After arriving in England back in May, my wife and I rode in
a shuttle-van from Manchester Airport to our hotel. I listened to the radio as commentators
discussed the big name stars playing for teams of such large cities as Liverpool
and Manchester. As our driver unloaded
our luggage, I asked what sport he was so interested in. “Football,” he replied.
I blinked, making the mental adjustment. “Ah.
Soccer.”
“No,” he replied.
“You’re in England now, mate.
“It’s Football.”
In the hotel lobby, as we lined up to check in, I asked how
big a sport football was in England. He
went on for about five minutes, telling me about the various leagues and
divisions, the latest results, attendance in stadiums, and how English fervor
compared to that of other countries. I
smiled and nodded, bathed in the backsplash from his enthusiasm for football. Sure, I had played soccer in
my youth. But in the United States, it
was little more than a game children played at school. Several times, San Diego had a professional team, but each championship-winning team went bankrupt from a lack of
interest.
I find Rugby equally mystifying. I had watched highlights on TV before we
left, just to pick up an impression of this English game, and soon learned that
there were several variations on the game.
The main reason I did this was because of a book. In the late Reginald Hill’s “Dalziel and
Pascoe” series, Superintendent Andy Dalziel is a hardcore Rugby fan. In his first novel, A Clubbable Woman, he and
Sergeant Peter Pascoe investigate the death of a small-town femme fatale. For the most part, the two draw their
suspects from a local rugby club.
In the novel, Rugby was the club members' religion, and the club defined their lives, both business-wise and socially. There was no greater sin, it seemed, than for
a member to miss a scheduled game, or fail to complete any of his commitments
to the club. The members’ passion and commitment
made the club the beating heart of community life. One’s status rose and fell with regard to
what happened on the field or in the clubhouse.
I had thought that I might find myself in a position to watch a local
match at some point during our journey through Yorkshire. It would have been interesting to gain some
first-hand knowledge of the game, and see how reality compares with the
depiction in Reginald Hill’s novel.
Sadly, that opportunity never materialized.
Finally, another English sport I find mystifying is
Cricket. It seemed as though we could never
find any TV programs that interested us while staying in Holmfirth, so we
watched Cricket while we ate dinner each evening. Usually, I can pick up the rhythm (and reason
behind) a game from watching it, but not this time. Even after a few evenings, I still had no
better grasp of it than I did of Whackbat, the game played by the characters in the Wes Anderson film “The Fantastic Mr. Fox.” I was reminded of Eric’s description of the
game in an episode of “Lovejoy,” when he’s impersonating a member of the
aristocracy. It went something along the
lines of “So people go in, and then this happens, and your people go in, and
then….” Well, you get the idea. Still, at least I got to watch several matches held at
Lords Cricket Ground. That's the one thing that will make Richard Devere take a break from running his vast grocery empire to watch in the sitcom “To the Manor Born.”
I had hoped that my trip to England might enlighten me in
regard to these three mystifying English sports. Still, I suppose that gives me more to discover on my next visit. Right, mate?
Dragon Dave
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