By Innings
March 8 2024

As we await the return of the Premiership, there is plenty to watch, some of it with bated breath, as England simultaneously adapt to a new vision of rugby, at least for themselves whilst also trying to re-connect with a dangerously disconnected support base.  One the one hand it is great to see some of the Saracens players shine on the international stage, and I do not forget that we have representatives in more than one six-nations squad.  On the other hand, it gives an opportunity to wallow in a little nostalgia.  

I do pretend that this little exercise is a definitive review of the greatest moments in Saracens history; it is nothing more than a reminder to the aged among us that we have been privileged to watch some of the greatest players to grace a rugby field whilst wearing a Saracens shirt.  I thought a fair bit about who should be included in my road trip, but cannot talk about them all.  So, players at the peak of the game’s history, Lynagh, Horan, Sella, Pienaar have to be mentioned but passed over, because my stroll takes me to look mostly at individual moments, thereby by-passing most of the great overall contributions. 

My first player up is Jacques Burger.  He appears in two memory clips, and it could well have been more. 

My son and I were at Twickenham for the Premiership final, with rotten seats, very low down, looking along the try-line.  Most of the game took place way upfield to our right, and far too often our view was of Toby Flood picking up another three points, three times in each half.  As the clock wound down, Tigers had just taken that sixth offering of points, and were desperate for the try that would give them the win.  A seventh penalty would be no good. The only try of the game, converted had been followed by five out of five penalties scored by Owen Farrell, so the margin was four points.  The formidable Tigers pack was firmly parked on the Sarries try-line, undertaking relentless and repeated pick and go manoeuvres to drawn in the Sarries defence.  From Stankovich at loose-head to Crane, back on after an injury to Waldrom, at Number 8, Tigers had the players to deliver on such a policy.  Sarries had only seven forwards in the mix, because Jacques was about other business.  Tigers left winger Alesana Tuilagi was positioned at first receiver, and the obvious plan was that his power over ten metres would come into play once the gap had been created.  Jacques placed opposite him, eyes only on him, clearly lining him up for the mother and father of all tackles.  More than once, Tuilagi indicated his reluctance to take the pass, which never came, leaving it to his forwards to close out the game fruitlessly.  Perhaps Burger had held Sarries’ lead simply by standing in one place and looking enthusiastic about the moment that could decide the match in Tigers’ favour.  The moment never came.

Three years later, one of the great teams in Europe was rampaging through the Heineken Cup.  Clermont has lost the previous year’s final by a single point, and were undoubtedly looking to win, as second seeds against Sarries seeded seventh.

The game that Sunday afternoon was remarkable for three statistics.  It was Clermont’s worst-ever defeat in Europe. Jacques only touched the ball twice but was man of the match.  Burger attempted 27 tackles, all solo, and completed 27.  The concept of ‘dominant tackle’ statistics had not been invented, but Burger’s contribution was possibly the greatest single-handed dominance of the opposition ever seen at this level of the game.  Astonishingly, he was not even on the field for the final ten minutes.

My third memory moment is a small moment of individual inspiration.  I cannot recall the match, the result, or any other matter about it.  All I recall is Hugh Vyvyan.  Many older supporters will remember Hugh’s unique warm-up routine, a solitary half-pace run round the half of the pitch where the team was going through its drills, to all appearances the only man in his world at that moment.  He was a greatly under-rated lock, who should not, in my opinion, have languished as a one-cap wonder for England, with probably a unique record of having scored a try on every capped national appearance that he made.  Arriving in mid-career from 156 appearances for Newcastle Falcons, he played for Sarries 191 times, and remarkably was appointed club captain before the first of them.  During the game that I am not recalling well, Hugh was lurking during an attacking phase, on the opposition 22, close to the touch-line.  The ball turned over, a poor clearance kick landed in Hugh’s arms and perhaps to his own surprise, but certainly to everyone else’s, he took a chance on a drop goal.  Perhaps not to his own surprise, but certainly to that of everyone else, he was successful.  The gasp of surprise that ran round the ground, on and off the pitch, was almost as memorable as the goal itself.

“HRHRH” Richard Hill was not called the Silent Assassin without reason.  As openside or blindside flanker he was a bedrock player for England 71 times, five times for the British and Irish Lions, 275 times for Saracens.  He was one of the outstanding defensive payers of his, or any other, generation.  His ability to break up attacks and force attackers into urgent defence marked him out at every level.  In 2007, a remarkable rugby league player arrived a Gloucester Rugby.  His time at Canberra had been stellar, his contribution at Bradford Bulls giving them considerable success.  Lesley Vainikolo was clearly a league convert of the highest quality.  His first union game was a triumph, five tries on the opening day of the season, at Leeds Carnegie.  His next game was anticipated.  Saracens were a side not feared neither at home nor away, being able to win or lose, home or away, with equal ease.  With Vainikolo on the wing, the only question was whether he would score five tries again, or perhaps even more.  With Hill obviously nursing a knee injury, it was by no means obvious that he was the right person for the task of shutting down this explosive threat.   As the first half developed, Vainikolo received the ball several times, but receiving the pass was for him to receive, in an instant, HRHRH’s shoulder somewhere in the vicinity of his fourth rib.  Vainikolo was by no means the first player to discover that he had met a player who had read his opponent’s mind before he knew it himself.  I do not recall whether he was replaced at half-time, or just before it.

I have to admit a cop-out here.  My fourth memory is of a smile, a joy in playing the game, a sublime talent who transformed for all players and spectators, at all levels, the expectation of what a hooker could do for the team.  Perhaps it helps that the smile was the manifestation of a player who perhaps could have played in almost any team as a completely equipped inside centre.  Schalk Brits had played a journeyman career for five different South African clubs in his seven-year career, and was just breaking into wider recognition.  On 30 May 2009 he played for the Barbarians against England. To say that he lit up Twickenham would be an understatement.  Even as an already keen Saracens supporter, I was unaware that he was already in talks with Saracens, where he appeared at the beginning of the coming season.  Saracens and he were a meeting of the minds, and for ten seasons he was at the heart of all that was best about the team, still smiling, still wanting rugby to be a joy to play and to watch.  He was always there in the after-game walk around the pitch, usually well behind the rest of the team, held up by the endless demands for autographs, photos or handshakes.  England rugby owe much to him right up to the present.  He mentored the present national captain, not just in how the hooker can be a dominant figure in all phases, but how one player can lead and influence the entire team, by personality and example, not just by wearing the armband of captaincy.

My fifth memory is of meeting a supporter, not a fan, but the most dedicated giver of life and commitment to the club.  My son and I were at Twickenham, early for the Premiership final.  Somebody had told us that if we went to a corner of the concourse, way before the game began, we would catch close-up glimpses of the squads, going down for an early look at the pitch and stadium.  It would be a moment when the players were in the last stages of their personal emotional preparations to play, no Walkman headphones in sight.  As we stood there, a few other supporters joined us.  Somehow it seemed to be a very significant moment, being as close as we could ever hope to be to this little ritual of such a big day.  After players had gone by, we turned to plunge back into the bustle and noise of the concourse.  To say I was surprised to find that Nigel Wray was standing beside us would be an understatement.  He could have chosen to be almost anywhere in the stadium, but perhaps the urge was strong, to be an ordinary supporter, a face in the crowd, to experience what had first brought him along the journey from ex-player to supporter who just happened to own the club.

And finally, whimsical memories.  Vicarage Road, a cold, soulless stadium, but the forge upon which Saracens formed themselves, The Red Lion where the Fez Boys danced the sand dance.  Behind my season ticket seats a family with a small infant wearing enormous noise-cancelling ear-defenders.  I saw him growing up over many years.  Behind that family, a lone voice, I never saw who she was, but at every Sarries line-out anywhere near us, her cry rang out: “Leap like a salmon”.

In about 1989 we went to watch one of our sons play in his school’s inter-house tournament.  The rugby coach, I think it was Dick Greenwood, was also watching one game, and told me to look out for the future career of a young scrum-half, one Kieran Bracken. So it was that in the summer of 1996 we went to watch a game at London Scottish at the Richmond Park ground.  The pitch was roped off from the spectators and all had a wonderful pre-season feel to it.  Bracken has just signed for Saracens.  I had retired from playing in my early forties, and this one game ignited a support for Saracens that would fill the gap caused by stopping playing.  I endured the miseries of Boxing Day at Vicarage Road against Harlequins, on a day so cold that nobody actually wanted to be there and a drab draw was all that anybody could have expected.  I suffered the agonies of one game that would decide relegation or survival in the top flight.  There were the games that established Sarries as top-flight European challengers, the games that proved them to be as good as the best.  Now at age 78, with dreary but treated prostate problems that are at last perhaps a thing of the past for me, I could not see that renewing my season ticket could be justified, and indeed I have been unable to attend a single game this season.  Reduced to a comfortable armchair and at the mercy of sports broadcasters, perhaps my days of driving a round trip of 100 miles to home games are over.  My ambition to complete the century of writing match reviews for this website still burns.  I need a few more, I must not get stuck on the dreaded 99.