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Musings of a Coach on the Waco Tournament Apologies to William Shakespeare (Play - Richard III) (Congratulations Matt Duncan for being the first response.. He won an English Rugby Calender) Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by these sons of Katy; And all the clouds that lour'd upon our squad In the generous embonpoint of the Gulf buried. Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths; Our bruised arms iced and recovered; Our stern alarums changed to merry e-mails, Our dreadful training to delightful handling. Grim-visaged scrimmage hath smooth'd their defensive lines; And now, instead of repetitive rucking drills, To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, They caper nimbly to the opposition try line To the lascivious pleasing of their coaches. But I, that am no longer shaped for sportive tricks, Nor made to court at squash within a looking-glass; I, that have been rudely stamped upon, and want for fitness To strut away from a wanton desperate tackle; I, that am now curtailed of youthful fair proportion, Cheated of feature by aging nature, Weary of eye, unfit, sent after my time Onto the pitch panting, scarce half fit, And that so lamely and unskilfully, That boys wander by me as I try to halt them; Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace, Have no delight to pass away the time, Unless to spy my shadow on the training pitch and descant on mine own deformity: And therefore, since I can no longer prove a player, To entertain these fair politically correct days, I am determined to prove a coach And hate the idle pleasures of a weekend. Drills have I developed, fixtures dangerous, By drunken prophecies, libels and dreams, To set the U13 squad against all in Waco, In competitive play the one against the other: And if the U13s be as true and just As I am subtle, scheming and tactical, March 6th shall they all be mew'd up, By a prophecy, which says that “K” of Texas’s clubs the victor shall be. Dive, thoughts, down to my soul: here An e-mail comes.
The Katy Rugby Club Deck of Cards
With apologies to just about everyone….
During the 2009 season, a bunch of young rugby players had been on a long training session on the outskirts of a small town Texas town.
It being 96 degrees, with humidity to match, a Coach commanded the boys to take a water break, and he told them that while they drank that they should look at their USA Rugby Players Manuals.
Those of the boys who had them, took them out, but, one boy did not have a USA Rugby player manual… He only had a deck of cards….. and so he spread them out on the artificial turf before him.
The Coach saw the cards and said, "Boy, put away those cards." And afterwards the Boy was taken away, and taken before the next Club Board meeting, and the Club President said…
"Hoots mon, and Och Aye the noo! Why did ye bring yon slip of a laddie before us, ye ken?"
And the Coach answered, "For playing cards during a training session!"
And the President, remembering he had lived in Texas for ten years said, "And what have you to say for yourself Son?"
"Much, Sir," replied the boy.
And the Club President said, "I hope so, for if not, the Club shall punish you more than any club member has ever been punished. We may even make you clean out the club trailer!"
The boy said, "Sir, I have been to every training session this season, but I have neither a USA Rugby Player Manual – nor a set of Neil Doherty “Play the Game My Way” Coaching leaflets, but I hope to satisfy you, Sir, with the purity of my intentions."
And with that, the boy started his story.
"You see Sir, when I look at the Ace, it reminds me that there is but one rugby club that I could consider being a member of and that is Katy Barbarians.
When I see the two I am reminded that a rugby team is split into two parts. Forwards: who through their hard work in scrum, lineout, ruck, and maul present quality ball on a plate for the backs. And the Backs that go and do something fancy, lose the ball, so that the forwards have to go and get it back again….
When I see the trey I think of the options that goes through the mind of our fly half whenever he gets the ball: to kick it, to pass it, or just to drop it…. sorry I meant “or to run with it”…..
And when I see the four I think of the beauty of the commands: “Crouch, touch, pause, engage…” For the forwards it is the signal of imminent battle, and for the backs it’s a signal to check their hair. Again.
When I see the five, I think of the five codes of football: Rugby Football, Association football – or Soccer, Gaelic Football, Australian Rules Football and, and, and,………..
When I see the six, I think of our blind side flanker trying to get to the ball in the loose,
When I see the seven, I think of the number on the sleeve of our shirts, the memory of Gareth Jones, and of the honor of pulling on the Club shirt.
When I see the eight, I think of the pack who provide our scrum half with such good ball….
So obviously when I see the nine, I think of….. no actually our blind side flanker upside down at the bottom of a ruck getting the ball…..again…
When I see the ten I think of our stand-off, or fly half, the tactical pivot of our team, and how he always wanted to be a forward…
When I see the Jack, the Nave, or the Devil, I think of the Woodlands.
When I see the Queen, I think of our Team Mum and the six thousand e-mails she sends out and receives for the team….. on a slow week.
When I see the King, I think of…. Tyler Haney, and the pride we shall all have when he runs out at Twickenham to play for the USA Eagles against England in the 2015 World Cup….. Especially if he gets us all free tickets….
When I count the number of spots in a deck of cards, I find 365, the number of days in a year.
There are 28 red cards, the number of stitches our coach got in his head in training for not coaching from the touchline.
There are 52 cards in my deck, the number of weeks I should be training in a year.
There are four suits, the number of weeks I should be training every month.
There are twelve picture cards, the number of times the Club has beaten the Woodlands this season.
There are thirteen tricks, the number of times we will have beaten them this time next week.
When I draw a ten from the pack, and add that to the number of cards in the deck I get sixty-two: the number of points the U19s put past the Woodlands in a single game last season.
I have zero jokers in my deck of cards, the number of points the Woodlands scored when the U19s put sixty two points past them last season.
So, you see Sir, my pack of cards serves me: as a Club Almanac, a coaching manual, it reminds me of the pride I have of playing for Katy Barbarians, and of the good things that hard training and playing the great game of rugby brings: like beating the Woodlands……. to nil….”
And friends, that story is true, I know, I was at that Board meeting.
Scrum-half GuideBy Ian Diddams(A prop, who has played scrum half twice and ended up in hospital once because of it)
The scrum half is in essence the lynch pin of a rugby team. It is his or her function to link the awesome power of the pack with the lithe, silky skills of the three-quarters (via a poncy character known as a fly-half, but that's another guide for another day). Unless you are playing in New Zealand and Australia, where he is the only half back, and links the awesome power of the pack with a couple of math graduates that think they are slightly better than him, but not as good as the players outside themselves. All very confusing. Which sums up scrum-half play in a nutshell. Should he pass? Should he kick? Should he run? And whichever tactic is chosen, he's guaranteed to upset at least two-thirds of his team as they would have done something completely different. (Especially the second rows, who never run anywhere anyway, can't pass for toffee, and wouldn't know how to kick if you asked them.) This is not helped by the schizophrenic nature of the scrum-half's position: is he a ninth forward, or an eighth back? Or perhaps a second ball (as often happens when playing behind a soundly-beaten pack)? Scrum halves are always Napoleonic in stature. That is, short little bastards always causing strife, occasionally one-handed. They are very stroppy characters, always looking for a fight, and when having found one drags the nearest prop in to sort it out for him. They must have an A-level in niggling, treading on their opponents' feet and kicking loose-head props in the shins when the ref isn't looking. Every scrum half is a frustrated No. 8. However, nature was cruel and only gave the player five foot two inches of height to use. This never stops scrum halves from playing like No. 8s when given the chance - i.e. running away from support on looping runs, and attempting to tackle the biggest player on the opposite side head on at pace. The most important part of a scrum half is his mouth. This is so he can spend eighty minutes a week telling other players what they should be doing, especially the incredibly heroic props that arrive late to each ruck and maul because they have single-handedly just gotten up last from the previous one. A non-stop stream of advice can be heard from a scrum-half advising players of which opponent to tackle, where the ball is, where he wants it, which way to go, which arm to bite, etc. Great consternation and abuse will follow if these instructions are not followed instantaneously and fully. However, advice given to a scrum half, such as "pass right, three man overlap" will be studiously ignored, such as box-kicking, as the scrum half has a better vision of the game whilst being surrounded by large forwards than some silly nonce of a centre with nothing near him for twenty yards except an undefended goal line. The kick will be defended with the retort "I could see that their full back was out of position and I wanted to bury him to put him off his game." Scrum halves are often described as terriers. This is because they are short little yappy things that leave their owners in the shit half the time, and smell. Scrum halves must have a distinguishing feature. Welsh scrum halves must have large and ridiculous moustaches and sideburns. Scottish scrum halves must have hairy knees (not difficult being Scottish). Irish scrum halves must have foreign sounding names; they can never be called O'Reardon, or O'Reilly, or anything vaguely Irish. Like Paddy Guinness. English scrum halves must have a disabling limp (usually caused by an errant New Zealand flanker), or a stupid name. "Nigel" is a good start, and some have improved upon this with ridiculous double-barreled names like Wibblington-Skrunge, Twattingly-Bottom or Wankington-Toenails Finally, your average scrum-half is a source, off the pitch, of constant amusement. He can be relied upon to get drunk before everyone else due to his small size, will be the first to lead the singing, and have a very handy party trick involving a balloon and his penis. He will also be the one member of a touring party that will have an embarrassing and totally hilarious encounter with a prostitute and a policeman. Hope this is of some help. But probably not... from www.gurkharugby.com
Playing Wing : A Guide.By Didds - who has never played wing, and is never likely to either. (For which we can all be extremely grateful).
Wingers are the forgotten men of rugby. There they stand, miles from the play; onlookers to the fun and games that elude them week in and week out. Voyeurs to the rolling, sweating masses. Bystanders in a murky world of grips, and binds, and jockstraps. And this is just in the changing room. Out on the pitch little changes. While the ball tantalizingly appears somewhere near a steaming mass in the vicinity of Bolivia, the winger is left literally out in the cold - fingers blue and knees knocking as his core temperature plummets and hypothermia sets in once again. It has even been known for teams to be changed, showered and in the bar before someone (usually the subs collector who has only one name left on the team sheet unticked) asks "Where's Rick?". The front row will look confused and ask "Who's Rick?". Everyone will shuffle their feet, then look questioningly at the outside-centre. Jeremy (all outside-centres have poncy names like Tarquin, Jeremy or Guido) will think hard then reply "I think I saw him at half time when he took the oranges off." Rick the winger will be subsequently found near a corner flag, peering desperately into the gloom, frozen and muttering to himself "Not much action down this side for a while....". But don't get me wrong. Wingers are Very Important Players; imperative for the success of a game. They are perfectly positioned to carry the oranges on and off at half-time, and are handy for climbing over barbed-wire fences to retrieve the ball. In relation to this important facet of their skills, it is mistakenly believed in many circles that wingers are selected for their speed in attack, for running past the defense. The truth is, I am afraid, rather more mundane. Having scaled the barbed wire fence to retrieve the ball, a winger often needs his innate pace to evade the rampaging bull that is on the other side. Nor should we forget their use in handing the ball to the hooker to throw in. Saves the hooker having to bend down. The public perception (as hinted at above) of the winger is of a gazelle like creature, blessed with speed and guile, but as most things in rugby, this creature is only really seen at the very, very highest levels of the game. In reality, there are four different types of winger: The gazelle: international wingers have the speed, side-steps and swerves expected, combined with hands like glue and a boot like a siege gun. When released in space they have the ability to make the heart soar and the blood rush; crowds roar as their feet glide across the turf, eating up the ground as they tear the last vestiges of a defense to shreds. They usually drive MG's, drink orange juice and have to fight blondes off with a shitty stick. Bastards. Example - John Kirwan. The wall: good club wingers; they may not have great pace, nor great hands or kick. But they have a huge defense. Nothing ever passes them. Usually ex-blind-side flankers that had to give up the hard stuff under doctors orders after breaking their neck in three places and suffering 72 hours concussion after tackling an Argentinian flying wedge head on, they settled for the easy life on the wing rather than run the line. These men eschew the "girls" in the bar, and are usually seen carousing with the forwards (when allowed into their forum. Usually after four pints). Drive old Ford Granadas, and occasionally shags the blond birds that couldn't get off with the above. Example - Ian Hunter. The stick: Archetypal junior club winger. Stands five feet eight inches tall, weighs 9 stone four pounds, soaking wet with all his kit on. Is shit scared someone might get delusions of grandeur having watched a hugely entertaining Southern Hemisphere match on TV the week before (which was won by the Polynesian All-Stars 146-139 against the Rainbow Campallmouths in a scintillating display of 80 minutes of continual running play with no stoppages at all... and no referee whatsoever to get in the way of having fun) and actually get the ball anywhere near him. Hates defending at goal line lineouts as he has a recurring nightmare of some hairy-arsed prop forward (always named Barry) hurtling around the front of the lineout carrying the ball, with only his own puny frame between the prop and a lifetime of glory retelling the story of how he crushed a winger whilst scoring his first try for twenty years. Is normally aged 17, or 47. The former is there because he is crap at every other sport, and hates his parents so needs an excuse to get out. Can't drive yet having failed his test three times to date. He also fancies the blond bird down the chip shop and hopes boasting that he plays rugby for Old Twattbaggians 6th XV will cause her to fling her knickers off and shag him senseless. The latter is there because he has always preferred the company of men, and doesn't really want to stay at home with the wife, and can't get a place on the committee. Once had a fumble with a blond Mancunian bird (who hasn't ?) whilst on tour in Blackpool in 1978, in a bus shelter, and got beaten up by her boyfriend (who played for Warrington RL). Drives an Austin Allegro. Example - Tony Underwood. The Polynesian: defies all normal definitions of winger. Is seven feet tall, weighs 19 stones, and can do the 100 metres in 9.87 seconds (unassisted). In any other part of the world would be playing back or second row for some junior club and the occasional county game. Will be named after a Biblical character, or a Cheeseburger. Doesn't care who he shags as long as its not on a Sunday as he is a devout Christian. Example - Grant Batty. Wingers really come into their own after the game however. Not having done anything all afternoon they will be happy to be acknowledged by their captain, even if its only to be asked to collect the flags and post protectors. Being the only member of the side with a clean shirt (not to mention clean shorts, socks and boots) they will be sent off to collect the valuables bag. By the time he has completed these duties, all the hot water for the showers will have been used up, and the bath will resemble something last seen as soup or coffee in a school canteen. This won't matter as 1) nobody else cares, and 2) he won't be sweaty or dirty as he has done nothing all afternoon anyway. In the bar, assuming he can get anyone to talk to him, as no-one will recognize him, the winger is a source of team amusement. Due to his normal abstemious position/slight physique/religious beliefs, it will take little alcohol to get him roaring drunk with the normal hilarious consequences. The exception to this is "The Wall" (see above), but due to his previous history in the forwards, he will know seventeen filthy songs, and after fifteen pints will roger a passing blond from behind, standing on the bar, egged on by his team mates. Wingers are also useful at internationals, where they can be easily divested of their clothing by their "mates" and hurled over the crowd barrier, whereby they can provide superb entertainment attempting to evade the stewards and police officers in their haste to get off the pitch before the cameras catch their antics and their mum sees them. Finally, wingers never actually retire. They merely disappear in mid-season, never to be seen again. The reasons for this are several fold, but normally because : 1) they froze to death on the touchline one February afternoon 2) they got forgotten at a service station on the A1 returning from a match 3) they got crushed by a huge hairy-arsed prop forward (named Barry) that appeared around the front of a lineout, carrying the ball, hell bent on scoring his first try for twenty years 4) they got beaten up by the front row after spilling one of their pints 5) the blond bird down the chip shop named them as the father to her child 5) their Robin Reliant broke down. Hope this is of no help whatsoever!! :-)
Didds.
Devizes RFC.
Disclaimer : The opinions expressed are solely those of the author. And are probably wrong anyway. www.gurkharugby.com
| | Fun Stuff TEN COMMANDMENTS OF RUGBY from www.gurkharugby.com 1. Thou shalt not hesitate at the breakdown, but be mighty to get your rightful ball; for, though it is written, that the meek shall inherit the earth, it was a poor translation. The meek shall be trampled into the dirt.
2. Thou shalt not speak profanely of the Whistler, nor question the purity of his birth, even though he be blind to transgressions by devils on the other team at ruck and maul, and whistles them not.
3. Thou shalt not smite an opponent with a clenched fist, yeah, even in retaliation; for it is written that the Whistler and the Flag Waver shall assuredly miss the cowardly first punch and see the avenging second. Believeth that what goeth around shall surely cometh, and verily, evil men will be found at the bottom of rucks.
4. Thou should not kiss thy teammate on the mouth when he scores; for such is an abomination unto God, especially kisses in tongues, unless you play football with the round white ball, and thus it is expected.
5. Thou shalt not take the Word of the Coach in vain, for blessed is the Word of the Coach. Instead, wonder at his mighty wisdom and sticketh to His Game Plan, lest the Coach acquaint you with his disciples coaching lower grades.
6. Thou shalt not chip nor kick for touch, if thou be a prop or wear any jersey number below that of 9; for this is an abomination unto the Coach and surely you will be His at training, perhaps everlasting.
7. Thou shalt not run across the field with ball in hand, but runneth straight; for it is written that the touchline is the best defender.
8. Thou shalt not kick the ball to thine enemies unless it bounceth; for the Spirit of the Bounce of the Ball may cause confusion unto them, and if thy heart be pure, make it bounceth back unto you.
9. Thou shalt not pass the ball to a teammate about to be smashed by the mighty enemy, unless he owes you money, or has rodgered someone dear to your heart, in which case all is forgiven.
10. Thou shalt not vomit on thy teammates after the game, for this is unmanly and they could do it unto you.
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Fun Games
'Beer was invented to stop props from taking over the world' from www.gurkharugby.com A PROPS' GUIDE TO RUGBY POSITIONSFront Row: Without a doubt the manliest men on the pitch. Large, often hairy, beer swilling carnivores that can and will smash anything in their path. Reveling in the violence inherent in the scrum, they are rarely considered "nice" people, and in fact to some they aren't even considered humans at all. Front rowers tolerate this attitude far and wide because they recognize their role at the top of the food chain and are used to suffering the fools that surround them. Accused by some of simply being dumb, I prefer to think of this group as "open to unconventional ways of thinking."
Locks: Slightly below the front row on the food chain. As with front row players it is inadvisable to put an appendage you wish to keep near this group's maw when they are in the feeding mode. This group of large, often foul-smelling brutes is also more than willing to relish the finer points of stomping on a fallen opponent's body and will gleefully recount the tale ad infinitum. While they tend to take the tag "Powerhouse of the Scrum" a little too seriously, they can be useful if inured with the proper hatred of their fellow man. While members of this proud fraternity like to think of themselves as "open to unconventional ways of thinking"- they are usually just dumb.
Back Row: These are fine, fit fellows who, like a bunch of hermaphrodites, are confused as to what their role in life should be. While they know they are undeniably linked to the forwards, there are those among them who long for the perfect hair and long flowing gowns that come with being a Back. Some relish the forward role and will do anything to win the ball and there are others within this group that will break the prime directive of the forward and do anything to prance foolishly with the ball. Generally, these guys are not all bad, but I, personally, have to wonder about any forward who brings a hairbrush and a change of clothes to a game.
Scrum Half: Some like to think of this back as an honorary forward. I myself tend to think of the No. 9 as half a fairy. While the toughest back almost always fills this position, this idea is almost laughable - kind of like the hottest fat chick. The scrum half's presence is tolerated by the forwards because they know that he will spin the ball to the rest of the girls in the backline who will inevitably knock the ball on and allow them the pleasure of another scrum. The No. 9 can take pride in the fact that he is the lowest numbered back and that as such he can be considered almost worthwhile.
Fly Half: His primary role is the leader of the backs - a dubious honor at best. Main responsibilities as far as I can tell are ability to throw the ball over people's heads and to provide something soft for opposing back rowers to land on. Expected to direct the prancing of the rest of the backline - the fly half, like any good Broadway choreographer, is usually light on his feet. While some may argue that these girls must be protected, I find it hard to support anyone whose foot touches a rugby ball on purpose.
Centers: Usually come in two varieties: hard chargers or flitting fairies. The hard charger is the one to acquire, as he will announce his presence in a game with the authority rarely found above No. 8. The flitting fairy is regrettably more common and will usually attempt to avoid contact at all costs. The flitting fairy is also only one good smack away from bursting into tears and leaving the pitch to cry on the shoulder of his inevitable girlfriend. Both types will have extensive collections of hair care products in their kit bags and will be among the best dressed at the post-game festivities.
Back 3: While some people refer to this group as two wingers and a fullback, I swear to God I can't make out any difference between them. They are all bleeping bleeps if you ask me. How these three guys can play 90 minutes of RUGBY and stay clean and sweat free is beyond me. I know for a fact that their jerseys sometimes go back in the bag cleaner than when they came out. These ladies are fond of sayings like "Speed Kills" and "Wheels Win" - how cute. Well, I have a saying too: it's "You're a bleeping bleep!!" These guys will be easy to spot after the game because they are the finely coifed, sweater wearin', wine sippin', sweet-talkers in the corner avoiding the beer swilling curs at the bar. On the whole, I really don't mind this group because in the end, they sure are purty to look at.
Playing Prop: A Props Guide. By Didds - an aged and grizzled prop. (Normally left grizzling into his beer anyway) Prop forwards are the cornerstone of a rugby team. Let there be no misunderstanding; whilst the move is towards faster play, and hence more mobile and swifter players, you cannot play rugby union as it stands today without props. However, that is in a perfect world. 
Or at least the case in international rugby, where coaches have in theory at least, the choice of hundreds of props down through the hierarchy of rugby clubs, and where players are very unlikely to turn down the chance of playing and getting a posh dinner thrown in for free, let alone the possibility of visiting some exotic foreign city in which to play. Or Cardiff. On the other hand, not everyone lives in a perfect world. For many third and fourth teams in clubs throughout the land (whose 1st team themselves are languishing in something like the Rutland 3rd division alongside St. Dunstan's Blind School, the local girl's grammar school team, and the outpatients department of the local hospital. And are bottom) the situation is quite different. Some weeks they are awash with props, and so end up with a front-row consisting of three props, a fourth in the second row, and a fifth horribly drowning on the wing. Other weeks they have only one prop available, and make do with the hooker propping for only the third time in his life, or a spare centre making up the position. On these occasions a long and heated debate will take place whether the inexperienced player should play loose or tight. Someone in the team always knows someone who knew a back that volunteered to play prop once and now spends his days mumbling into his soup and watching the birds on the lawn. The player will have a horrendous experience as by Murphy's Law his opponent will be a former international prop acting as coach to the opponents who fancied a game this week. He will consequently become disenchanted with rugby and fade out after a few more weeks and take up gardening or golf, and suffer nightmares weekly for the rest of his life. Props are not supposed to score tries. Those that do have either cheated or fallen over in the wrong place. My brother is also a prop, but while on tour to Holland several years ago, was put on the wing and scored a hat-trick. Since that day no other prop in his club has spoken to him, and I only discourse with him about our mother's birthday present. He has been forced into exile to Australia, where for some strange reason they accept try-scoring props. Must be something to do with all those convicts and kangaroos. If by some incredible fluke of luck a prop scores, he will spend the rest of his life describing in great detail the feat. Most props telling this tale will, however, not let on that when they scored their try it was worth three points. That is, with the exception of myself. I may well be the first Englishman to have scored a five point try - I was playing in NZ in 1992, and the day that the rules changed (and the value of a try became 5 points) we had a noon kick-off; I scored about half way through the second-half, when a maul on the oppo's line collapsed; I was holding the ball when I fell on the ground, in goal. Given that NZ is virtually the first country in the world to wake up, and that we had an early kick off, and that there won't have been that many Englishmen in NZ anyway, I claim the mantle of first Englishman to have scored a five point try. So there. Props must be the butt of everyone's jokes. They must also have at least a bit of a beer belly. They must be the slowest runners on the pitch (with possible the exception of the referee if playing third team rugby). Everyone will take the piss out the props at every conceivable occasion. Equally, everyone will look to their props to sort out any argy-bargy, and call upon them to lead the singing. All props must be able to drink 20 pints, including three of them in quick succession, all three drunk in less than 2.46 seconds (Olympic qualifying time). Props are born, not made. That is why the only props that are left twenty years after they finished playing are those that played their entire life in the murky underworld of front-row play. All those upstarts from the 2nd-row and back-row who got too fat and slow in old age fade away after prolonging their careers for a couple of years by the insidious ploy of taking up propping. They are the sort of people who support Liverpool because they win, and live in Torquay anyway. They are also the sort of person who started following rugby at the age of 22 back in 1989 because England started to win in less of an ad-hoc fashion. Finally, props are wonderful people, and should be nurtured. If you are a prop, be proud in the knowledge that your trade is a hard, unsung one, where success is worn inside, in the heart, unlike these flashy back-row and fly-half types. If you are not a prop, gaze upon them henceforth with awe, for these men and women are the salt of the earth. And buy them a pint.
Didds.
Devizes RFC
Disclaimer : The opinions expressed are solely those of the author. And are probably wrong anyway.
A Guide to Playing Open Side FlankerBy Didds. (A prop who has secretly yearned for years to play on the flank.)
Open side flanker is arguably the greatest position to play. Or so said my mate Backie to me one afternoon as we sat on the bus to the club. "Where else" he mused," can one find oneself delving into the depths of a maul one minute, then speeding through a gap, ball in hand heading for the line the next?" And in that one sublime sentence, Backie summed up possibly the most rewarding position on the playing field of rugby union football. Quite why Backie held this opinion I'm not really sure, as he was (is) a major Rugby League supporter, coming from Whitehaven (well someone has to) and as far as I know has never actually ever seen a game of rugby union, let alone played it. We were going to the cricket club at the time. I wasn't going to argue with him though. Backie had very large hands, and a lot of brothers. But he wasn't far wrong. Open side flanker. Just those words conjure up visions... of Rives, Winterbottom, Dallaglio. Well, maybe not Dallaglio. But what are the skills that are required of a man (or woman) that fills this most glorious of positions? An open side flanker is really all things to all men; a hard nosed forward, and a silken, swerving back. And there's the rub. He is by definition, crap at both. Neither hard enough to take the real brutal up-front work on, nor quick or skilled enough to tear opposition defenses to shreds in the three-quarters. Enough pace to keep away from the real men, but not enough to join the girls. In one word - a failure. Like all players, way back in the mists of time, the OSF (as I shall refer to the position henceforth) began at an early age being selected by school masters, or club coaches (actually someone else's dad that had some noble concept of putting something back into the game that had given him so many years of pleasure in his own younger years. Well, it had for a fleeting couple of years between school and marriage before that big git of a Welshman had jumped on his ribs in Abertillery one Easter weekend and finished his playing days for ever. And coaching was better than doing the gardening with the missus looking over his shoulder) to play a position that afternoon/morning. It would always be the same. The big, slow kids would be sidelined as forwards; the skinny, quick kids would be cast into the backs. And he would be left standing there all on his own. "Hmmmmm..." would murmur the adult. "Lets see... seven backs... seven forwards... Open side flanker for you Bloggins Minor." And this scenario would be repeated every week, until eventually masters/coaches no longer told people where to play, everybody had sorted it out. Except for Bloggins Minor that desperately wanted to be a full-back, or a prop, but got hammered by all and sundry if he ever did manage to cajole his way into playing there. So much for how OSFs ended up as OSFs. What should they do when they are there? Coaching manuals will probably tritely churn out something like "support, challenge, secure" - they always tritely suggest three pompous descriptions. They might as well say "drink, fart, sleep" because, of course, as described above, the OSF is actually useless as a meaningful player, so he may as well attempt something that is humanly attainable by everyone (except the queen of course. The queen never sleeps. Her crown sticks in her head and keeps her awake). But let's investigate each of these requirements: Support - in theory, the OSF should be there in support of the ball carrier, ever aware to the opportunity of a quick inside pop-pass to break the defense as the ball-carrier has drawn the tackler. In practice, what really happens is the fly-half thinks, "Shit. That bloody great big number eight is about to nail me something rotten. I know, where's that useless sod of an OSF? He can have it and get smacked into oblivion." The ball then gets popped inside just as the opposition number eight arrives like a runaway juggernaut and hits the OSF with a tackle measured on the Richter scale. Support is consequently what is worn on elbows, knees and less visible places having suffered too many of such mini-Armageddons. Challenge - in theory, the OSF should be ever present to knock down opposition ball carriers with a ferocious tackle that causes the ball to spill favourably for his own team. In practise, what really happens is that the opposition ball carrier thinks, "Shit. Those backs have an excellent defensive alignment. No way to go outside, so I'll cut back inside. There'll only be some plodding old OSF there, and I can make the ball available again." The player thus tears back inside, lines up the OSF that has foolishly drifted into the gap between the pack and his own fly-half, and hits him with a neatly turned shoulder somewhere near the OSF's mouth. The only challenge realistically attainable is the ability to get up again after the oppo pack have used the OSF as a mat as they have rucked clean over the top. Secure - in theory, the OSF should be the first to the loose ball, in order to secure it for his own team to make dynamic and telling use of. In practise, what really happens is the ball goes loose, and depending how much time is available, the OSF will either dive on the ball to set up a ruck, or pick it up to form a maul. The end result is always the same however. His own team are so far behind play that he ends up being used as a bathmat as the opposition win hard rucked ball, or as a rag-doll as his hair, balls and fingers are all pulled, squeezed and broken in a (successful) attempt to relieve him of the ball. The only thing worth really securing is some decent medical insurance. But there are other, less trumpeted facets, to the OSF's position. The emphasis today is increasingly upon open flowing play, where the skills mentioned above come into play, but what of the nitty-gritty of rugby? We should not forget that the OSF is after all, principally a forward. OK, as we have seen, a pretty lightweight and crappy one, but a forward nonetheless. So.... scrummaging. At a scrum, the OSF's job is to keep his prop in, keep the opposition away from his own scrum-half, and/or be lighteningly away to snuff out the opposition attack. Huh!! What he will really do is lean weakly on whilst supporting himself with his free hand on his prop's knee thus disrupting his own prop's balance and ability to strike if the ball is bobbling about in the tunnel. Far from hindering the other scrumhalf by binding at an angle, he will crouch in place allowing all and sundry to waltz around his pathetically dangling leg... or he'll be inspecting his fingernails as the opposition back row perform a blitzkrieg on his fly-half. What about line-outs? Surely the place for such a star to shine? Leaping like a salmon at the back of the line, ripping the ball after the front catch, or peeling blind from a middle tap and hurtling up the tramlines with wingers and hookers flailing in his wake. Not a bit of it. Front ball takes will be left too late such that the number two jumper is enveloped by the octopus that every opposition team always has hidden somewhere especially for lineouts. Middle ball taps are either knocked accidentally backwards behind the scrumhalf so the team loses twenty yards of territory, the ball, and most of it's winger's limbs trying to retrieve the situation, or the OSF gets stood up in the tackle by their hooker and then has the ignominy of being dumped into touch by the nine stone winger. As for back of the line ball, it will either end up being caught at number five by the opposition, or knocked on into the arms of the other side's scrum-half who has his number eight all ready to take the ball on and batter your fly-half to death. (Serve him right really for using his own OSF as cannon fodder earlier. See above.) Rucks? Mauls? Less said the better really. Too weak to rip the ball; too puny to hold onto it if caught in possession. Too small to knock a ruck forward, too slight to anchor a shove. Bloody useless in the loose-tight to be honest. But let us not disregard the OSF's place in broken field play. His secondary role as link man and support is never more perfect in open play with defences torn to ribbons. Ever there to take the scoring pass, or to beat the last man, draw the cover then send a winger or centre away for the try. In his dreams that is. Let us not forget that the OSF is in the forwards because he can't make the grade as a back So he has neither the hands to catch the scoring pass, not the pace or guile put others in perfect positions, or even deliver the ball to them. Knock-ons with the line beckoning.. over-running his ball-carrier... getting caught with the ball in his wrong hand by the cover... or hurling a "pass" yards behind his support, or over his head into touch. Things don't improve much once the game is over. The OSF will be the man flitting between two huddles - the backs don't want him because he smells of ralgex and linament like all forwards, while the forwards don't want him due his lack of manly strength and inability to drink fourteen pints. It is no wonder then, that so many OSFs retire early and take up reffing... and ironically it is the perfect place for them. After all those years of not being good enough for a proper position, now the OSF has the perfect position. Quick enough to be near play, but not quick enough to be right in the way. Tough enough to stare people down, but not so tough as to not be able to share a joke with the crowd. Indeed... the perfect job for a man that can't run fast, and can't tackle. And no-one's liked him throughout his career anyway, but now at least he has some respect from everyone else. So that's the open side flanker. The next time you see some poor sap having a nightmare of a game at open side, don't stand there and castigate him. He's doing the best he can. After all... he's just crap at the game
Didds.
Devizes RFC
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