Ok, I was mistaken. The match against England was a grudge match in theory, but this weekend the match against Scotland was a grudge match in practice. 19-18. Good lord. When I think of it, and picture it in my mind what comes to the front is a scrum. A scrum is when the players all huddle together and lock shoulders with the opposing team and try to shift them back. Not a lot of scrums in the match (it’s a resolution for something, can’t remember what) but those they had were solid and barely moved an inch.
So I met Joe at Slattery’s, my local because I noticed as I was passing that the new owner had mounted a large flat screen facing the terrace and we could watch the match in the sun. Saturday was the first real day of spring, sunny and warm; it was also the first official day I didn’t need a jacket! Whee!! Well, for a few short hours anyway. Joe kindly loaned me his jacket at half time, and the owner scooted everyone up close to the windows so I could be under the heat lamps he turned on. Good man.
When I arrived, the pub was empty. When Joe arrived, we were two of seven people watching the match. By halftime, the pub was packed and so was the terrace. However, a group of girlfriends showed up to gossip and drink lattes from next door while hanging out with their men and the owner was less than happy with them. Which I can fully understand. They were using his facilities but not supporting him. And after the match, I understood more of why he was upset.
Ireland was going for the Triple Crown, their third in four years and no I don’t understand what that means. But it’s important, evidently more important than winning the 6 nations tournament, and it’s all the sports casters could talk about. But Scotland was coming off a rather stunning loss to France, so it was going to be a hard fought match on both sides. And wow, was it. Actually, what I could see, now that I’m less than an expert but far from a novice rugby spectator, is that this was a very dirty match. Scotland plays rough and not in the nice way. Punching, stomping, there were several very sketchy tackles, one erupting in the Irish captain starting a brawl. Actually, there were 3 incidents, which is very unusual for rubgy and for the captain to start one, well… that got the whole terrace asking ‘what the hell is going on?’ Upon the replay, however, the whole terrace was heard to say ‘Oh yeah, that’s not right; he should get sent off’ which he wasn’t. Neither was the guy who, at the last possible second, choked Ronan O’Gara, Irish high scorer, to the point he turned blue and the Irish team was frantically waving the trainers on the field instead of celebrating their victory. Shocking behaviour. He’s fine but really… is that anyway to lose? No. And the thing that really bothered me was the fact that 5 minutes later, the tv panned to the Irish captain coming down from the upper tier of the stadium with the triple crown silver platter/trophy thing in hand. There was no ceremony. They didn’t even show him being handed the damn thing by Princess Anne. She was on hand to award it but couldn’t be bothered to come out of the stands, congratulate the players and hand over a hard won trophy. He had to haul his ass up to the stands and get it from here, while his teammate was on the field not able to breathe. Now, here’s the thing. I’ve seen the brits idea of ceremony. It defines over the top. I watched the hours of coverage when England handed over Hong Kong in 1999. They ceded a nation with more grace than a Rugby match. And believe me, those hours of viewing pleasure were just slightly above the boredom that was the Danish Crown Princes’ wedding coverage. That was days of ‘oh look, some one arrived in a car. Nope, that’s the florist.’ So the idea that there wasn’t any type of ceremony to honour the accomplishment of winning a Triple Crown just annoys me. I’m starting to understand why there is so much unified animosity toward them. Perhaps I’ve been training with the Irish a little too much.
After the match, we stepped in the bar to celebrate with the rest of the patrons when the owner came over the loud speaker and announced a Triple Crown celebration in the main bar (there are always many bars in an Irish Pub but the main one is always the largest) and would everyone join us for a champagne celebration? Yes please! Whee! The entire bar staff started passing out bottles of champagne and glasses. They actually had more champagne than needed. We cracked open the bottles, we toasted with people we did not know and then he cleared the bar for the entertainment; belly dancers. 3 of them, in orange, white and green. It was a belly dancing tri-color on the bar. And it was hysterical because just after all the men took out their camera phones (and there were a lot of them) all the latte women stomped out angry, but not before drinking some free champagne. I thought it was funny. The girls danced for 3 songs and then were escorted safely from the wolf calls. Boys are funny; a lot of reviewing of photos all afternoon. They weren't that cute and one was even wearing a sweater. What belly dancer wears a sweater?!
The Italian match started next and we all resumed drinking and celebrating when the owner came back over the loudspeaker again, and announced a give away of jerseys at the bar, come get ‘em. He had the entire bar staff change uniforms to these violent yellow jerseys. I swear I was in a musical of some odd variety. He knows how to throw a good party though and he knows how to keep people in his bar drinking; it stayed full for the entire Wales v Italy match.
Which was an odd match to watch. Italy isn’t known for rugby and there is a reason. Several really, but mostly they’re a soccer nation. Fair enough, but watching them play was just… umm… I don’t know how to describe it. They have less of a powerhouse style and more of a scramble style. Absolutely no control. But what can you expect when they have naked women on their jerseys? You know the pointy woman on the mudflaps of so many 18 wheelers? Put them back to back and slap them on the right shoulder and you’ve got their uniform. Ah, they are Italian, an oversexed nation if I’ve even met one. Case in point: Italian player down on the field, trainer runs out to help. Next thing we see, player is on his back, and the trainer is straddled over him, pulling his hips up and down repeatedly. The entire bar cracked up and all I could think was I need to know what sort of injury is that was so I can inflict it on my next boyfriend.
So we sipped the last of our champagne, making us a bit giddy, and watched the Italian scramble. It was a good way to spend the afternoon. Can’t wait to see what he does for the next match.
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