The Recreation Ground Experience
By kwin
December 29 2002
I had never been to the Rec before this weekend and I was really looking forward to my visit to one of the modern era's temples of Rugby - not least because I really thought we were going to win! Well, the result disappointed but the trip didn't.
An early post Christmas start on Saturday when, alarm duly sounded I left home at 9.25am for the the long trek to the Stoop to catch the coach. Arriving at 9.32, I was worried to find no-one there: surely they hadn't left without me? A quick hunt revealed the usual suspects shivering behind the East Stand waiting for a late coach. A long forty-five minutes ensued while a harassed Will narrowly escaped a vote of no-confidence as he employed his natural school-masterly authority to summon a coach and driver from nowhere, solely by the use of a mobile phone.
The coach was comfortable and the long journey livened up by a video of last season's relegation battle against Leeds (we won). We got caught up all over again in the emotion of the night but nothing got as big a cheer as the shots of various geezers and message boarders in the crowds... Young Rob 'bobbing' forming the natural highlight, here - and was that Nigel_B granting a brief interview behind the East Stand?
The coach dropped us off at about 12.30 right next to the ground, Will arranged us into a crocodile and made us hold hands with our partners as he led us across the busy road in search of a pub small enough for us to make a real impact. As we crossed Pultney bridge, startled shoppers gathered their children to their skirts and grasped their shopping bags firmly. looking on as we trewsered our way through the busy shopping street. Eventually we found a pub about the size of a largish disabled toilet and sardined ourselves in. The landlord's initial look of alarm, was easily overcome by sight of Robshew's wallet (which we'd stolen from him earlier).
Three leisurely pints of finest west-country beer later, we emerged blinking into the sunshine for a short stroll back to the Rec, the City was gleaming, with brief glimpses of the ground visible across the river, between beautiful honey-coloured Georgian buildings. The atmosphere was humming as shoppers mingled with the expectant blue and back crowd. All was well with world - we were still going to win remember - and ....well that's the only explanation I can really give for my strange decision to purchase a doner kebab from the cafe next door, just metres away from an upmarket bakery where Mrs B was buying much more healthy-looking succulent home made organic West Country pasties for herself and hers.
Not that I'm complaining about the kebab, mind, but it must have been the first kebab I've had since I was at university and I was pleased to find the whole doner experience exactly as I remembered it: 'Saldjillsossir?' he asked. 'You what?' (it had been a long time remember) 'Djoowansaldajillsoswithassir?' (impatiently). For I moment I was bemused by his unusual turko-cypriot-west-country patois, but suddenly a long buried memory surfaced and with a blinding flash came understanding. I smiled: "Yes indeed", I said, "In fact extra Chilli sauce, please - But go easy on the salad" And there it was: a steaming double handful of eye-watering meat and bread, just how I like it, just how I remembered it. In fact the meat tasted as if it had been carved from the same large block as my last kebab nearly twenty years before.
Anyway, the kebab kept me going during the 15 minute queue to get into the ground (I kid you not). When we eventually got inside it was at the same time familiar yet striking. Imagine a large council recreation ground, with a rugby-pitch sized corner fenced off by a temporary stand and you've just about got it. What buildings there were, were a mixture of C17, C20 and portakabin, and the whole set up had a welcoming small-town feel to it.
As is traditional we'd found a gate diagonally opposite our seats so we had plenty of time to take everything in as we made our way all around the ground: Everything was more cramped than the Stoop but the lack of anywhere else to go had one advantage in that everyone found their seats a bit more quickly, helped along by a retired-colonel sort of MWTM counting down the time to kick-off in the manner of an interval at the theatre. 'Eleven minutes. Eleven minutes everyone'.
At some point during my circumnavigation I was interested to see two tables set up by the busy Bath Supporters Club. They were selling trumpets and window stickers, enrolling people for their forthcoming European trip and also joining up new members. I spoke to one of the friendly ladies behind the table (a committee member I think) who told me they are nearly at their 1000 member target this season and are holding a party at the ground next month to celebrate their 5th anniversary.
Quins had been given tickets in a corner of a ground, in the open East Stand. It was fun being all together - though you miss a bit of the experience being separated from the Bath fans, of which there were few round us. Melvin tooted busily, and we got a few chants going but were generally drowned out by a large home crowd. The view was marvellous as we looked out toward the cathedral, and over to our right we could see local supporters hanging out of windows, and crushed up against railing at the end of an overlooking street, all eager to join the experience and watch their heroes but without having to pay for admission.
I settled down in my seat ('Seven minutes, seven minutes please') and leafed through my programme. It was actually a great read, packed with information and features. An interesting feature called Connections (a regular?) discussed players that have played for for both clubs (in the professional era just two have played regularly for Bath and Quins: one of whom was playing on the day, can you name them?). Elsewhere there were match reports and pictures, a feature on Quins written by our very own Nick Melton, and a long essay from a long-time Bath supporter on the Spirit of Rugby and what keeps him coming to club ('Two minutes, two minutes, please')
During the game the Bath fans kept up a fair volume of noise - it wasn't Leicester, but it was respectable - and provided an ecstatic reception to the team's lap of honour at the end. They were pin-drop silent for the kicks, something I've not heard for a while. Most enjoyably, the stand was wooden so we all were able to perform a decent stamp at appropriate moments.
Half time came ('Ten minutes everyone, please be back in ten minutes, ten minutes please') but was a big disappointment to anyone used to the entertainment at the stoop. Most of the crowd were off queuing for the loo so maybe they figure there's little point in entertaining the stong-bladdered alone, but eventually some bored-looking youths wandered around the pitch throwing bright red plastic containers to an excited crowd. Several were launched in our direction and each time I called for it and made it mine.. but strangely lost out in the ensuing ruckus and never did found out what they contained.
After the game we all made for the bar - nostalgically known as 'the clubhouse' (how long has it been since we had one of those). It was - of course - in the diagonally opposite corner of the ground and the Stewards don't let you on the pitch at the Rec, so we made our way all around the duckboards keeping well clear of the West Country mud underfoot. The bar itself was a charming throwback to rugby-past with its asbestos roof and black & white pictures of well-loved past players on the walls (I looked everywhere for Stuart Barnes, but couldn't see him). On the wall outside, a notice had advised us that studs may not be worn. The bar was impossibly small (no, smaller than that) but in the tradition of the professional era about a third of it had been fenced-off for the enjoyment of debenture holders. Bar service was excellent and -here's an innovation - as well as drink they also sold crisps and nuts and snacks!
We returned to a waiting coach at 5.45 where an anxious Will, who had counted us all out, now counted us all in. Much confusion reigned when it emerged that we had a stowaway on board - in fact a stalker: it was none other than one of the club management who likes to hang out with the fans. After a quick vote he was allowed to stay and, as requested, we all signed his copy of the Geezer song-book as a departing gift. After a raffle and sing-song that I won't describe, in order to protect the innocent, we arrived back, tired but happy, at the Stoop at about 8.00pm and your reporter set off for home.
A great day out. It's always fun - and always interesting - to experience rugby at other clubs. Bath was everything I expected it to be with a picturesque ground and entertaining and friendly supporters who were very ready to talk. However the more clubs I go to, the luckier I think we are with the Stoop. Any of you that don't go to away games, I can't recommend it highly enough...and my hot tip for all of you is the Sun 16 Mar for London Irish....hope to see you there...