Loss

I don't think I ever decided to support the Scotland National Rugby team at the age of ten. I think it was something that I had to do. In the same way you had to go to school at a certain age, I reached a point in my lifewhere I had to support Scotland. I wasn't forced. I didn't decide. It wasn't imposed on me. It didn't require any soul searching or questioning of life. There was no picking or choosing. In 1982 I was made aware that my Scottish Dad loved rugby and now I loved Rugby too and in particular Scottish Rugby. On the subject I can only say that in life you don't choose who you fall in love with, no matter how much it hurts. And, although there have been happy times, there has been a lot of hurt over the years. Strangely, I wouldn't have it any other way.

I often feel that those who have grown up with English sensibilities are not best suited to support Scotland. Two occasions come to mind that highlight this. One was at a Calcutta cup game where the guy sat next to Dad was fully kitted out with kilt, sporran, Scotland jersey, flat cap and ginger wig. And at the end of another Scotland loss, having had some banter with Dad during the game, the young man turned to me and Dad and said, "I'm going to feel stupid now, dressed like this going to see me mates, looking like a right idiot after this loss." For me it always cut deeper. For him, having made all the effort to look the part, a Scotland loss was an annoyance. If not for the embarrassing loss he could have comfortably gone out for the rest of the evening feeling good about his fancy dress. As I think about it now, perhaps for him the loss was a barrier to happiness. Due to my English-ness I struggle to find that same attitude, that desire for happiness that victory can bring. For me a loss was always a gateway to misery. Having never had the same allegiance to Scottish football I had grown up watching England play football and much of that time was spent chewing your knuckles during nerve wracking close games with Poland or Cameroon. Not much real joy in that. Victory brought relief not joy. 

The second incident is the story I tell the most. Dad and I had travelled all the way to Pretoria South Africa for this disappointment.  It was a group game between France and Scotland. The loser won the right to play against New Zealand in the next round. It was more or less a knock out game. And knocked out Scotland were. In the dying seconds with the last play of the game the French winger scored in the corner to win the game. I couldn't see a thing from where I sat. There were too many bodies in the way. The dramatic end to the match really did get everyone out of their seats and my view was blocked. My idea was to look around and try to work out if it was Scottish or French fans celebrating. When I worked out that what I'd failed to see was the climax to a dramatic last second French victory I let out a loud expletive and was quickly mimicked by the nearest French man. I choose my words and identity carefully here when I say that maybe there was an Anglo-French miscommunication and when I said, "Fuck"" in anger he wasn't really mocking me when he said, "Fuck," in response. It sounded like a mocking mimicking "fuck" but maybe he just meant, "Fuck, can you believe it? Oh Fuck, how happy I am!" But really, he just sounded like he was taking the piss. It's the closest I've ever got to getting violent at a Rugby match.  All I could say for the next five minutes was, "fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck."  

An announcement had been made that anyone invading the pitch would be arrested. I looked at Dad slumped in his seat. "You got to try to be philosophical son." I looked at the pitch and all the Scotsmen who had run out onto the field. "Dad, no one seems to be getting arrested. I'm going for a walk."  It wasn't difficult to get on the pitch and once there I breathed in that feeling of being somewhere I shouldn't be, of stealing a privileged position. Others out there with me did not seem to be as aware of their thievery and rushed around in excitement. Growing up I had seen footage of excited fans rushing the pitch. It wasn't so much the done thing in 1995. But the people around me were not charging about in celebration of a win. A Scotsman in a kilt had climbed the goal post and was hanging upside down, his bare arse on show, mooning the world. Scotland supporters rushed around like they had won the game. I may have learnt to walk in Peebles, I may have supported this team for a very long time, I might have known every word of Flower of Scotland before it was cool to do so, I might be of the opinion that the Scottish blood in me coursed more strongly than the English, that the emotion and passion that I feel is carried by a Scottish soul, but in behaviour I had learnt to be English. 

I cannot help but feel that the joy of victory would not have brought me to this place. Winning is awkward. Often when I see clips of people winning I wonder how genuine their happiness is. It all seems exaggerated to me. The thing that seems most real is when you see players collapse in relief at the final whistle. The running around and woo-hoo-ing that comes afterwards seems like it's all for show. Losing brings a natural response and feels more real to me. Losing had put me there on that field and being there felt unique. I ran to the corner flag. With my aged damaged calf muscles I long to run like that again. At the corner flag I dropped to my hands and knees and thumped the ground. And then I spat. I spat at the spot where the French winger had scored. I am not sure this is the Scottish or English way. I still feel a sense of wonder for being there at that place and in that time. I could never be one to run around in a frenzy or shamelessly be mooning the world from a goal post in South Africa. I needed to deal with my loss differently, with a little more angst and wonder. More than anything I needed to stand amid it all and take it in.

The one loss that resonates with me, the one that I now, in retrospection try to hold on to most, the one that I take the most hope from, occurred in 1991. Again, it was a World cup. This time a semi final at home at Murrayfield. The difference in that game was three points and it has its place in Scottish Rugby infamy as the game where Gavin Hastings missed a sitter that would have tied the game. It's not like it was the last kick of the game. Legend sometimes has it remembered as such. But it is considered as the difference between the two teams on the day. The winning points were actually scored half an hour before the final whistle. The moment is captured superbly in one picture. I still have the picture from the front page of the Telegraph from the next day. From behind the kick you can see how Rob Andrew of England has launched his drop goal goal-wards and his opposite number Craig Chalmers is so painfully close to blocking the kick. It’s a fantastic capturing of a moment. Considering that I know that it isn't blocked, that the kick sails through the post, that you score nothing nor prevent any score, for coming so close, you'd think I hate the picture. I don't know what lesson I take from it all but I do know that there is something beautiful in that moment.

We went back to our hotel in subdued mood. At nineteen I was probably more quietly angry than anything else. The next morning we started the long drive away from Dads country back to the home counties where I could pick up more English ways of life. Driving through border country Dad pointed out the young Rugby players playing in the Rugby fields and he said, "There you go son, life goes on. People still play Rugby the next day." It comes to mind once in a while, particularly when life around me changes, particularly when I am hit with a sense of loss. There is something about life carrying on and people continuing to do the things they've always done. I'm not sure you see that or have the same thought process without the loss. Of course life goes on despite all that makes you think it shouldn't. Wrapped up in so much emotion it isn't always easy to see that life goes on the very next day in a comforting mundane way.