I’m not an overly superstitious guy, despite being born on Friday 13th.
But something happened recently that has changed my mind. And it was quite important as it involved rugby.
Since I immigrated 14 years ago, I have supported England’s cricket and rugby teams (football is another matter as it’s a different type of England).
It’s not always easy, and I do it mainly because I get so irritated with the number of non-indigenous Brits who support the opposition – excluding South Africa, of course. A test against Pakistan at Lords is an away game for England.
Anyway, rugby players often epitomise the finest values of England. Most come from backgrounds where manners, respect and self reliance are core principles, and English rugby supporters are among the best behaved in the world. So I like them.
The greatest series in the Northern Hemisphere is undoubtedly the Six Nations, and last year a young English team was on the verge of a grand slam. They had one last hurdle, Wales, and most of us thought England would pull it off.
I went fishing in the morning and blanked out. Not only that, any fish I hooked got away with an insouciant ease that shocked me. It was one of the worst days fishing I’d had – although the worst day fishing still beats the best day of doing much else. Consequently I thought the day could not deteriorate further. England would surely win.
They didn’t. They lost by a humiliating 30-odd points. And when England loses to Wales, you can hear the Celts crowing all the way to Croatia.
This year Wales were tipped to win again, while England started the series against an aggressive French team. I went fishing that day, and had another blank. I had forgotten about last year and thought once more the day couldn’t get worse.
It did – England lost but through sheer bad luck. They completely outplayed the French, but two lucky-bounce tries and the flyhalf getting cramp in the last minute swung the game for France.
The next game was against a rampant Irish team. I went fishing that morning. I couldn’t go wrong. Every cast had a result. This gave me a bad feeling – had I used up all my luck?
England won. It was a close call, but a great game and the lads played magnificently. Equally importantly, France lost to Wales. And as Ireland had already beaten the Welsh, all four major teams were now a game down.
It was then that I decided my superstition was back to front. In fact, it was a polar opposite. I instead had to catch fish for England to win.
Scotland came next. No one expected England to lose, but I had a shaky day fishing, catching just one, and so I thought something dire may happen.
The one fish was enough. We beat the Scots comfortably.
The fourth game was against the Welsh. The Celts were ready to crow again. So I went fishing. It was one of the best days I’d ever had – trout leaping in the air with every throw.
You guessed it; England won. In fact it was a thrashing. It was sweet revenge served cold, hard and magnificent. Across the border at Offa’s Dyke and down the M4, there was silence.
There was still one final barrier. The Irish had massive wins against the Italians and Scots so led by a huge points difference. To win the title, England had to beat Italy by 55 points, or France had to beat Ireland.
I was in South Africa that weekend and couldn’t go fishing. Sadly, Ireland beat France – the first time in history every Englishman was rooting for the French – and England just fell short, beating Italy by a mere 50 points.
So the title went to the Irish, although everyone knows the real title went to a youthful English team that had only a handful of international caps between them. It was only our inexperience that cost us the series, the experts say.
But I know better. It was because I couldn’t go fishing that day.
