On the Blindside with the Crusader

By The Crusader
August 6 2003

The next time you make a visit to Franklin's Gardens, change the routine before the match. Do something different. Head across to the Church's Stand side and make your way to the Sturtridge end.

The Super Saint

The next time you make a visit to Franklin's Gardens, change the routine before the match. Do something different. Head across to the Church's Stand side and make your way to the Sturtridge end.

Arrive about twenty minutes before kick-off and you will see the Saints warming up. At first, it's a little desultory. A press-up here, a shoulder roll there, a couple of hamstrings being extended, a ball tossed from hand to hand, a prop showing off his kicking skills.

That's OK. It's the calm before the storm. In a minute or two, the Coaches will trot onto the pitch, with Wayne Smith following them, and then it's down to business.

But wait!

Here's one player who's not flicking out spin passes or practising drop kicks. On the Church's Stand side, he runs from the goal line to the halfway line, turns and runs back, and turns again, over and over and over.

Look at his expression. It is impassive. Those dark eyes have a faraway look. He doesn't see the opposition. He doesn't hear the buzz of the crowd. He is wrapped in pure inward concentration.

Watch this ritual with respect. Make sure your kids don't miss it. This is no commonplace warm-up. You are watching Beethoven cracking his knuckles. You are hearing Pavarotti clearing his throat.

Andrew Blowers is getting his mind right.

There were many standout performances at the club last season. When Nick Beal got the ball, he sent an electric current through the crowd like Ian Hunter in his prime. Steve Thompson changed from a Lively Lad to the Incredible Hulk. Matt Lord arrived as a stopgap and made himself indispensable.

But nobody, nobody, played with the quiet, controlled ferocity of Andy. And it was never diluted. Week in, week out, he set the standard. Even in the dark days of the mid-season, when for a couple of crucial weeks the boys mislaid the plot, the Hurricane kept on raging.

Each week, after the match, as we head for the bars or our cars, most of us will ask each other "So, who was your Man of the Match?" We swap names, dissect performances, pick out highlights.

But after every game last season, one player was always the benchmark by which everyone was judged. And my guess is that opposition fly-halves joined in the voting for this phenomenon.

This devout man must surely have taken to his heart the verse in Ecclesiastes that counsels: "Whatever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might."

My Saint of the Season - Andrew Blowers.


The Buck Stops Here

It was a shame to see Wayne Shelford's debut as a ZP Coach end so swiftly. During his time at Franklin's Gardens, he compelled a previously lacklustre bunch to play at a different level and drove some of them to reach heights they may never have achieved without him.

One season at Vicarage Road was never enough; Buck inherited a mish-mash that included a mix of eager newbies and old warhorses who found it hard to maintain the dynamism and the fitness they once had - the spirit was willing, but the flesh was weak.

It was never Buck's team, and despite improving results, Saracens' management lacked the patience and the nerve to let him build a team in his own image.

He didn't help his own cause by making his frustration public. But Sarries didn't employ him for his diplomatic skills; they chose him because he is a rough-edged, uncompromising, demanding winner.

But as he walked away from Vicarage Road considering what his coaching future might hold, perhaps everyone might want to reflect on his departure.

Buck might want to reflect that for the immediate future, a post as second-in-command might allow him to gnash his teeth on the touchline while he learns from an experienced Coach how not to wear his king-size heart on his sleeve.

Kyran Bracken might reflect that although his views may be totally justified, club loyalty demands that they should not be aired in the national press.

And Saracens’ bosses might reflect that if you bury an acorn in stony soil, it will probably need more than one season to become a mighty oak.

Such treatment will tend to discourage other Coaches who understand that overnight success usually needs a lot of spadework.




Stop Pushing And Form An Orderly Queue!

Full marks for enterprise to our neighbours at Sixfields.

Despite the Cobblers' relegation, the marketing men of Northampton Town have had a highly successful close-season.

In a partnership deal with the North Carolina-based Sports Management Group, the Cobblers will receive a total of £500,000 over five years.

In return, the Town will assist the Sports Management Group to set up children's soccer camps in North Carolina.

But here's the cherry on the cake. The Sports Marketing Group have also agreed to sell Cobblers' merchandise in the USA!

As you read this, sports stores all over the States are cranking up their sales forecasts, ready for the rush.


Hail and Farewell

It’s always sad to say goodbye to players who are moving on from The Saints at the end of a season.

For players like Mattie Stewart, the autumn of their careers is an appropriate time to strut their stuff on a smaller stage, whilst planning what the businessmen call their "exit strategy".

For others like Ian Vass, who have struggled to secure a permanent role in the first team, it is a chance to re-invent themselves somewhere new.

Though we regret their departure, both we and they probably sniffed it in the wind.

But goodbyes are most poignant when they are most unexpected, which is why both Peter Jorgensen and the Franklin's faithful were distressed to lose each other.

He's a funny case, that Jorgy.

When he first appeared in the GB and G, he found himself seriously short of wholehearted approval. The Franklin's crowd always demand more of newcomers than they can reasonably give, and we sat on our hands for the Aussie centre’s first few appearances.

The little man looked a pie or two over his fighting weight, and accelerated like your Auntie Maud's Morris Marina. But if you studied him closely, you recognised an innate positional sense, an instinct that got him to where the action was. And that's when we saw him tackling.

Smudger stuck by him, the surplus pounds melted away, and the Morris Marina became, well, not exactly a Ferrari, but certainly a high-mileage Rover.

Yet the biggest transformation was in his mindset. Halfway through the season, suddenly, gloriously, Jorgy got it.

Whether Smudger fed him confidence pills, or whether the man himself read the increasingly approving comments on the COYSDC website, Jorgy went nuts!

He started scoring tries for fun. Not just creep-over-the-line, bottom-of-the-pile, did-you-see-who-got-it tries, but great, big, gorgeous, under-the-posts, saved-the-game, through-to-the-next-round tries.

And tackles. Big lumps, little squirts, all went down like sacks of spuds as Jorgy tore into them.

Best of all, he played his way into the fans' hearts. The Saints fans may be demanding, but they recognise a gutsy little trier when they see one, and they loved him. They loved his tenacity and his fist-pumping energy. And Jorgy loved them right back.

Kilos of humble pie were scoffed. But towards the end of the season, came the news that shocked us and Peter. It was time to move on.

What made the sadness of parting with Peter so acute was not because his skills are indispensable. There have been, and will be, better players than Jorgy. But over the course of one brief season, through sheer effort, the little man made himself a true Saint.

Nevertheless, he is off to Rotherham. And this is how it must be. It is right that we should be sad to lose our friends. And it is also right that they must go.

A great Club like Northampton is not a pond. It is a river.


£50 On Saints For The Treble Please

One of the regular contributions I most enjoy is Wellsaint's Betting Guide.

His betting expertise is so sharp; I can only guess that he has probably lost more shirts than Heathrow's ground staff.

I'm too scared or too stingy to bet myself, but I get one hell of a thrill watching other people playing for high stakes.

I was once lucky enough to be in Las Vegas during March Madness. March Madness is an American institution. This is the month when the College Basketball Championships reach the knock-out stage. and over a couple of crazy weeks, the stars of the future hammer away at each other to try to make it into the Sweet Sixteen, then the Elite Eight, the Final Four, and at last, the Championship Game.

Every office, garage, warehouse, factory and shop in America circulates photocopies of "the brackets"; a sweepstake where you predict the result of every match, on a winner-takes-all basis.

If you think the Grand National is a betting frenzy, then get yourself to Las Vegas as the lunacy nears it’s climax.

For your average punter, it’s the closest thing to paradise this side of Kirsty Gallacher’s underwear drawer. Petite cocktail waitresses, wearing 39 cents worth of dress, bring free beer while four games vibrate on the big screens, everybody cursing and belching and swearing and behaving in ways not approved by their mothers, a chewed cigar in every piehole, with no thoughts of their lawn mowers, their prostates, or five daily servings of fruits and vegetables.

Some time in your life, if you get the chance to be there in late March, grab it!