §eemingly beaten England side go so all-out for victory in the closing minutes that I could say to myself with con- fidence: today, it really will happen.
But it did not happen. There was always Scott. Worse. there was the dear, decent, compressive Twickenham crowd which in moments of tension may snap an umbrella or two. which may even permit itself a staccato shout, but which will not, cannot, so shake off good form that it loses itself in the long, sustained, exhilarating ecstasy which lifts a team to victory. To be Irish, the Cardiff Arms Park crowd would have carried England to the stars last Saturday at Twickenham if it had been Wales at Cardiff Arms Park.
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