Don’t Look Back in Anger

Three scores behind and thirty minutes left in the most important and emotional game of the season and a scrum is awarded; the trailing Bradford Bulls do not rush to pack down and force the referee to stop the clock.

Part of the problem was that I’d let myself believe, I’d convinced myself we had this. Despite all that had gone before there was real evidence things were coming together and my team were going to salvage some pride from the season at very least. There was no part of me that believed we might lose to Featherstone and condemn ourselves to a season finale outside of the meaningful fixtures.

No part of me believed it when I started the car; no part of me believed it as I walked down Post Office Road; no part of me believed it as we fumbled the opening play; or when we fell one score behind, then two, then three.

The moment of that scrum, not only did I believe it, I knew it. I could have stood up and left the ground at that moment and never for the rest of my life felt the slightest pang of curiosity over the final result; the game was lost, and the season was over.

I didn’t leave though, I stayed. I saw the atmosphere turn from disbelief, to despair, to anger. I watched the very definition of madness performed in front of me - as time, after time, after time, a solitary Bull ploughed into Featherstone’s immovable wall, seemingly in the belief that each time the outcome might be different.

I heard the hooter sound - at the exact moment the ‘non-official clock’ hit zero - and watched my team slump to the floor. I left with the crowd, who were snipping and snapping at each other before they’d even crossed the car park.

This was not like other times - we were not united in a sense of loss, or injustice at the hands of a common enemy - or at what might have been had the dice rolled differently. We, as a mass, felt as perplexed as we felt cheated, and as angry as we felt let down.

In the fifty or so hours since, we’ve watched this spill out into an ugliness, as bitterness lashed out with blame and frustration blossomed into fear. Sometimes with barbed attempts at gallows humour, sometimes with something more personal, more venomous.

We’ve been reminded, of course, that we are not alone in our disappointment, and that our accusations against the people we feel let down by are hurtful, and uncalled for, and only deepen the pain and disappointment they themselves feel - these people who put their bodies on the line for our entertainment, these men who have already cried real tears.

And of course, they’re right. Nobody has set out to fail, and nobody feels worse about it than those who could have controlled it; that mere spectators feel they have a right to claim some sort of superior hardship - how dare they?!

Then I think of that scrum.

And I think - we did out part; we came in numbers; we made the noise; we bought the shirts; we kept the faith. We never expected perfection; we never demanded victory - for whippet’s sake that Featherstone team have achieved the unbelievable over the last three weeks; we could see the beating your bodies were taking - but we at least hoped you would form that scrum; show us there was still a fight; show us the passion you claim.

We just wanted to see that you wanted it too - then we could have been united.

The scaremongering over another administration, or a descent towards part-time, was inevitable. It’s what the Rugby League community does as soon as it sees a potential weakness, or some missing monies - and I’m truly sorry that Marc Green has had to lift himself from his sun-lounger to ease the concerns which exasperate him. How many times does he have to say ‘business as normal, we’re in this together’ until the apparent fans believe him?

As many times as it takes, Marc, we’ve been hurt; you must forgive us our paranoia.

You’re right, of course. The only way we will see our team get to where we want them to be is if we keep putting the money in, and the faith in, and we work together with you, and them - with as much patience as is necessary - until we get there.

That is indisputable.

And we will; less of us each year, of course - erosion is as old as, well, the valleys - but we need to see that it’s going both ways - through actions not words - we need to see those guys forming those scrums.

So what happens now?

I appreciate the sentiment of seeing this through until the end, keeping our strongest team out there and making sure we win the Championship Shield, but the time for sentiment has passed.

Besides, I imagine the thought of picking up that shield in two months time turns the stomach of each player as much as it does mine.

As far as I can see, the only way that shield will be worth a thing, is if it’s won by a very, very, young Bradford team; a team for who it should be a real challenge, not a team for who it should be an expectation.

This season is over - and good riddance to it - next season starts today. Those who will not be a part of it we should thank for their efforts, indulge in a man hug, buy a parting beer, and wish luck on their way.

Those who remain have seven to nine games to show us whinging, doom-mongering, tight-fisted fans why we should get our names down for next year’s ticket and shirt buying rollercoaster and stop moaning about losing to plumbers.

Plumbers who know to form a scrum.