Rugby League

Whilst I’ve never played it, or even shown any genuine close interest, a chunk of my childhood TV experience is forever bottled and labelled as Rugby League. I must confess my instant thought upon hearing or reading those two words is the voice of the old BBC commentator Eddie Waring. On a bad day, the voice morphs into that of Seventies impressionist Mike Yarwood, the image completed by the ever-present trilby, pseudo-Yorkshire sing-song delivery and inevitable catchphrase “oop and under”.  Those were the days before League was ‘Super’ and transformed by Sky into a sport played under the summer sun instead of cold rain propelled across the Pennines.

As an unashamed Southerner, League always seemed to belong to the ribbon of Roses land somewhere between the Midlands and Lake District. For me, the sport was – and still is – irrevocably associated with a generic ‘Northern’ accent. It doesn’t matter how hard the new-fangled Super League has tried to widen its revenue stream to encompass London, Paris or Perpignan, I will never be convinced of the game’s claim to be genuine without a stream of dropped aitches.

Winter afternoons on BBC1 were built around live League fixtures, all described by the aforementioned Mr Waring. Dad and I didn’t always watch, but the non-stop action in front of rain-battered crowds was often breathtaking. The oval ball is the same but Union couldn’t hold a candle to League when it comes to continuous action and often brutal physical contact. Some of my clearest memories of players are not of the pacy runners but the front-row forwards, the hulks of the scrum. I can’t forget the drooping moustache and inscrutable body language of Leeds’ Sid Hynes after landing another haymaker on an opponent. Worse still was ‘Big’ Jim Mills (the nickname as unimaginative as it was unnecessary), who always seemed to be committing random acts of extreme violence in his Widnes shirt. He apparently did the same wearing the red of Wales, too.

When I first started watching, it was near impossible working out which side was which. Played in black and white, all 26 players seemed to be swathed in the dark grey colour of mud. That’s where Eddie Waring came into his own. I’m sure I was watching when, after Wakefield Trinity’s Don Fox sliced a simple kick which would have won the 1968 Challenge Cup Final, the chummy commentator summed up what everyone outside Leeds was feeling with the immortal words; “Eee, the poor lad!” Waring also featured in the BBC’s summer game show It’s a Knockout but for years he was Mr Rugby League, an epithet which could also be applied to his successor Ray French. Eddie may have been eased out because of his jokey colloquialisms but French was every bit as much the comedy Northerner.

Even the top players’ names resonated with Northernness. I recall Bev Risman and Les Dyll playing for Leeds, plus Joe Lydon at Wigan, Alex Murphy for St Helens and Castleford’s Alan Hardisty. Could they ever have participated in any other sport? I don’t have particular favourites although I have a soft spot for Widnes’ and Wigan’s charismatic Eighties scrum-half Andy Gregory. I suppose I liked him because, at five feet five, he was dwarfed by everybody else on the pitch yet was as resolutely tough as a Central Park stanchion.

Life was getting in the way of Grandstand viewing by the time titanic try scorers like Ellery Hanley, Anthony Sullivan and Martin ‘Chariots’ Offiah entered the scene although I did see them on the telly a few times. The same goes for Jason Robinson, whose unique jerky running style for Wigan in the Nineties was as entertaining as his actual try-scoring exploits.

By this time, Sky had its hooks into the sport. Union had remained amateur for a century or so but was beginning to lose its best players to professional League. Wales in particular saw stars such as Jonathan Davies, Robert Ackermann and Scott Gibbs switch codes. Union bowed to the inevitable, becoming a pro sport in 1995, after which the flow started to reverse, Robinson being a prime example. The Five Nations (as was) internationals had always fascinated me more than League so, with British Rugby Union becoming more of a running game in an attempt to keep up with the All Blacks and Aussies, the distinction between the two codes began to blur and I more or less abandoned any pretence at following League.

In my head, the game is forever associated not with Bulls, Wolves or Rhinos but Northern, Trinity or Rovers. Leeds, St Helens and Wigan are just as dominant as they were five decades ago but for me it’s the likes of Dewsbury, Hunslet or Leigh which also echo loudly across the years. It wasn’t just about the winter afternoons in grim, grey Victorian mill towns. The Wembley centrepieces of League were almost as engrossing as those of football. I recall once taking the train to Wembley for railway photos, while a Challenge Cup Final was taking place within the old stadium behind me. The atmosphere managed to permeate the white walls and reach me although I wasn’t even sure who was playing.

One game I did see on the box was a classic encounter between Wigan and Hull in 1988. Tries galore, mostly from coruscating breaks rather than mere scrappy flops across the line, showed how good Rugby League could be. Best of all were the team names: Wigan and Hull. Nine letters: simple, humble, traditional, Lancashire v Yorkshire. Rugby League in a nutshell.