The Welsh Match
BY BERNARD DARWIN.
IS it better to watch a match when you care dreadfully who wins or when you are impartially interested ? I have often asked myself that question and answered it in different ways according to my mood. Before going to Twickenham last Saturday I answered it in favour of impartiality. The University match had been altogether too poignant. Now here was England v. Wales. It would no doubt be very interesting ; other people would writhe in anguish and wave hats in ecstasy ; I would sit aloof and tranquil like a god on the heights of Stand X, enjoying, appraising, but not caring.
That was what I said to myself, but in my heart I knew that it was false. Sooner or later the quarter of a Welshman in me—a little fellow but a tempestuous one—would overpower the more stolid English three- quarters. Ages ago Newport in all its pride and its stripes of blue and yellow had come down to play Cambridge ; my eyes had beheld the great A. J. Gould, and T. W. Pearson and F. H. Dauncey as well. They had beaten the University as well they might, and I had prayed that they should, feeling a traitor but glorying in my treason. The same thing would happen this time. If anyone played the Men of Harlech I knew I should be undone and even Land of our Fathers would probably be too much for me. As I came through the gates a cheerful, elderly, well- lunched Welshman, with his voice lilting up at the end of his sentence, was shouting to a younger acquaint- ance in a red beret, " Now don't you get too excited." What good advice, but how impossible to follow ! I should get too excited and sure enough the moment the red jerseys came on to the field I did so and remained in a pitiable state till the end of the match.
Yet it was worth it a hundred times over, if only for the moment when Morley twisted his way over to give Wales the lead, and my hat rocked perilously on its aged brim. On the way out, as we were all being tossed hither and thither like corks, a surge of the crowd threw against me a friend who remarked coldly, " Rather a Poor show, wasn't it ? " Well, he used to play Rugby and I never did, but there are occasions when ignorance really is bliss. There were, I suppose, all sorts of mistakes, and the inordinate number of penalty kicks (heaven forbid that I should criticize a referee) somewhat spoilt the match as a spectacle, but it was magnificently exciting.
To me, who am not impartial, it seems a fair if rather paradoxical verdict that Wales were very unlucky not to win, and that it was their own fault. They scored their eleven points by two excellent tries, one of which was turned into a goal, and a goal from a mark. All these points were well and truly earned, and they ought to have had two more if Powell, with an easy place kick, had not thrown up his head like a man who fluffs a mashie shot into a bunker in front of his nose. England's eleven points, on the other hand, were to some extent at least given to them. They scored two goals from penalties, though it must be added that each of Black's kicks was a perfectly glorious one, and their try appeared the result of a sudden fit of lunacy on the part of a Welshman who threw the ball wildly from touch right in front of his own goal-posts. Of course, England had its bad luck and its missed chances too. Black deserved a third goal when he hit the post with yet another gorgeous kick, and a fine run by Burland seemed certain to end in a try. Yet, striking a balance of "ifs and ans," Wales surely ought to have won.
The second half was one long agony. No wonder that there came great swirls and heavings in the crowd where the red berets were gathered the thickest. At first Eng- land, with a lead of two points and the wind behind them, seemed sure to win, and hope was nearly dead. It never really revived in my breast, even though Wales was doing its share of attacking. They would press, I said dismally, but they would not score. Time went on till there could not be much left, and the Welsh backs began to throw the ball about almost desperately. It was the forwards, however, who with a rush got close to the line. There was a wild struggle and England cleared. Back came the ball again, and then in the twinkling of an eye someone passed inwards to Morley, and he wriggled across to be patted and hugged by his fellows. That was the consummation of a fine uphill fight. Bassett, safest of policemen, who should be made an inspector, kicked the goal, and there was nothing to do but hang on for three minutes. At this moment I said to the nice, placid Englishman who was my companion : " They won't win. They'll do some insane thing yet." The whistle went. Black kicked his goal and the cup was dashed from our lips. I nearly stamped on my hat, and I wish I had.
When more frenzied feelings have died down this match will probably be remembered for three great kicks : two by Black and one by Powell. Each had its peculiar picturesqueness. Powell's kick from a mark in the first half though down-wind had an up-wind quality. The ball fizzed low through the air as if boring its way into its enemy's heart ; it carried on and on and took everybody by surprise. Black's kick in the last minute was from much the same spot, but it was a typical high down-wind shot with the ball- " Sailing with supreme dominion Through the azure fields of air."
His kick in the first half was the most skilful of all, for it was against the wind from far out, and he had a very narrow goal to aim at ; it was beautifully and horribly precise. These Oxford place-kickers have made me suffer much in the last two months, for did not Henley rob Cambridge of the match with an equally splendid kick? But mine is a magnanimous nature ; I forgive them.
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