While there are still far too many people who continue to deny the existence of rugby league, many of you will know that St.Helens moved into a new stadium for the start of the 2012 Super League season.
Langtree Park (so named after the company responsible for it's construction, to the ongoing dismay of those of us hoping to visit Alex Murphy Stadium) officialy opened with the pre-season friendly with Widnes on January 20. Despite the historic significance of this 'Karalius Cup' clash (some things are named after things of value), I have to confess that I was not there that night. We have long since passed the stage when pre-season friendlies could expect to have my attention. I have spent too many freezing cold Boxing Day afternoons watching scratch Saints and Wigan sides go at each other-half-heartedly in the immediate aftermath of the switch to summer rugby for that. Yet when the real business started with the opening home Super League fixture against Salford City Reds on February 10, I was there. And I shall be there for all other home encounters in Super League this year, the move to Langtree having inspired me to purchase a season ticket for the first time in my life.
You didn't need one at Knowsley Road. They just let you in free if you happened to be the proud owner of a wheelchair, or could at least make yourself look like you had some sort of physical impairment which might stop you from standing on the Popular side singing 'Annie's Song'. Frankly, having experienced the first two Super League games of 2012 at Langtree Park I can confirm categorically and without hesitation that I would rather pay. Gone are the days of arriving half cut from the Bird I'th Hand 10 minutes before kick-off to find the wheelchair users' area jam packed. When Wigan visited the place would be two or three deep like the bar at Lowies on 10p-a-pint night all those years ago. I missed one such derby encounter, having decided that I was not prepared to sit behind a bunch of pie-eating grass-watchers who had been there since the last time Wigan visited. I ended up back at the Bird I'th Hand as it happens, and the remainder of that day is something of a blur. What I can tell you is that we won 41-26, the much maligned Danny Arnold scored a hat-trick and blew a memorable kiss to the Sky cameras, and the view from the television in the bar was much better than I could have hoped for had I stayed.
No such problems at Langtree Park. My season ticket cost me £260 (that's £20 a game for those of you paying upwards of £45 to watch Dirk Kuyt or Michael Carrick) and places me at the very top of the North Stand, level with the 30-metre line nearest the East Stand. I have frequented many rugby league grounds over the years and can assure you that this view is the equal of anything I have experienced. In addition, the more modest 18,000 capacity negates any fear of games taking place in a half-empty stadium as they have been known to do at the bigger football stadia used by Wigan and Huddersfield.
And so to Salford. It's the second game of the season for both, the Saints having held off London Broncos by 10 in the capital a week previous, while the Reds had lost the first game in their new City of Salford Stadium to the Castleford Tigers. Those results have made Saints an even bigger favourite to win, adding to the pressure already on them in front of what lazy journalists call a 'bumper' crowd. You know the opening of the new stadium has made a difference when you consider that there are 15,500 people in attendance. Never before have I seen such a crowd for the visit of a proud but ultimately middling and limited entity as Salford. Ordinarily the most notable aspect of a visit from Salford is their penchant for singing 'if you all hate scousers clap your hands' at us, to which some of the less witty Saints spectators like to respond by either joining in with the singing or clapping their hands when prompted. Not me. I have lots of nice friends from Liverpool. Well, three or four maybe.
I'm with Emma. It would be rude for her not to take the opportunity to visit since my ticket allows me one companion for free. The steward on the door think she's my helper. Of course he does. You probably do. Anyway I know this because when the senile old goat sends her through the turnstile to swipe in he tries to manhandle me. "I will push!, thankyou!" I say three times before he gets the message and takes his grubby hands off me. Emma's still got my ticket on her, but another steward lets me through a large gate anyway and onto the main concourse. It's lucky there are pictures of former Saints players with accompanying information to occupy me because it is some time before Emma gets through the turnstile to join me. The card won't swipe, she explains. Typical Saints. New stadium, great players, great history, but can they print out a swipe card with a barcode on it? Can they shite.
A little lost, we set off in search of the lift to get to what we know is our speck on the platform. Fortunately, I spy a familiar face out of the corner of my eye. It's Jocky, the glass collecter from the Springy and he is wearing a luminous steward's jacket. Immediately behind him is the lift. That's handy. We hadn't thought it through, and ended up coming back down 10 minutes later for a cup of tea. Tea drinking, or at least tea-purchasing, is something which was not particularly practical at Knowsley Road but tonight it is essential. It's several degrees below as the powers that be continue to ignore the folly of starting a summer sport in the first week of February. Are we a summer sport or not? It's a debate for another time, perhaps, but I'm bloody cold. So tea it is, even at £1.50.
This being an historic occasion the pre-game build up is ratcheted up a few levels from the usual fair of academy games or out-of-work tribute singers. To mark the first league game at Langtree Park there is a parade of former Saints greats, with guest of honour Tom Van Vollenhoven walking out to greet the players and present the match ball. For the uninitiated, Van Vollenhoven scored 392 tries in 409 Saints appearances between 1957 and 1968. I'm pleased to see two Thatto Heathers in Murphy and Keiron Cunningham cutting the ribbon in ceremonial fashion. In all it is conducted in a far more dignified manner than we have any right to expect from a club with the repuation for PR disaster like St.Helens.
Salford are all decked out in green which, while not exactly one for the purists, is at least eye-catching. Saints have a couple of new signings on show in Anthony Laffranchi and Lance Hohaia, while Josh Perry's return from injury feels like another new import. At least before the game, as in truth the big Aussie continues his struggle to make a real impact on Super League. Indeed, the front row is the glaring soft-spot for Saints as they struggle early on. At 10-0 down thoughts go back to the loss of James Graham to the Canterbury Bulldogs in the off-season. This is just the sort of situation in which the flame-haired prop is required. Instead the physical lift is coming from Sia Soliola, a man who seems capable of making me hear his tackles even from our elevated position. Sia's all action, but he's not blessed so much with subtlety or out-and-out pace. Despite his limitations and because of his endeavours, it is Soliola who forces his way over for the try that reduces the arrears to just six as the teams turn round at half-time.
In the second half Saints take over. Andrew Dixon has been on the fringes of the Saints first team for some time now, but here he produces a sensational two-try display in the second forty. James Roby has been the best player in Super League for about four years, and his influence grows as he also gets on the scoresheet along with Franics Meli, John Wilkin and Laffranchi. Despite the absence of regular goal-kicker Jamie Foster, another kicking winger Tommy Makinson adds on five goals. Each time he lands one I will the stadium announcer to say Tommy M..........Martyn!!!! But he never does. He's a professional, you see. In the end Saints' 38-10 victory is all the more satisfying for their achievement of having held the Reds scoreless in the second half. Reds coach Phil Vievers is a former Saints full-back who regularly turned up in the same town centre watering holes as this writer during his time at Knowsley Road. He was happier then than he will be now, but his team have come up against a superior set of players helped by that bumper crowd I mentioned.
The walk over the illuminated bridge back into town is cold and slow, and there's a man walking not a metre in front of me who keeps shouting out bad jokes and laughing at himself. He's probably spent too much time in the Langtree Park refreshment areas, but I can forgive him his inanity. He was never going to spoil this night. May there be many more like it.
I did mention that I have seen the first two games of the season at Langtree didn't I? The second was Catalan, and Catalan is another story all by itself......
Monday 27 February 2012
Thursday 5 January 2012
Clash Of The Codes
I said I wouldn't do this. On November 17 I declared all Stephen Orford-related blogs closed. Ended. Finished. Concluded. Ex-blogs. But........
Today a colleague sent me an article from the Daily Telegraph about rugby league. Before I even looked at it I asked 'is this more pro-union propoganda?'. I knew the answer well before it came. This particular colleague is as pro-union as John Inverdale and David Campese but not, as it turns out, as pro-union as the author of this repugnant bile that the DT saw fit to publish on it's website.
If I told you the piece was entitled 'Rugby League Is Not A Sport, It's An Atrocity', you would easily see where it was headed. Written by the amusingly named Paul Pottinger (is that made up?) the general thrust of the piece is that rugby league is not worth the proverbial wank and that it exists only in 'grimy northern towns' and 'rustic French villages'.
Ignoring Pottinger's lazy stereotyping I'm tempted to ask, 'so what?'. Does everything have to be popular in Wales and Argentina to have any value? So rugby league is not global. Nor are American Football or baseball but they get along just fine. If I have a criticism of rugby league it is that we continue to try and ram it down the throats of comitted philistines in South Wales, London and France. Should the pro-union scrum-lovers actually bother to sit down and watch a game of rugby league they will soon deduce that it is a pulsating, all-action collision sport played by proper athletes. Those actually within rugby union appear to have cottoned on to this fact, employing many of rugby league's finest in coaching roles and persistently sniffing around league's best players with their huge sacks. Of cash.
And while we're at it let's talk about rugby union shall we? From a style point of view. If I can be so bold as to use the word 'style' in the same sentence as 'rugby union'. Not sure I can. Pottinger describes rugby league as a game in which the players run 'strict linear patterns until a mistake is made and one falls over the other's line'. The point hasn't been missed this badly since Richard Keys and Andy Gray said 'but we weren't on air!'.
On the other hand, rugby union at the top level can only look on jealously at anyone who attempts to run with the ball, whether in strict linear lines or otherwise. Running and passing at the kind of speeds employed by rugby league players is too great a proposition athletically for the 15-a-side men, who choose instead to lump the ball 60 yards up the field into touch. In that sense, union wins hands down in terms of audience participation. If you're heading to a union game keep your wits about you because you know that at any time the ball WILL be hurtling towards you following one of the many pointless, aimless punts. And then you'll get to see a line-out. Oh the joy. The joy of seeing two short, pig-like skinheads lift their taller, jug-eared team-mate up into the air to compete for the right to bat the ball down to the waiting scrum half. A scrum-half who is simply chomping at the bit to knock it on a dozen or so times before finally executing a 10-yard pass to the fly-half (what we sensible folk call a stand-off). And then another kick to touch.
So dull and without athletic merit is rugby union that it had to increase the number of points awarded for a try from four to five, a last-gasp, bended-knee plea to it's exponents to please, please, just occasionally, try running with the ball. It hasn't really worked, nor has the similarly desperate innovation of awarding bonus points in many competitions for teams scoring more than three or four tries. In league, if you score less than three or four tries in a game you have either had a real shocker or the defence you have come up against has played to a very high level indeed.
Pottinger refers to rugby league scrums as 'flagrant, non-agressive pacts'. And? Good. Who wants to see a proper scrum anyway? Is there anything more dull than watching huge men grab hold of each other, pushing, shoving and farting until someone locates the ball and boots it into touch again? Or worse still, have the referee spot some infringement, unfathomable to even the keenest union afficionados, leading to ANOTHER shot at goal from where union gets around 80-85% of it's turgid scoreboard action. Get rid of them. Just get the fecking game started again and get a few bigger blokes out of the way so we can see some handling skills.
The Six Nations (formerly the Five Nations but union is global nowadays. Shit, but global) starts soon. I'll be out getting my genitals removed without the aid of anaesthetic or listening to the full back catalogue of Jedward.
EPILOGUE
It has been pointed out to me by my union-loving friend that Paul Pottinger's article did not come from the Daily Telegraph, but instead was spewed out by The Telegraph in Australia. Sincere apologies for this factual error. What can I tell you except that I knocked this up in 45 minutes when I had finished work yesterday? To date, this is the only inaccuracy in the piece that my union-loving friend has found. It seems the rest is inarguable fact.
Today a colleague sent me an article from the Daily Telegraph about rugby league. Before I even looked at it I asked 'is this more pro-union propoganda?'. I knew the answer well before it came. This particular colleague is as pro-union as John Inverdale and David Campese but not, as it turns out, as pro-union as the author of this repugnant bile that the DT saw fit to publish on it's website.
If I told you the piece was entitled 'Rugby League Is Not A Sport, It's An Atrocity', you would easily see where it was headed. Written by the amusingly named Paul Pottinger (is that made up?) the general thrust of the piece is that rugby league is not worth the proverbial wank and that it exists only in 'grimy northern towns' and 'rustic French villages'.
Ignoring Pottinger's lazy stereotyping I'm tempted to ask, 'so what?'. Does everything have to be popular in Wales and Argentina to have any value? So rugby league is not global. Nor are American Football or baseball but they get along just fine. If I have a criticism of rugby league it is that we continue to try and ram it down the throats of comitted philistines in South Wales, London and France. Should the pro-union scrum-lovers actually bother to sit down and watch a game of rugby league they will soon deduce that it is a pulsating, all-action collision sport played by proper athletes. Those actually within rugby union appear to have cottoned on to this fact, employing many of rugby league's finest in coaching roles and persistently sniffing around league's best players with their huge sacks. Of cash.
And while we're at it let's talk about rugby union shall we? From a style point of view. If I can be so bold as to use the word 'style' in the same sentence as 'rugby union'. Not sure I can. Pottinger describes rugby league as a game in which the players run 'strict linear patterns until a mistake is made and one falls over the other's line'. The point hasn't been missed this badly since Richard Keys and Andy Gray said 'but we weren't on air!'.
On the other hand, rugby union at the top level can only look on jealously at anyone who attempts to run with the ball, whether in strict linear lines or otherwise. Running and passing at the kind of speeds employed by rugby league players is too great a proposition athletically for the 15-a-side men, who choose instead to lump the ball 60 yards up the field into touch. In that sense, union wins hands down in terms of audience participation. If you're heading to a union game keep your wits about you because you know that at any time the ball WILL be hurtling towards you following one of the many pointless, aimless punts. And then you'll get to see a line-out. Oh the joy. The joy of seeing two short, pig-like skinheads lift their taller, jug-eared team-mate up into the air to compete for the right to bat the ball down to the waiting scrum half. A scrum-half who is simply chomping at the bit to knock it on a dozen or so times before finally executing a 10-yard pass to the fly-half (what we sensible folk call a stand-off). And then another kick to touch.
So dull and without athletic merit is rugby union that it had to increase the number of points awarded for a try from four to five, a last-gasp, bended-knee plea to it's exponents to please, please, just occasionally, try running with the ball. It hasn't really worked, nor has the similarly desperate innovation of awarding bonus points in many competitions for teams scoring more than three or four tries. In league, if you score less than three or four tries in a game you have either had a real shocker or the defence you have come up against has played to a very high level indeed.
Pottinger refers to rugby league scrums as 'flagrant, non-agressive pacts'. And? Good. Who wants to see a proper scrum anyway? Is there anything more dull than watching huge men grab hold of each other, pushing, shoving and farting until someone locates the ball and boots it into touch again? Or worse still, have the referee spot some infringement, unfathomable to even the keenest union afficionados, leading to ANOTHER shot at goal from where union gets around 80-85% of it's turgid scoreboard action. Get rid of them. Just get the fecking game started again and get a few bigger blokes out of the way so we can see some handling skills.
The Six Nations (formerly the Five Nations but union is global nowadays. Shit, but global) starts soon. I'll be out getting my genitals removed without the aid of anaesthetic or listening to the full back catalogue of Jedward.
EPILOGUE
It has been pointed out to me by my union-loving friend that Paul Pottinger's article did not come from the Daily Telegraph, but instead was spewed out by The Telegraph in Australia. Sincere apologies for this factual error. What can I tell you except that I knocked this up in 45 minutes when I had finished work yesterday? To date, this is the only inaccuracy in the piece that my union-loving friend has found. It seems the rest is inarguable fact.
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