Picture this: A wave of 74,000 people flowing towards a sporting monolith, vibrating with anticipation for the battle to come. I am in the middle of this human sea, snuggled into my duffel coat and red and green scarf, clinging to my Dad’s arm as we excitedly absorb the sights and smells of one of our favourite places on the planet. It is central Cardiff, and Wales are about to take on England in the final game of the Six Nations 2013.
This was one of the best days of my life. Every year, my Dad and I make the five hour journey to our country’s capital to be a part of sporting history and, win or lose, there is never a dull moment. But what makes it so special?
The Setting? In my more whimsical moments I like to think of the national stadium as an architectural version of the dragon on our flag, from the roar that emanates from the bowels of the building during game time, to the fire-breathing flame-throwers on the pitch as the players line up for battle. In our modern day colosseum, the brave Welsh gladiators take on the English lions, only with less death...hopefully.
The Game? A good game of rugby can be fast-paced, adrenaline fuelled and awe inspiring. It takes baffling levels of skill as well as strength and determination to win and The Six Nations tournament ensures five of the best opposition in the Northern Hemisphere.
The People? When I was a teenager, my Dad took me to Old Trafford to watch a Premiership football game and I really enjoyed myself. But the memory is blurry at best. However, my first international rugby game often runs through my mind in vivid detail. Time for a rather sweeping generalisation: rugby supporters are nicer than their footballing counterparts. I once saw an interview with a footballer at his first rugby game and he was astonished by the concept of supporters from both England and Wales happily mixing together in the stands and with beer added to the equation as well! I can only imagine how many police officers would be needed if this were the case for a football meet.
The Men? Real men who, while footballers are diving and rolling around on the floor because someone almost tapped their ankle, are being dragged off to the blood bin by their physios to sew their ears back on. I am not ashamed to admit this: since I first saw Jonny Wilkinson taking a penalty kick, my perspective of the opposite sex altered irrevocably. From then on my head has more often been turned by beards and brawn rather than skinheads and tattoos. But that’s another blog…
They say that rugby is a thug’s game played by gentlemen, but I say it is a thug’s game supported by gentlemen (and gentle-ladies) as well. My favourite memory, aside from Wales winning the 2013 game against the English, was in an Italian restaurant during the 2012 tournament. Unprecedented sub zero temperatures had frozen the Stade de France and disappointed French and Irish supporters had hopped on the Eurostar to join in with the Cardiff festivities, where Wales were playing Scotland. After the game, a few of us found ourselves in an Italian restaurant. During our meal, a French contingent struck up a resounding rendition of the Marseillaise. The table behind us immediately stood up and joined in, as did three tables of Frenchmen upstairs. Meanwhile, Italian, Irish, Scottish and Welsh rugby fans energetically applauded and there was an almost tangible atmosphere of international camaraderie in the room. In a world where the news is overwhelmed by accounts of violent discord between nations, I count myself very lucky to have been present at such a poignantly integrative moment.
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