By apb on 10/3/2003
March 10 2003

Jon Callard. 5 appearances for England, 69 international points and one of my rugby heroes - if only for making Gavin Hastings cry on live TV. Imagine this upstanding example of British sportsmanship breaking the nose of a man of thirty-six. Yet he did it I swear! Let me tell you how it all began...

[FX: Screen goes wobbly, scene fades away to be replaced by the following story....]

Jon Callard was announced in the Summer of 2002 as the new first team coach of the Leeds Tykes, and a few games in to the season, when the "Long Room" sessions started, I got my first chance to meet and chat to this great rugby man.

I can't quite remember what I actually said - I get the distinct impression I came across as the typical gibbering buffoon that most megastars have to deal with every day - but I saw the chance to talk to him and I grabbed the only chance I was likely to get that day.

I know I talked about how much I enjoyed watching the Tykes play, and how my young seven year old first-born was now a regular at Cleckheaton minis. I added that, although I'd never played the game at senior level, I was also involved with the club helping to coach the little 'uns when the need arose (and believe me, get more than four or five excited seven year olds on a rugby pitch and they take some coaching....).

It was at this point that he broke my nose.

He didn't know he broke my nose. I didn't know he broke my nose. He didn't actually break my nose there and then, but what he said at that point caused the train of events to occur that did break my nose as surely as if he'd whacked me in the face with a railway sleeper.

He said (I paraphrase) "In order to coach properly, you need to play or have played. You should join a team - either a thirds or fourths team, maybe even a Vets team - no offence meant", he added hurriedly. "Get yourself involved and play, then you'll be a better coach".

Now ever since I started living in Yorkshire, I've said to myself "you must get started with a rugby club, and play a bit." I said this when I first arrived, a fresh-out-of-university 21-year old just settling in to married life and his first real job. I said this when I changed jobs five years later and started to commute across the Pennines everyday, noticing I was getting a bit more "robust" around the midriff. I said this when I came past Cleckheaton's ground one evening and saw the sign outside congratulating Bentos on his selection for the Lions tour of 1997. And I said this when I got my lad started in the minis section. Fifteen years of "I must do this" without getting around to it.

One sentence from JC, and I was on the phone.

I enquired about starting with the Fourths on a Thursday night. I was in the team for the Saturday afternoon. "What position do you play?" was the fairly predictable first question on arrival at the meeting point. "W-W-Well", I stuttered, "I was a pretty mean fly-half at the age of sixteen". "Left wing it is then", came the chirpy response, and the number 11 shirt of cherry and white was chucked over.

I watched the first half of the game from the sidelines. At half time, I got the nod and stripped off the old jogging pants to reveal my brand new Canterbury shorts (£10 from Sports Soccer, Birstall), my Jarrod Cunningham T-shirt (£6, Reading Fatboy), my bright red socks (£3, Sports Soccer, Birstall), and my brand new Canterbury "Waika" boots (£25, Sports Soccer, Birstall). Hastily pulling on the number eleven jersey, taking it off again and putting it on the right way round, I trotted on to the pitch and took up my position for the kick-off.

I was feeling pretty pleased with myself. I'd finally done it! Fifteen years of procrastination, and I was there, on the pitch, watching the game of Rugby from the best vantage point there was. Oh, hold on, opposition's coming this way - here he comes.....right go for him!

Remember I hadn't done this for around twenty years. I flapped around like some kind of demented seagull with its wings clipped, or maybe more accurately like a demented seagull that's just had one of its wings run over by a Reliant Robin, and now finds itself fully in the path of a twenty-tonner. I managed to stop the feller in question - more by luck than judgement; he was probably so amazed at the idiotic display that he fell over in disbelief.

Thing is, he fell forward. On to me. On to my nose. Which sort of went "Crack!" and "Bleed, Bleed, Bleed!".

[FX: Screen fades down, and wobbles back to the cosy fireside chat we started with.]

....and that is how Jon Callard broke my nose. When I see him again, I'll ask him to buy me a pint!

The thing is, despite the blood, despite the searing pain, despite the blisteringly cold wind that was blowing across the pitch, I actually enjoyed myself. Yesterday I phoned the team captain to make sure he knew I was available for selection. Its usually listed in the Spenborough Guardian. Next time you see it, just check inside the back page for us. You'll see me there. Cleckheaton Fourth XV. Replacements.

God, this is a great game!

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