Toiling at Twickenham: Sportsvibe Trains with the England Sevens Side

Oddly,�the butterflies fluttering under my sternum on Friday 13th of this month had nothing at all to do with the date. Rather than because of petty superstition, I was fluctuating violently between intense excitement and clammy nervousness at the prospect of taking part in a media training morning alongside the England rugby sevens squad. For two reasons, the apprehension was almost debilitating.

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First of all, to herald the build up to next weekend’s London leg of the HSBC World Sevens Series, the session would take place on the hallowed turf of Twickenham. Given that many professional players batter their way through entire careers without being afforded this honour, the scale of such a privilege was difficult to articulate.

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Secondly, my youthful memories of playing in sevens tournaments, at Rosslyn Park and across the country, are indelibly punctuated with utter exhaustion. Though my enthusiasm for the game has not diminished, as I hope it never will, there can be no denying that a great deal of the cardiovascular fitness I enjoyed as a teenager has evaporated. With this sad fact in mind, attempting to keep pace with England’s very best was bound to be a struggle.

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The short walk from the train station to the stadium was a perfect opportunity to calm down. No chance. With the cloudless, warm conditions only adding to the thrill, there was little danger of self-composure. As the immense structure of HQ came into view, my head began to spin with all the fantastic possibilities that the day could have in store.

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By the time I had reached entrance gate D, I had already played out numerous scenarios in my mind. It was pretty straightforward, in my own dream world, to dummy Ben Gollings before side-stepping Danny Caprice to cross the try-line under the posts in front of a capacity crowd. Making an earth-shattering cover tackle on James Rodwell to force the six foot five, sixteen stone forward into touch was equally easy.

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A patient security guard was on hand to snap me out of this stupor. As he indicated where the media should be, I was about to find out that reality was, unfortunately, rather different.

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Having entered the plush Spirit of Rugby suite, I was ushered through a narrow corridor, past a tantalising glimpse of the sun-kissed playing surface and into an away changing room where a decidedly edgy group of journalists had assembled. Pulling on the first freebie of the day, a red-and-white-striped jersey emblazoned with the logo of England sponsors Fly Emirates, there was time for a leisurely stroll, on jellied legs, out to the edge of the pitch. Then, after doing my best to inhale Twickenham’s enormity for ten minutes, the media motley crew was called for a briefing on the day’s proceedings in the home changing room, English rugby’s inner sanctum.

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As we trooped in rather sheepishly, we were greeted by head coach Ben Ryan, who quickly embarked on a whistle-stop introduction of the squad. Authoritative, with a wry sense of humour, Ryan’s experience of school teaching shone through as he provided a short, amusing résumé for each of his charges.

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Thorough and knowledgeable, each of Ryan’s short preambles was laced with pride, and rightly so. Lying second in the HSBC World Sevens Series standings, with just the Murrayfield leg to come after this weekend, England have a very real chance of overhauling New Zealand and claiming their first ever overall victory. A tournament win in Dubai, as well as final appearances in the South Africa, New Zealand and Hong Kong, has made for a very impressive campaign.

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Even so, some gentle teasing was reserved for a couple of players.�Bristol flyer Dan Norton, nicknamed ‘Strawberry’ on account of his father being called Aubrey, was playfully accused of using his dad’s profession (a welder) as an excuse to bring each hard-won team trophy back to his family home ‘for maintenance.’ Norton’s evident popularity within the squad ensured that this anecdote had the room shaking with laughter.

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When the titters had subsided, Matthew Turner, an exciting outside back from the famous rugby nursery of Bishop’s High School, Cape Town, was vilified for the temerity of having earned a Springbok Under 20 cap.

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Now into his stride, Ryan finished his roundup by quipping, “This is James Rodwell. All I will say about him is that he’s fulfilling our ginger quota. Every side needs at least one.”

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Though Rodwell cracked a wide grin as press and teammates alike giggled profusely, you got the feeling that the mountainous 26 year-old wouldn’t stand for that sort of ribbing on the pitch.

Following this, the twenty media attendees were integrated with the England boys and split into three teams. Team C, able to boast the pairing of Gollings, highest points scorer in IRB sevens history, and yours truly, looked particularly dangerous. The other internationals I would also be lining up alongside were Tom Powell, a loping Yorkshireman formely of Millfield School, Chris Cracknell, a massive veteran of 18 IRB events, and the uncapped Sam Edgerley.

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Edgerley, an electric young winger contracted to London Irish, seemed slightly subdued, understandably determined to catch the eye. He needn’t have worried. His purple and lime-green boots did that job for him, making my tattered black footwear look positively prehistoric. Incidentally, we both use the same supplier. Obviously, my sponsors would be upset if I were to disclose the name, though.

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By now, I was well immersed in kid-in-a-sweetshop mode, so much so that Ryan’s parting crack, a sarcastic promise that all drills would be conducted in full-contact conditions, was completely lost on me.

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All that remained before we could take to the famous pitch then, was a quick word from Roger Uttley, a true legend of British rugby, having captained England and represented the British Lions before managing the national side twenty years later. Uttley was present in his ambassadorial role, to make a quick address on behalf of the Prostate Cancer Charity, who had kindly organised the day.

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He was phenomenal. Gnarled and charmingly eccentric, Uttley embodies rugby union’s amateur lifeblood. This was obvious even before he breezily observed, “Welcome to Twickenham, everyone. I remember how I used to lay in that bath over there after a match with a cigarette and a glass of red.”

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Then came the serious part, as Uttley continued with real emotion. “Some of you may already know, but my friend and former teammate Andy Ripley died from prostate cancer in June last year. He was a beast of a man, which just goes to show that however fit you are, there is always something than can get at you. His decision to speak openly about his battle has encouraged the rugby world to be more aware of this disease.”

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If I was eager before that, such words inspired even more anticipation. Finishing abruptly by simply stating, “Enjoy today,” Uttley provided the cue for the changing room to spill out through the tunnel onto the pristine surface.

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Predictably, although I did my best to savour every second, the next hour and a half was a bit of a blur. For starters, I was completely unable to speak during the warm-up lap, overcome with awe at the prestigious surroundings.

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Moving into a series of press-ups and some stretching before a couple of handling drills, regimented by Ryan, it was judged that we had limbered up sufficiently. We were ready, as would ever be, to train on a plain with the England side.

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Even as inflated with hubris as I was, the ridiculousness of that statement was glaringly apparent after the very first exercise I was involved in. Of course, it sounded simple enough. The entirety of Team C, Gollings included, was to line up along the halfway line against opposite one defender, scrum-half John Brake.

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To initiate play, Ryan would punt the ball from under the posts and we would have to pass it amongst us, until everyone had had a touch, before scoring. There being a vast amount of space, I was extremely confident of creating a try at an international venue. Naturally, such buoyancy flitted away when Brake scurried out ferociously to close down our attack before half our side had felt the ball in their hands.

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It wasn’t the only time that day that international prowess made an utter mockery of media enthusiasm. In a subsequent drill, Danny Caprice skinned four journalists on his own with consummate ease. Later, Ollie Lyndsay-Hague languidly hitch-kicked his way past three press members, casually placing the ball back into Ryan’s hands from whence it had come. Put simply, the balance, evasion and raw athleticism of every England player was astounding.

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The session culminated in some lung-bursting seven-a-side touch-rugby matches, the perfect platform for my earlier daydreams to come to glorious fruition.

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Needless to say, I hardly shone. At one point, I found myself isolated on the far touchline, with Caprice and Marcus Watson, another London Irish tyro with rocket fuel in his shoes, bearing down on me.� I felt as hopeless as a ball of string in the paws of two particularly menacing Siamese cats. Fortunately, they must have taken pity on me, and Watson threw a pass infield instead of taking a nonchalant stroll around my outside. A couple of minutes later, though, I was not so lucky.

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Scrambling across the pitch to stem a James Rodwell-led attack on Team C’s line, I arrived just too late to prevent an inside pass to Dan Norton. To my embarrassment, Norton had time to take the pass, look back towards me and gauge how quickly he would have to cover the fifty metres in front of him in order outstrip me and affect the try. Since you ask, he needed something between a walk and a trot to outrun my pathetic covering effort and cross the line.

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Given that Norton is England’s top scorer of the 2010-11 series, having crossed the whitewash twenty times so far, my outrunning was no disgrace. However, due to my childish inability to concede an utter inferiority to these supermen, I felt bitter about the failure for a while. Even slumped under one of the immaculate changing room showers after Ryan had blown his whistle to end the fairytale, I couldn’t shake the depression.

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Perhaps in order to appease the shattered egos of the press, an ultra-healthy lunch was laid in a hospitality box before we went our separate ways. Looking along the line of hungry journalists to spy a sumptuous spread of salmon wraps and Greek salad, my eternally irrational brain began to whir. Maybe that was where I had been going wrong. This had to be the secret. If I just kept a closer eye on my diet and cut out the fried stuff,� perhaps I could compete at the top after all.

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The hulking presence of Chris Cracknell derailed my absurd train of thought, as his immense frame cut through the queue to pile about seven tortillas onto his plate, evidently intent on re-fuelling for England’s afternoon session. Maybe I was deluded. I couldn’t possibly eat that much.�

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To purchase tickets for the London Emirates Sevens at Twickenham this weekend, 21-22 May, follow this link.��For every ticket sold from the Prostate Cancer Charity website, �5 will be donated to the charity.