By snaderson
February 20 2007

Away trips, especially to Europe, are about more than just a game of rugby. They're a mini holiday in the company of good friends. For the benefit of those who've never been, here's a brief description of some of the fun that can be had courtesy of snaderson.

Although it was an early train to Calvisano, at 10:20, our proximity to the station in Brescia meant we were in no rush on Saturday morning. We eventually made the two minute journey round the corner and found groups of other Sale supporters, including Scuba, Hippy, Taffy and the rest of the gang, wandering around. The small train, when we boarded, was mainly full of Sale fans too.

Brescia was a little misty with some hazy sunshine but as we travelled into the countryside the fog grew thicker, making us worry about the viability of the match. Every time there was a view of some objects in the middle distance I tried to calculate how far away they were and whether I could see a full pitch’s length. Luckily the fog had thinned by the time we rolled into Calvisano and we felt pretty certain it would all go ahead.

The station wasn’t much to write home about. There was barely a platform, just a bordered gravely area not raised much above ground level; the station house consisted of a single, isolated building with a ticket office and a waiting room. We walked round the open space to the side of the building into a quiet, unpeopled suburban street. The Sale supporters made up a big gang walking uncertainly towards the town centre, taking up most of the road, some wag occasionally shouting a muted ‘Say-ul’ cry, but mainly passing in whispered quietness. The pavements were hard to negotiate, being uneven and badly maintained with trees planted in the middle of them ripping up the paving slabs, rather like Marsland Road from Brooklands station to Heywood Road. Oh the nostalgia!

Somehow the three of us – Jill, Pete and me – moved to the front of the party, which meant we were the first to arrive at the first bar we saw, and the first to get served. It was a small place with a few tables outside and a few occupied tables inside. There were some old chaps there but most of the clientele were young lads wearing white and blue Brescia football gear. They were readying themselves for their match with shots of brandy, Campari and beer. On the pavement a few of them sprayed a slogan on a white sheet and sometimes they sang or chanted. After the Sale invasion, most of the other drinkers deserted the bar, though only a dozen or so of us English stopped there at first. The very hairy landlord, clearly something of a character, served us haphazardly, helped by his deeply tanned female companion. It was a bit of a scruffy place, a utilitarian place for drinkers to get drunk in more than somewhere to relax pleasantly in. We had a couple of drinks and moved on, just as another big group of Sale fans arrived.

The town was still sleepy and quiet. A few cars drove past but very few people were in sight. Here and there Father Christmas was still making his way up the pale brown, yellow and orange house fronts. We walked a little way past the centre just to see where the Centro Sportivo San Michele was – given away by the big floodlights – then turned back to look for another bar. Narrow streets with a few shops and restaurants under loggias led us past a clock tower and into a little square where we saw Taffy’s gang drinking outside a bar, the Caffè René. It was a tiny place, no bigger than my front room, with bright yellow net curtains fluttering by the windows and maybe four tables. The toilet was something of a sight; there was no lock on the yellow- curtained glass door and half the tiny room around the porcelain hole in the ground seemed to serve as a storage space. A rudimentary bar was staffed by a tall, grey haired man, presumably René himself. As we sat there chatting to the other chaps (no locals in sight) a sturdy bloke with dark hair and long side-burns, wearing a sweat t-shirt and Calvisano shorts over his stocky, muscular legs, came in for a coffee. He smiled and said hello to us all but it wasn’t until afterwards, when someone turned up a Calvisano yearbook from the café’s shelves, that we discovered he was club vice captain Maurizio Zaffiri, holder of 10 Italian caps.

There didn’t seem to be much in the way of snackeries in town and time was getting on, so we headed towards the ground, hoping to find somewhere for a bite there. As we approached the ground we saw the Bowls Bar on the left, some training pitches to the right, beyond which appeared to be a bar or restaurant, and the main ground ahead of us. Unsure where to go we walked round the training pitches to the restaurant. It was packed with people sitting down for a carvery-type meal, not quite what we were after. For want of anything better to do we went through the turnstiles (actually just a bloke stood by a table) and found a thriving bar on the other side. The main stand was right in front of us so we went up to grab some seats. The seating consisted of a series of big concrete steps with yellow plastic seats attached close together in rows. Opposite was a scaffolding-based stand, a fraction of the size. There was no other seating, just a walkway round the pitch, fenced off with chicken wire. Jill found us some seats next to Pink Lady and CheadleEnder and I went to the bar. When I got back Jill went to search for food and was gone a long time. She eventually returned bearing some little pizzas (pizzette), freshly made with a delicious tomato sauce. They were well worth the wait. Not all rugby grounds have a wood-fired oven for making gorgeous snacks like that.

There was still time before kick-off so we each had a look round the tasteful club shop (advertising ‘gadgets’). I bought a t-shirt and Jill and Pete each bought subtly Calvisano’ed scarves. Down by the toilets I nodded to Steve Hanley (Rosie’s mum went further and accosted him). Nathan Bonner-Evans was wandering around there, refusing to use the hole-in-the-ground toilets the players had (though he regretted the lack of a lock on the door to the ladies toilet he eventually ended up using; Jill witnessed this problem and press-ganged a young lad into being her door monitor).

Suddenly the game was kicking off. It started with a slightly unreal feeling. In this tiny, quiet, sleepy town in the middle of nowhere, in the still, hazy air, sitting amongst all the people we normally see on dark nights in Stockport, mixing with players wandering casually amongst the supporters, it was difficult to grasp that there was a European cup match to play, one that ranked equally in sporting terms with the one we had been to only a handful of weeks before at the gigantic Parc des Princes. I wondered if the players felt the same or whether they were better at focussing on the job in hand.

Raspberry Ripol opened the scoring, driving through the middle and powering over the last five metres dragging the attendant tacklers with him, despite Stan on his right, to touch down under the posts. Wiggy (or ‘Wigg-less-worrrtha’ as the PA called him) converted and, indeed, had a pretty good game all round, kicking well (someone in the crowd joked that ‘he’ll never play 10 again – he made touch’). Ben Foden dashed through for a second and Chris Mayor, looking sharp and fast, made it three before half time. The only downside was a nasty leg injury to Bonzer. After some attention he was stretchered off, not an easy task for the diminutive female paramedics, who had to have a rest half way when their massive burden became too much.

It was 3 – 24 at half time and things were looking good. PSA had been prowling the walkways in front of us, on our side of the chicken wire, and had been chatting in a relaxed way to the fans. Shortly after the second half started it was good to see Bonzer come back out to sit with the others on the bench, albeit he was on crutches. Calvisano had a lot of possession and territory this half, despite Stan’s huge touch-finder kicks. Sale seemed content to let the Italians play and just contain them. It couldn’t last forever, though, and Calvisano eventually got a deserved pushover try for one of their front rows. It was some compensation for their being utterly mullered up front – Faure squidged his opposite man into the dirt every time. A bit more back play brought us our fourth try, and the bonus point. It was a second try for Ripol who scythed his way across the field to score at the far side. Sale took their foot off the gas at this point and let Calvisano play, their handling skills spoiling a number of good phases of play that could have led to further scores. Bruno came off to a chorus of chanting – some of the Italian fans joined in too – and cupped his ear to us, encouraging some more shouting.

Full time came with the score at 11 – 29, a bonus point with but hardly a thrashing, and we applauded the players off before heading back into town. Some fans bore their swapped booty with pride – Italians were wearing Sale hats and scarves, Sale fans sported yellow and black Calvisano hats, Sue B wore a food-spattered Calvisano apron. We had time to kill before the train so warmed up in the Bar della Sporto, which soon filled with other Sale fans.

Back at the station with the light fading, we joined all the other travellers milling around, muttering about the broken ticket validating machine. The train was some 20 minutes late and we fell into conversation with a retired GP, letting our talk range over such things as how to fill one’s retirement, what the best tactics for Sudoku were and how pleasant the calm of monastic life must be. Slowly the train took us back to town and we disappeared to our hotel to prepare for a quiet evening in Brescia, the rugby having been and gone like a ghost in the fog.