Well Done the East
By TREVOR PHILPOTT
LOCALLY they are known as the Saints. But until you have looked down the row of open-mouthed, mud-spattered faces, until you have seen the gigantic, scrum-capped figures of Bob Hamp and Dick Hawkes as they stand, arms hanging limply down, shoulders hunched ready for the leap, you can never really appreciate the irony of that. At full strength the Northampton pack is probably the most efficient in England. But it is not renowned for its gentle ways. There were six of these redoubtable forwards in the East Midlands' side which waited at Franklin's Gardens last Saturday for the final of the English County Championship ; there was a seasoning of two Bedford players. They made no Claim to being invincible ; but defeat on this ground before this crowd was not to be thought about.
For the East Midlands is the most localised of all the county teams. Its players are drawn entirely from two rival clubs, Northampton and Bedford. The towns are rich in rugger tradi- tion, small enough for every schoolgirl to know the players' Christian names, small enough for every schoolboy to dream of being in the team one day. The Rugby club bears the town's prestige with its name, and even those few unfortunates who know nothing of the game feel a twinge of pride or shame at the published result. One could hardly expect, the Midlanders ruminated con- descendingly, an over-populated, soccer-conscious, patch-up of a county like Middlesex to feel the same way about things. Their county team was made up of members from a dozen Rugby clubs, none of them representing anywhere in particular. In London the accent is on the club, not on the Rugby. Nobody knows what the players do from Monday to Friday ; they appear at week-ends to play before a few interested sweethearts, friends and ex-members. Admittedly there are hundreds of players to choose from, and their team is sprinkled with internationally famous names. But it's teamwork that counts, and the will to win, and these gentlemanly forwards would never see the ball. Confident, spider-like, the East's pack waited. It was only when the Middlesex side trooped out for the photograph that everyone realised that Grimsdell, nearer seven feet than six, Shields, built with the solidity of an upturned coal-hod, Steeds the international hooker, Gilbert-Smith. Wilson and the rest were going to make a singularly indigestible fly. Bin. there were four bewilder edt gentlemen in the grandstand who were to take little delight in this impending battle of giants. Their attention was fixed behind the scrummages. Three places in the England threequarter-line were still occupied by the versa- tile but unreliable Mr. A. N. Other ; and by Monday] he had to be replaced by players with a better chance of getting through the Scotland defence.. For the selectors, however, the Northamp- tonians professed no sympathy at all. Men who kept White on the touchline while England lost match after match must have picked the teams with a pin. Still, Woodward, Boobyer and Agar of Middlesex. and Towell and Oakley of Bedford, knew that there was more than a victory to be earned.
All this does not alter the fact that the performance of the half-backs invariably settles the issue. What a contrast they made! Scrum-half for Middlesex was Sykes, of Wasps and England, pale, sleek, smoothly efficient, with England's renowned Nim Hall outside him, a dashing throughbred of Rugby football. Opposing them were the Bedford pair—Fletcher, his forehead permanently folded in a frown of concentration, his black hair falling over his temples, and " Tich." Haynes, whose prominent head and tiny frame made him look like some diminutive analytical-chemist who would work out each movement on a slide-rule.
It was Haynes who kicked qff. Immediately the rugged might of the Midland forwards swept Middlesex back. Hawkes, Hamp and Bance dominated the line-outs. Thrust after thrust en- dangered the Middlesex line, and time after time the crashing tackles of Agar and Boobyer saved the situation. There was no respite. The clearances of Hall and Sykes were countered by masterly Tctical 'kicks from Haynes and Fletcher. Grimsdell, Gilbert-Smith and Shields strove like supermen to stem the avalanche, but they were overwhelmed. The East's international centres were getting the ball so often that it was obvious that they must score soon ; and after thirteen minutes Towell broke through and MacNally scored wide out. Haynes made a grand conversion, and a runaway victory seemed possible. But some- how Middlesex hung on until half-time, gradually becoming more effective.
Even so, when a brilliant interception by White led to another try, it seemed that the game must be over. But it was then that Middlesex realised that they were a team at last, a team which cared tremendously about winning this match. Hall, Agar and Boobyer made dazzling runs, and both Sullivan and Woodward were brought down within a few feet of the Midland line. The loose scrums and line-outs became confusions of flailing limbs, like some fantastic battle between a score of octopuses. The ball bobbed about like an onion on the top of a boiling stewpot ; but at last it was coming out on the Middleiex side. Hall and his threequarters made raid after raid, but the Midlanders threw their tired bodies nobly into the tackle. Twice the bulky Wood- ward was dragged down just in time, and twice the uncanny positioning of White saved dangerous situations. The forward exchanges became more and more furious. But the players have no need to excuse themselves. There is no more effective justice than that administered in the scrum, and it is not a girl's game. Middlesex fought to the end, and the last kick of the match was a desperate fly kick into touch from under Agar's fingers. So teamwork did win after all, though not even a Northamp- tonian could be blasé about this victory. The Londoners had taken it magnificently. There was one spectator who claimed to have seen a better game, but he was a very old man.
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