The Countdown has Begun... Are you Ready??

The Countdown has begun

Are YOU ready???

 

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TheRugbyForum.com where Rugby is a Passion

Rugby Football History

Rugby Football History

Interesting site with, as the URL suggests, details of rugby's early history.

English Rugby Grounds

English Rugby Grounds

Useful rugby map....hats off to those responsible.

Relegation...ooooh relegation

After an undistinguished single-season stay in 2nd tier of English rugby little old Waterloo are headed back down to National Division 2.



Quite frankly it was a season long pummeling by clubs with much better resources and infra-structure but that's life I suppose. It'd be harsh to say that the players got "found out" 'cause let's face it they are only amateur playing in a division that's dominated by the full-timers. Bedford snuck an England international into their line-up whilst Leeds were playing in the Heineken cup the season before running riot against our lot. There are of course clubs closer to our level and they were the games we should have targeted...a few leads were squandered, opportunities missed but ultimately they didn't do enough. One "8 pointer" victory coming against Moseley meant we were never really in with realistic chance of a Miracle of Castel di Sangro happening but the fantastic results against Cornish Pirates and Exeter Chiefs will go down into the club's folklore.



So it's back to Division 2 we go...Launceston, Blackheath and Wharfdale are more fitting company for our friendly little club. As long as the core of the team stay with us we'll be okay but bare in mind the spector of what happened to Orrell. As long as that doesn't happen our kicking won't have done us much harm...a bit of an adventure down at the deep end.



Going to see 'loo is always good regardless of the result or the speed and quality of the game...next year hopefully I'll be a full member. I've only been going two years...one promotion, one relegation but loads of thoroughly entertaining beer filled afternoons and hopefully many, many more.

The higher levels with razzmatazz and it's 8 foot tall forwards and Olympic sprinter backs are all well and good but for the time being I'll take my little clubhouse with it's real ale and open fire, the club shop with the scatty girl who never has change, players and officials mingling with the fans, announcements over the tannoy to see if an electrician is around to fix the floodlights, cheering as the cars by the side of the pitch get pinged by the ball, sarcasm pouring off our rowdy little brick terrace. This might sound like sour grapes 'cause, of course, it is.

We'll go down unlamented by the big boys...we didn't pack their stadiums with away fans 'cause let's face it hardly anyone in Liverpool goes the rugby. We didn't serve up fantastic, memorable matches 'cause let's face it we were out of our depth. We battled though...in defence mainly. I never saw the team give up no matter how hard they were hit, no matter how much faster the opposition player was. For that I salute Mick Melrose, Dave Blythe, Freeman Payne and the lads.



It's hard to say we've enjoyed it but from what I've heard we were greeted warmly but all the fine, fine clubs in National Division One and I'd like to think we were equally welcoming to the away fans who tripped up to Blundellsands. Hopefully we'll be back and hopefully we'll have learnt and grown from the experience. In the mean time rugby, like life, goes on.



Honourable mentions to Exeter Chief's winger Jason Luff not only for his two tremendous tries but for having a good laugh with us on the sidelines and to the scallywag who when the ref awarded Waterloo and penalty after a string of decisions going Exeter's way, shouted "Oh well done ref...bet that's not all you use your right arm for" (to the amusement of fans, players and officials alike).

Old rugby jerseys

Old rugby jerseys



I've shamelessly stole this from this cool site.

The teams are :

1. England
2. Scotland
3. Ireland
4. Wales
5. France
6. South Africa
7. Australia
8. New Zealand
9. Blackheath
10. Harlequins
11. Richmond
12. Barbarians
13. Cardiff
14. Newport
15. Leicester
16. Gloucester
17. Stade Français (Paris)
18. Racing Club de France (Paris)
19. United Services
20. Birkenhead Park

A Scouser's guide to egg-chasing

"The Rugby?!?!? Are you a woolyback or what?"

"A load of sweaty posh blokes grabbing each other's balls? No thanks"

"It's egg-chasing, get a grip."

It's not an uncommon reaction where I'm from. Liverpool, you might be aware, has a pretty good pedigree when it comes to football. Almost without exception if you are a Scouser you are either red or blue...there is no room for anything else. Well almost...I remember as a kid taking a break from the constant games of football to watch the Internationals. Will Carling. Rob Andrew. Jeremy Guscott. The Underwoods and their crazy mum...the national team was on the radar but nothing else. You'd certainly never take an interest in the normal down-to-earth club rugby that got read out at the end of final score. Gosforth? Harlequins? Saracens? They aren't the names for proper teams. It's Plymouth Argyle not Plymouth Albion...Nottingham that has the Forest not Jedburgh. No, in the 'pool we stuck to what we knew. There was no need to diversify...in the early 80s regardless of which one it was you could be fairly happy that your team was one of the best in Europe. Who needed a bunch of muddy amateurs playing for a team with a funny name?

Basically that's the way it stayed until I went away travelling. From my days watch the 5 Nations I had a rough working knowledge of the game and whilst staying in Brisbane us and a few of our fellow hostellers grabbed tickets for the Queensland Reds V Otago Highlanders game. It's fair to say that sitting on the hill at the near end of Ballymore Stadium was more than a bit bewildering. Not nearly as much of a culture shock as it was to our Danish friends ("It's quite violent isn't it") but still pretty early on I decided that it was easier just to go with the flow and enjoy the game...the rules would come later.

My abiding memory of the game was of Wendell Sailor...there was something about him that just made me think "sh*thouse". I wasn't sure how I knew but after spending my entire youth watching sport I knew a player who was giving it everything for the team. "Is he injured or something?" I enquired of a local "Nah, he's just a fairy" came the answer. "Yeah..." I thought "...gotcha". I mightn’t have known much about the game but this was a sport I could ‘get’.

So with that grounding we moved across the Tasman Sea. I'd like to think that no visit to the UK would really be complete without going to a football match. It's the people's game. It's fundamentally part of the national identity, an all pervasive lowest common denominator. It'd be difficult to visit the British Isles without touching upon it but to actually get to grips with the game, the allegiances, the rivalries is massive part of getting to grips with the British psyche. The same is true with Rugby Union down in New Zealand. We'd arrived in Auckland and were immediately swept along into the tail end of the 2003 Super 12 season. Most of the family we were staying with were islanders...natural born rugby players. Rugby League was okay but the 15 man game was everything.

I have a pet theory that sports fans the world over will talk about their team in much the same way...it's only when you hear them talking about their rivals that you really understand them. On the day we arrived in Auckland the folks we were staying with plonked a couple of crates of Lion Red in the front room and settled down to watch Canterbury Vs Wellington...they'd actually bought Hurricanes hats purely 'cause they hated the Crusaders and so that’s basically where it started for us. The Blues won the Super 12 that year, uncle Dave and his brother Jason were proud as punch whilst Aunt Moira swooned over Carlos Spencer. Having Brits in their midst, however, was making the Kiwis nervous...even folks as footy orientated as us had realised that England where looking a bit good. The autumn internationals months previous had been a massive success for the northern hemisphere and a Grand Slam had finally been completed by our boys. The locals were unimpressed. England were boring, old, slow, one-dimensional and above all arrogant...they were coming over in a few weeks and these facts would be demonstrated. In the mean time we were to sit back and get more Lion Red down us. I loved it : The game, the banter, the obsession. The pride with which they talked about their team was pretty infectious. The almost reverent way Dave, Jason et al spoke about the national team ("Yeah, he's pretty good but he's not an All-Black"). It helped that we instantly fell in love with New Zealand...that such a nice bunch of people had something they all adored made it impossible not to get swept along. We were welcome to join in on the understanding that England WOULD lose when they came down here.

In the event our lads didn't read the script...they played two tests, one each against NZ and OZ. The first saw Wilkinson kick the All Blacks into the ground and our pack hold their own goal-line whilst two men down. If that wasn't good enough two weeks later we took Australia to the cleaners by three tries to one in Melbourne. A 40 yards rolling maul being a particular highlight. It didn't matter that the locals still weren't impressed we'd done it. You notice the "we" there...that's what came of our travels round the world's most rugby obsessed nation. All of a sudden, out of guilt by association, England were "we" and what's more they were looking good. The World Cup followed soon after our return to the UK...I'm sure no-one needs reminding of what happened there. So there you have it, we'd jumped firmly on the band-wagon.

In the aftermath of this as the games increased media profile it was easy to have a look around at what was happening in the 'club scene'. The only problem was our nearest top level team was Sale....egg-chasing may have been a lot more alluring prospect to my little Scouse self but there was no-way I was going to cheer on a load of Mancs. There were plenty of teams around but it seemed wrong just to seize upon one. Leicester and Northampton both seemed nice choices as Austin Healey & Matt Dawson were both good Evertonians but to really support a team it had to be somewhere local. Enter Waterloo...as it happened my first game was against Blackheath a club that was deeply involved in the formation of the football league...I don't remember that much of the game because Cains Lager was one pound a pint but the rugby was fun and the place was wonderfully friendly & welcoming.

It didn't take much soul searching to realise we found our club, who needed the Premiership when you could drink with club players and officials standing next to memorials to the club's war heroes in a clubhouse that reeked of tradition and heritage (and beer and liniment). Since then an increasing number of us go to Waterloo whenever our footy teams aren't playing. It's a great club and handy neutral ground for reds and blues to meet up for some Saturday sport. There is still pitifully few people I know who are into rugby but who cares...the internet keeps you in touch with all the rugby info & chat you need. It doesn't matter our team will almost certainly never attain a decent level of play. The team do what they can do and the bar, with it's real ale and open fire, is always welcoming. Waterloo will always be second fiddle to the footy but does that really matter? We don't care.

Super, super Saturday

Bring on the rugby...Scotland decided to give Italy a 21 point head start at Murrayfield. It was ludicrous, three interception type break-away tries (all this in the first 6 minutes). They ralleyed well but Italy defended like trojans. They gave away a tonne of penalties but because of the defecit the Scots had to go for the try instead of taking the three points. Ultimately the Italian pack held out comfortably for their first away win in top level rugby. Great to see how much it meant to them



And so to Croke Park. Words fail me on how to describe the dignified pride shown by the Irish fans. They warmly applauded England onto the field, respectfully observed our national anthem and them roared their own.



The game was, in truth quite one sided. England competed but they were in defense for basically the whole game and they couldn't live with Ireland's quality. There was only one team in it. A historic, richly deserved victory for the Irish including a great Shane Horgan try from a superb cross-field kick. They must be gutted that that one slip-up against France has robbed them of a Grand Slam.



Onto Paris. Wales stunned their hosts with two early tries....but then the French woke up and came hammering back at them. They look to be well clear at 29-14 but Wales kept on at them. Impressive performance but our Gallic cousins and a Grand Slam in the offing?



Great, great day of rugby. In review it's dissappointing to see England pummelled like that but realisitcally the game went to form. People seem to think the English are always talking about their Grand Slam prospects like they are a foregone conclusion but it really isn't the case. We are in transition, we are mving in the right direction but it's come far too late for the world cup. Basically we've treaded water for the entirity of the Andy Robinson era...anything we can get going now will surely be too little too late. It's sad to see what's happened to the Welsh after their tremendous Grand Slam season. They now sit bottom of the table which strikes me as harsh but them's the breaks. Regardless of what happens for the rest of the tournament Ireland and France must be pretty happy. Ireland have really quality, strength in the pack, and a midfield that's truly world class. France are looking very, very efficient. You couldn't begrudge them a title and a grand slam if it comes. They are suffering loads of injuries but they look very, very good.

Rugby's creative side

Oh, what boredom will drive the creative mind to:

A Rugby Supporter’s Lament

When toiling props, grunt and sweat,
Ruck, scrum, maul, a powerful threat.
When neck-less hookers push and throw,
Trundling onwards they will go.
When mountainous locks soar like kites,
Making threats and starting fights.
When crafty flankers stray offside,
Put hands on ball and tackle with pride.
When rampaging 8s carry the ball,
Striking fear to opposition, one and all.
Urging them forward I will be,
Arguing with the referee.

When scrum halves, miniature generals become,
Order their forwards, beat the drum.
When gliding fly halves show their class.
Pivot, scissor, dummy pass.
When centres duck and bob and weave,
Or crash past tackles and through gaps cleave.
When wingers t’wards the corner fly,
And viewing women swoon and sigh.
When fullbacks crunching tackles make,
And flying wingers’ bones they break.
There on the sideline I will be,
Pint in hand, celebrating victory.

Prove it

Proving a negative is a pretty arduous task let me tell you. I work in IT so the impetus is on me to test my stuff until I can be sure that there isn't any problems...this is fiendishly tricky. In this case it's the way it has to be. The same applies to criminal cases. The prosecution has to prove that there isn't any doubt that a defendant did the crime whilst the defence merely has to prove that it's possible that he/she didn't do it. Again this is the way it has to be.

Should proving a negative be applied to more areas of life...for example should I have to prove I'm telling the truth whenever I say everything or should things be taken at face value. Taken further if when claiming a lottery win should I have to prove that at the last moment before handing over my ticket I didn't suddenly rip the ticket up thus invalidating it.....okay I'm being facetious now however it struck me that that was what Northampton were having to do in Saturday's crunch match against Bristol.

Saints had clearly breached the Bristol line and flopped on top of the ball...the video replay couldn't see whether the grounding was true and so denied the try. I know that's the rule but is it correct? In going to ground in the try area with the ball under control haven't Saints done as much as is humanly possible to score a try. Should the fact that the camera angles couldn't prove that there wasn't a Bristol arm underneath the ball be enough to chalk off their efforts. It's just counter-intuitive. The try has been scored, the only thing that should chalk it off is evidence of a brilliant bit of defending....the brilliant bit of defending shouldn't be assumed just 'cause it can't be disproved surely.

I mean if the ball is squirming about or it mightn't actually be over the line then fine go for the replay but don't just do it 'cause you can and then disallow the try 'cause you can't prove a negative. The phrase "benefit of the doubt" needs to be looked at...at the point the replay was asked for there is no quesiton whatsoever that the ball was over the line and under a Saint...the only doubt was if Bristol had held it up or not. I know there's never going to be a 100% method on getting this right but surely given where there is doubt you need to err on the side of the team that's basically done it's job.

Am I just naive on this or in this case is the ref and the video ref bottling it 'cause they don't want to court controversy.

Comments welcome.

A day down in the heartland

Ah, the south…where us northerners like to go for a good old moan…and with just cause too. It seemed like we were barely south of Catthorpe when beer suddenly became £3 a pint, huge BMW off-roaders were driving 3 millimetres from our bumper and some bilious old hag called Jane from the Bede Close branch of the Higham Ferrers Self-appointed Landscape-gardening Authorities was ranting and berating us for parking our car one the side of the road…perhaps we’d caught the place on a bad day.

You see the reason we were down here was that this was rugby country. Yes, an actual place where people are rugby fans and walk around wearing rugby tops and everything. Franklins Gardens was just to the south and we’d driven past a place called Welford so presumably Welford Road could not be far away. Yep, Everton’s tame exit from the FA Cup spelt, for us, one thing…Beer & Rugby.

Saints and Tigers would have to do without us for today, however, ‘cause we were headed to Goldington Road for Bedford V Waterloo. This would be an interesting one as it was my first ever Waterloo away game. Visitors to Blundellsands all seem to love it ‘cause it’s a “proper old fashioned rugby club”. Small, friendly little ground, lovely old clubhouse with it’s internationals board and hallowed war memorials, all the old memorabilia along with an open fire and as much real ale as you could ever want.

How would a visit to a fairly big club in rugby’s heartland stack up? Well in truth it stacked up fairly well. For a start there was people there…not millions of them but certainly about 2,000 compared to little Waterloo pulling in 750 - 1,000 on a good day. This didn’t mean that it had that faceless footy ground feeling, a nice clubhouse beckoned and the fans still mill round & mix sociably on the sidelines and the pitch, though oddly sloping was better than you’d see in many Premiership grounds (Guinness & Barclays)…Yep, Bedford is a lovely place to watch a game of rugby.

The home fans seemed a good bunch, we ensconced ourselves in with a couple of group of blues and chatted, drank and enjoyed the game together. It was all very welcoming. Indeed the one loudmouth who spent the game jeering the opposition, shouting at us to get back up the M6 and making lazy, lame “robbing Scouser” jokes about our Scottish number 8 (“Get a haircut you car thief” * pause for laughter *) seemed to be irritating home and away fan in equal amounts. So basically a case of a proper National Division One team being bigger but just a good.

Now onto the game…In that department teams like Bedford are certainly bigger but “just as good” would be a massive understatement. People talk about the gap between the Nationals and the Premiership but for a group of part-timers stepping up against teams like Bedford, Exeter, Pirates, Rotherham etc is just as big-a chasm.

We were gratified to find that the Blues hadn’t snuck any highly rated internationals into their side as they’d done with Tom Varndell back in October. Even so there was only ever going to be one winner. The Blues forced themselves into possession for most of first 40 minutes and Waterloo, it has to be said, defended tremendously. Time and time again the Blues went into contact hard through the middle, recycled professionally and worked it out wide to the quick lads. It sounds patronising but the fact that at half time the score was kept to 13-3 really was a credit to the Merseysiders but inevitably you can’t hold them off for a full 80 minutes. Almost from the off in the second half the gaps began to appear and the Blues class, professionalism and fitness told….it was only when Bedford had their bonus point safely tucked away that Waterloo had a real sustained spell of pressure. The locals were pretty unanimous in praising & applauding the visitors efforts (aside from our loudmouth friend who smugly urged the part-timers to kick for goal in order to double our score) but ultimately we all agreed that on FA Cup forth round day there was never, ever going to be a shock on the cards.

In fairness to our boys this isn’t the sort of game we are targeting but you have to concede that Waterloo will almost certainly go down now. Moseley, our fellow National Division 2 promotion buddies, are making a slightly better fist of it and may stay up but it’s been ultra-tough for both teams. The demands of stepping up into a full-time game and the standards it requires are merciless…Neither Mose or ‘loo are bad sides. They walked to promotion last season and their nearest rivals that year, Esher are strolling the division in their absence.

Fairytales do happen…a post match glance at Bristol scraping a victory against Saints proves that but you get the feeling that for a small, traditional amateur club mixing it with the professionals is going to get tougher and tougher.

It’s not nearly as scary as facing the Bede Close branch of the Higham Ferrers Self-appointed Landscape-gardening Authorities though.

Liverpool Daily Post - Match Report

Bedford Today - Match Report

Rugby Pubs

Why are there so few pubs in English towns and cities willing to show rugby?

Being cast headfirst into the real world for the first time is certainly an eye-opening experience. My example revolves around the final group matches of the Heineken Cup. The last, potentially most exciting, weekend of Europe’s premier club competition before the knockout stages. It is at this point of the tournament than the fate of many of the Northern Hemisphere’s premier sides will be sealed. Dreams forged, season’s ambitions shattered.

Unfortunately, this happened to coincide with what would be widely regarded as one of the English Premiership’s most anticipated round of matches. Liverpool versus Chelsea at Anfield on the Saturday, closely followed by Arsenal against Manchester United the next day.

For rugby followers in England without their own access to Sky Sports on a 24/7 basis, this spells trouble. A mouth-watering platter has been set down before them. 2004 European Champions Wasps travelling to France, only a victory ensuring qualification; injury ravaged Sale going head to head with the exciting Ospreys, a side chasing one of two elusive runners up spots; heavyweights of English rugby, Leicester, looking to storm the previously impenetrable fortress of Thomond Park and snatch group 4 from the men of Munster; the free-running Scarlets looking to round off in style against attack-minded London Irish; and finally, league strugglers Northampton looking to give their supporters something to cheer about in a pool 6 showdown with Biarritz.

To have this feast denied would border on torture. Try finding an establishment not overrun by Burberry clad Gooners, Bluskis, Scousers or Muppets though. It’s a task not lightly undertaken.

The television room in my University hall of residence had been swamped by roundyball (or ‘fagball’, as my associate in my quest for rugby insisted on calling it) enthusiasts, all discussing the finer points of Mourinho’s downfall and how large Peter Crouch’s boots really are. Once the annoyance that I hadn’t come in earlier and irritated them all by refusing to change channels wore off, desperation began to take hold. Striding out with the resolve of finding a pub to spend my afternoon watching rugby in (because surely one of the many close by must be showing something other than the football) I found an ally in a long haired third year (the aforementioned user of the term ‘fagball’) I had spoken to while watching previous matches. In revealing my plan of action to him, I discovered a startling fact. Apparently in all of Reading – a growing town housing a top-flight rugby side – there was only one pub (count ‘em!) willing to put on the oval game.

Wasps began their Frog bashing in 5 minutes. The pub in question was in the centre of town, at least 30 minutes away. We would have to hop to it.

Arriving a disappointing 35 minutes into the match, thoughts of dwelling on the missed action were quickly swept aside. It was like entering Aladdin’s Cave; a wondrous tardis of rugby paraphernalia and atmosphere. Nothing to look at from the outside, passed by in seconds by swarms of people emerging from Reading’s busy station, upon entry the rugby supporter will feel a wave of calm sweep over them. Tens, maybe even a hundred, rugby shirts of clubs both professional and amateur hang suspended from the rafters. Signed balls and photos appear to hold the weight of the ceiling by themselves. Men (and women) of all ages and shapes (assuming ‘round’ is still considered a shape) are seated facing an enormous television screen mounted into the far wall, or lean at the bar gazing at any one of 3 other sets positioned around the interior. One bearded veteran dozes in the corner, lazily puffing on his pipe filled with who-knows-what. His presence doesn’t intrude on my enjoyment in the slightest, but I will save anti-smoking law rants for another time.

Half time swiftly descends and drinks are purchased, along with snacks to replenish us from our long journey and sustain us as the action draws in our attention. Cider and crisps. Proper pub food. The next 40 minutes comes and goes, Wasps defending for all they are worth to cling on for victory. No one leaves at the final whistle. More drinks are bought. More people enter for the start of the day’s first Anglo-Celtic clash. As a spectacle, the match is somewhat cagey, but absorbed by one and all. The final whistle blows. No one leaves. More drinks are bought. More people arrive and settle down for the showpiece in the Emerald Isle.

A thoroughly good-humoured time is had by one and all. By the closing minutes, even die-hard Tiger haters such as myself must grudgingly admit they have done a good job. At this time I decided I am definitely going to spend another 4 hours in here tomorrow.

Wandering back home in a happy, if slightly inebriated state, I begin to ponder the business acumen of Reading’s pub-owning landlords. Not just those in Berkshire’s largest town in fact, but across the whole country.

How many pubs across the country must have shown the football on their screens? I would take a wild stab at the vast majority. I would also guess that most of them ended up with the football on. Very few of those buildings can possibly have been full. All it would take was one or two bright sparks to change the channel and they would suddenly attract a whole new audience. Those rugby fans sitting at home, depressed at the inadequacy of the canned beer in their hand while watching the match, may suddenly decide to pop down to the local for a swift few pints of entertainment. If they know the option is open to them. Some may see placing the gentleman’s game ahead on the schedule as a risk – but it works! I have seen it with my own eyes. Rugby pubs in England’s major towns and cities are the way forward.


Epilogue – I returned the next day for my second hit, entering to find groups of London Irish fans huddled around their beer. My decision not to wear my Saints shirt suddenly seemed all the more pertinent. Of course I need not have worried. In two days of intense sporting action, with alcohol flowing from the taps like water, I saw not one bit of trouble or animosity. Fans chatted liberally about the sate of the game in England, Europe and the World, but not once it even threaten to turn into anything more heated than a steak pie and chips. The owner even appeased some football following customers that day by putting their big match on the even bigger screen. Luckily he then showed them who was in charge by turning the sound down. Imagine not being able to hear the commentary from Franklins Gardens on the other monitor!

The Beautiful Game

The whistle blows on another brilliant night of rugby union, and 30 men of varying height, weight, race, and nationality walk off the pitch. After a fast, ferocious, and intense rugby match, the players show the upmost respect for the opposition with handshakes, trading of shirts, or even clapping the visiting team off the pitch.

But, what is the beautiful game? Certainly not a sport in which diving, cheating, bribing, and dirty tactics are widely accepted as part of the game. Certainly not a sport in which sportsmanship seems to only influence a few players and is only carried out by managers as a source of good media. Certainly not a sport in which a team is made up of 11 individuals. Certainly not football.

The beautiful game is rugby football, whether it be rugby union or rugby league. Where it is purely a gentlemans sport both on and off the pitch. Sure there will be a few odd punchups when the physicality reaches a climax, but even when situtations like this do happen they are quickly dispersed and quickly disciplined, and after the game the guys involved will most likely share a beer.. or two.. or three.

Rugby Football a sport where 13 (league) and 15 (union) men have one heartbeat, one dream, one goal. A fantastic spectacle where each player plays for the person standing next to him and vise versa. Putting their body on the line so that the person next to them could score a try, or so that their team can reach that one goal, and that one dream. Rugby emphasizes what teamwork is all about, it is making that one sacrifice to spring another player, or putting ones safety on the line as to see his club win that crucial match.

Is the beautiful game a game in which a player puts himself above his teammates and his club or is it a game in which one player is a piece to a puzzle and without the rest of his teammates nothing will get accomplished. Which is the beautiful game?

I know which one I'd pick any day. Rugby Football.