It was my mum's ingenious idea that I go to the rugby match with dad. She gleefully suggested it one Tuesday evening - without warning - and I couldn’t think of a suitable excuse to get out of it. It's not that I dislike the sport (although I do a bit), it's just I hated the idea of freezing outside whilst watching men frolic around a pitch, playing a game I do not understand.
In typical dad-fashion, we left Islington 3 ½ hours before kick-off and arrived exceptionally early. Somehow surprised by this, dad suggested that we go to a café for brunch.
Dad sat proudly in his rugby polo, across the rickety table that was threatening to send the baked beans flying, and seemed somewhat optimistic about how well Ealing would do, despite a 60–0 loss last week. It was perhaps too pessimistic of me to retort it was a foregone conclusion.
The food was delicious: we both heartily ate our fry-ups and sent compliments to the chef. This was short lived however, because at ten to twelve I had to dash into the chemist to find some medicine after my greasy breakfast started to disagree with me. "It’s all part of the experience" Dad cheerfully claimed as I knocked back some Pepto-Bismol.
Finally arriving at the grounds with 30 mins to spare, we found our seats and drank our ciders. Yet within minutes of settling in, a rogue rugby ball spectacularly poleaxed my beverage and spilt the liquid everywhere. I was vexed: I had more than half left! But, I was slightly relieved that the ball didn't hit me square in the face. I cheered up somewhat when I (awkwardly) threw back the ball to a handsome rugby player, and tittered at his confusion as to why it was sticky. In an act of solace, a pissed woman gave me a flag that I did not want; I bequeathed it to dad, who enthusiastically waved it about.
I intended to read throughout the match but with the flying balls, I decided it would be best to pay attention. That, and the fact the music was loud and obnoxious: I wouldn't be able to concentrate anyway.
Five minutes to go before the kick-off and I was miserable: my backpack was already filthy and stank of cider, I had a bad stomach ache and cramp in my leg because the stadium seats are reminiscent of a cheap airline flight. But dad was happy.
The game began and somehow Ealing got seven points. Alas, I was looking in the wrong direction, but even if I did see what happened, I wouldn't have understood it.
Like Quakers at a prayer meeting, the fans suddenly felt the urge to speak their minds. They wooped, yelled and cheered on their team. Once one side started, others felt as if they had to retaliate and shout even louder - I went to the portaloo for a bit of peace and quiet.
I returned and actually surveyed the match, I thought I might as well. In an inexplicable twist of fate, as the game proceeded, I caught myself "Ooohing" and "Aaahhing" along with the crowd and frantically waving about the flag I took back from dad. I squawked so much I needed a tea for my voice.
I found the game to be very repetitive: the players would run to one side of the pitch and then repeat. When the ball soared into the air I had no idea where it would land, because as a spectator, you have no sense of proportions. This was quite amusing though as I would guess who would most likely catch it - nearly every time I was wrong. I also liked how the solid players skilfully side-stepped and twirled around each other: this reminded me of a Salsa I once saw on Strictly.
After a gruelling eighty minutes, the game finished. Ealing obviously lost but none of their supporters were devastated as it was "a good game". Dad and I drove back to London and headed towards the sanctuary of restaurants on Upper Street, where we would continue the Father's Day celebrations but on my turf.
My dad and I are like chalk and cheese, but it was great to see his love - no, obsession - of rugby in action. He was really in his element. But would I go to another game? Perhaps next Father’s Day...
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