Sporting Aspects
AFTER THE SINGING
By J. P. W. MALLALIEU THERE is a supreme moment in International Rugby Football; but it comes only once every two years. Some- times it is one of hope, sometimes of fear; but always it is one of dedication. It flowed through me at 2.44 p.m. last Saturday. That moment comes at Cardiff Arms Park when, before the kick-off, the Welsh and English teams stand stiffly facing each other and the Welsh crowd 'sings "Land of My Fathers."
That Welsh crowd will sing "Land of-My Fathers" against Ireland, against Scotland and against France. But it sings best against England, for, against England, there are old scores to be paid off, scores which were notched against "My Fathers" long before Rugby was first played. When England comes to Cardiff, the fathers of "My Fathers" thunder from their graves that this beloved land is and always shall be, to \Englishmen, foreign; and the thunder from the dead becomes mingled with the exuberance of the quick-, the quick who earn their living in a foreign land but return to the land of their fathers on this one day, and find how wonderful it is. Maybe they are ashamed that they -come home so seldom and wish to assert their nativity; maybe they are stirred by the warmth with which their families greet them at the station, a warmth so seemingly unbroken that they feel they have never _been away. Whatever the cause, these Anglo-Welsh, home again for the match against England, sing with a fervour which, their home-staying brothers can only try to emulate. But of course neither subconscious politics nor conscious delight at being home alone accounts for the ecstatic solemnity with which "Land of My Fathers" is sung at this biennial moment. Rugby comes into it too. We think of the Welsh as people who can hew a bit of coal, pour a bit of steel or decant -a bit of song. But in fact, before all these things, we ought to think of them as inspired players of Rugby. Welshmen were made for Rugby. They have in them a blunt but insidious cunning which shuns the light of day, which is designed to work deviously underground and which is ideal for operations on the blind side of a tight scrum. They have that hot-blooded sense of kinship which sends them, unthinking, as a mass, against the enemy, and is just right for loose forward rushes; and they have that genius which, here and there, carries a singer or a poet beyond the stars and here and there evokes a Bleddyn Williams. So, when they sing, just before the kick-off, the Welsh crowd sing not only of past wrongs now to be righted, not only of home long lost but now found again, but also of the game which they know expresses their instincts, of the game which they know to be, peculiarly, theirs. Before the great moment arrives, there are many things to do and see and hear. There is the singing on the football special from Paddington. There is the moment outside Cardiff Station when brother meets brother and each is made awkward by overwhelming affection. There are jumping crackers to be thrown at the staid-looking policemen who, every fifteen yards, face the crowd from the greyhound racing-track which surrounds the field. There are leeks to be worn as emblems or used as missiles against these same staid-looking policemen; and there are flags—red flags— to be planted in mid-field when for a moment these staid- looking policemen, with wide grins on their faces, turn aside on the pretence of attending to some duty or other. There are the loud-speaker announcements begging Mr. Thomas of • Pontypridd to return to work immediately or, even more hope- lessly, imploring Mr. Jones to meet Mr. Williams outside the ground at once; and there is the band, playing " Cwm Rhondda" and "Ebenezer ton-y-botle " and " Crimond " and " Sospan Vach " and "Onward Christian Soldiers" and "I Can't Give You Anything But Love, 'Baby." The Welsh crowd joins in all this, showing its independence by keeping one beat behind the bandmaster, but these are only working- up exercises in preparation for the supreme moment that is to come. Then at last the teams emerge, England in white jerseys, Wales in red, and there they stand while the crowd gives out its resentment of the past, its joy in the present and its hope for the future.
I wish that, at the end of that moment on Saturday, I could have left the ground. But unhappily I stayed on and saw Welsh Rugby below its best. England won this match by eight points to three, and Englishmen like myself had several things to cheer. There was, for example, that glorious first try by Cannell after a burst of passing and a run by Bazley. There was that glorious screwing kick from the touchline with which England's captain,. Hall, converted this try. In the second half there was that forty-five-yard penalty goal kicked by Woodward. But Wales had only one thing to cheer, and that was the performance of their young National Service full- back, T. E. Davies, playing his first international.
Some 3,000 men, women, and children live in Davies' village. From that village there were 1,800 applications for tickets for this match as soon as Davies' selection was known. Only 200 applications were granted, but those who had to stay outside at least knew that young Davies would be in good hands. That Welsh crowd, all 56,000 of it, looked after Davies as a mother looks after her child. His first job was to take a penalty kick for touch. As be received the ball, he was given a great cheer, and when he kicked it safely to touch he was given an ovation. Then, with his. first inter- national cap only ten minutes old: he was given a chance to kick a penalty goal from forty yards out. As he ran to take the kick someone near me 'sneezed. Fifty-six thousand other people at once said Hush ! " The kick failed; but four minutes later, from the same position, Davies tried again and the ball sailed effortlessly, gracefully between the posts and the world exploded. But that was the end of Welsh cheers. What followed was not tragic—for nothing foreseeable and inevitable is ever really tragic. What followed was just sad.
Of all the golden lads in Rugby Football the one who has shone brightest in my eye has been Bleddyn Williams. He could see openings when no openings seemed there. He could sidle, or jink or glide through a forest of opponents without touching one tree. He could flash to the left, taking all his opponents with him; then flash to the right leaving all his opponents behind. For ninety minutes he was unruffled grace, and all I could wish to see. But on Saturday he was no more. Except just once. With ten minutes to go for time, and England leading by eight points to three, the ball came to Bleddyn on the half-way line, and suddenly Bleddyn became what he used to be. A shake of one hip, a twist of one shoulder, and his immediate opponent was grasping the January air while Bleddyn was whisping himself towards the England line.
On the twenty-five line he -passed to Thomas who drew the full bask and passed to Ken Jones. Ken Jones can run as fast oir a Rugby field as be can when on the track he is sprinting in the Olympic Games. He has an experienced head —for this was his twenty-seventh consecutive appearance for Wales. But as Thomas's perfect pass came to him, Ken Jones lifted that experienced head, dropped the pass, and gave away a certain try and all hope of victory. I could have cried. Thousands of Welshman did, not from bitterness, but just from sadness that this one last flash from their golden lad could not have brought one last glorious triumph before the post-war glory of Welsh rugger crumbled to dust.
I look back now to that moment at 2.44 p.m. when silence and stillness pervaded the field, when the bandmaster raised his baton and the crowd began to sing. I wish that when the last notes had died away we could have converted the cricket notice "No further play. Rain" into "No further singing. Rugby" and left it at that.
Previous page
