The Fat Knight Rises

Written by Joe 'Slim' Brady

The Fat Knight Rises

Look… If you had… one shot, one opportunity… this game of rugby is all you ever wanted (to stop playing, I made that explicitly clear, I wanted to stay in bed and watch cartoons)… one moment… would you capture it? Or drink a litre of gin the Friday night before the game and wake up smelling of cranberry and urine/let it slip?

Saturday morning’s 11am alarm clock struck like a bolt of lightning hitting one’s house (not entirely welcome, but not as bad as lightning physically hitting a tree with you standing under it). After all of the MAS, powerpoints, training, lectures, motivational speeches and light reading emails that we had all gone through in the previous months, it was time to descend on Crescent Farm and put all of that hard work into practice. There was nowhere any of us would rather have been (probably). The sultry, sticky summer haze of pre season had been replaced with a gentle but crisp early autumn breeze. If anyone had spent the previous 3 months sitting on a sofa in their boxers watching re runs of Frasier, they might have been slightly cheered up by this (as well as seeing Coshy aka OsStriker aka Test Match Animal in the car park… Good to see you big dog, sick whip by the way). Team meetings and warm ups are always similar but never exactly the same; Keith Forward had that (sexual? Just me?) glint in his eye he gets on a match day, Constable Captain Courageous Conor Cooper once again rousing the troops and his forward pack, his sweet Essex accent sounding as though Martin Johnson had Mark Wright stuck in his throat. The drills and team run were borderline excessive and exhausting (definitely just me) but there’s no better preparation for playing rugby than simulating a rugby game in an overloaded, tiring version of itself which drains and makes players unhappy/consider life choices. Probably.

We were warned of Canterbury’s capabilities (that is outstanding alliteration) but more importantly reminded of how successful Sidcup (someone stop me) had been on our home patch in the previous 12 months. One last squeeze and we were off. The pre match warning had obviously not quite struck the chord it should have as Canterbury showed why they were all players good enough to be second or third choice to National League rugby players and run almost the length of the field to score. Sidcup were taken aback but not floored. Regrouping under the kick chase, those damn pesky kids in claret and blue put on pressure through defence. The Canterbury 10 had previously been ‘whooping’ after the initial score but, while theatricality and deception are powerful agents to the uninitiated, Nick Gilbert is no such civilian. Again combining the charismatic power of Sebastien Chabal and manic facial contortions of Johnny Rotten, Giblet roared “FOR SIIDDDDCCCUUUUPPPPP!” in a Viking accent (he didn’t actually do this but it’s funny to imagine he did) and smashed through the Canterbury line with a superb attacking line. A dominant home scrum and clever work from the half backs meant that social, outgoing bloke and cool cat Ollie White drove over with power and verve to level the scores. The sound of whooping was replaced by Charlie Hopkins shouting “Sir!” from Westcombe Park even louder and forcibly. In the words of Shakin’ Stevens, this was “lovely stuff.” However, subsequent opportunities were not taken and again Canterbury played some good offloading rugby to score out wide, the lethal counter punch to Sidcup’s aggressive yet blunter body work.

Half time was called by the referee and it looked as though Canterbury thought they had finally laid down tracks for an easy win. But this was not to be because of what Canterbury’s forwards found on those same tracks (youtube the ‘Shaft’ theme song and press play NOW. It will make sense in a matter of seconds). A steam engine. An iron beast. A train. A PAIIIINNNNNN TTTRRRAAAAAIIIINNNNNN! Dave Fawole came rollin’, rollin’ rollin’, no target hands down into the game like Fred Durst crashing a Britney concert, running lines at the away defence like one of Kim Jong Un’s missiles. A smoking, angry ball of power and physio tape shook those out-of-city boys to their boots and it seemed as though it would be Sidcup Serpent that was coming home in the final furlong as Coshy timed his snipe perfectly and scored. Followed up by another powerful try from Ollie W (I briefly flirted in my mind with the idea of starting a “WHITE IS RIGHT” chant but then aborted, for obvious reasons), could it be? Could the underdog’s bite leave the most lasting scar?

Alas, unfathomably this was to be the last Sidcup score. Canterbury responded with another try from deep and then a penalty, putting daylight between the hunters and the hunted. Into the second half, Sidcup emptied their bench, who added significantly to the energy of the collective. The big hitter ‘D’ carried hard and true, Sam Adams continued to take the fight to Canterbury in midfield; finally giving up the ghost of his days as a Sidcup 12/Jauzion, Phil Evans marked his arrival in the second row with strong carries and excellent counter rucking. It seemed for a fleeting, bittersweet moment as though Rocky would get to his feet before Apollo Creed once more. However, what followed would have been considered kamikaze even in a Rambo film, even the awful sequel ones which I need to stop watching on ITV4 despite knowing their awful… Credit to Stallone for bringing attention to the conflict in Burma, though. Anyway. I drift at times. Ah yes, Steve McNamara had been solid and vocal at fullback all afternoon but decided that passing to his own players and teammates was just too mainstream, dude. Winding up a miss pass like a man with arthritis wringing a wet towel, Steveo pulled the trigger and passed the ball into his own post! Christmas came early for a lucky Canterbury player, who dived on the loose ball and scored like Ed Velasco for the last chicken wing of Tuesday night’s dinner (when are you coming over again mate? My Dad’s indifferent but my Mum keeps asking for some reason). Some cried out, some agonised, some smiled grimly, one laughed (it was funny, I tried to stop laughing). The team regrouped under the posts and were again showing ample Sidcup spirit and grit and were clearly always going to win or lose as a team. Playing to the whistle, the final act petered out as the inevitable pouring of the sand timer came to a fatal halt.

This time last year, Sidcup lost a game early in September to Sevenoaks and proceeded to go unbeaten until late February. There is no reason this team cannot eclipse and surpass that effort if they (note choice of the word “they”, selection committee) continue to believe in the practices and habits that have made them successful. Congratulations to Dave Fawole on his MOM award but all squad and coaching team members who came very close to a great result. Credit to the referee who was committed to an entertaining game, plus of course Canterbury for their away win. Special mention must also go to the spectators who supported the team throughout, thank you.

It’s not what you are underneath. It’s the rambling, self-indulgent match reports that you write when you should be marking children’s school work that define you.

Written by Joe 'Slim' Brady