There was more than a hint of ancient antagonism in the way the Scottish rugby team faced down their English opponents to take a 13–7 victory and win the Grand Slam.
The tumult and the shouting dies:
The captains and the kings depart
So wrote the great English poet of Empire, Rudyard Kipling. But if in these former, halcyon days the playing fields of Eton were primarily charged with the responsibility of forming character and firing that kind of resolution which would ultimately yield other fields in other countries, so also the contemporary catchment area has produced stalwart yeomanry from Bath and Bristol, Gloucester and Nottingham, Leicester and London.
Certainly, they had done England proud on French and foreign soil. But at Murrayfield yesterday afternoon they were given a glimpse of rugby immortality.
It was, however, only a glimpse – for on this occasion the Empire was to strike back. The little white rose of Scotland – that smells so sweet and breaks the heart – is basking in a little deserved glory today and for some time to come as her native sons collected the spoils of a war of attrition and a battle of wills which, for sheer endeavour, fitness, commitment and courage is now and forever writ large in the chronicles of sporting history.
The preliminaries themselves spoke volumes in the psychological hostilities that were immediately apparent. As England shed their imperial purple tracksuits on a March day softened by a fitful southerly wind and bright sunshine, Scotland walked out of the tunnel with a measured, dignified, yet curiously ominous pace to signal the most passionate rendition of Flower of Scotland. The torch remained to be lit.
With England kicking off, apparently into the wind, the ferocity of the Scottish onslaught was immediately intimidating as the visitors reeled under a pressure from which they had been mercifully oblivious over their three previous games.
Within the first eight minutes, Craig Chalmers had kicked at goal three times and Scotland led by six points. But more than this, English confidence had been seriously breached as, from the opening line-out, the home tactics of variety and disruption were immediately apparent.
Chalmers’ first successful penalty followed productive work at the ruck after an impressive scrimmage shunt in four minutes, and the second came when the touch-judge, Derek Bevan, indicated to referee David Bishop that Jeff Probyn was guilty of illegal footwork on David Sole. The kick was in front of the posts and there were eight minutes on the clock.
The Scottish line-out was enjoying a most profitable opening with Gray, Cronin and Jeffry denying the twin threat of Dooley and Ackford.
However, England fashioned a delightful try after 14 minutes. It had its origins in good scrimmage ball which Teague held as Jeffrey detached and, rolling to the open side, the big Gloucester No. 8 committed Finlay Calder’s tackle, enabling Richard Hill to deliver such a pass as to allow Andrew to evade Sean Lineen on the outside and serve Jeremy Guscott.
The centre’s momentary hesitation as he looked to Rory Underwood invited a Gavin Hastings tackle on the wing, but the covering Gary Armstrong was too late to prevent the Bath centre from scoring England’s first try at Murrayfield since 1980.
England were now to sustain their best period of the game with a series of scrummages close to the home line. But they could not score – just as the Welsh had found the dark blue jerseys impenetrable two weeks ago.
In this torrid and punishing confrontation Derek White suffered ligament damage which forced him to leave the field after 27 minutes, with John Jeffrey moving to No. 8 and Derek Turnbull taking up position on the flank. It would take a brave man to suggest a more suitable replacement for such a contest.
The ease and facility with which Jeffrey assumed his club role in an international jersey, and his telepathic liaison with Gary Armstrong, were now to bear fruit as Gavin Hastings’ intrusions began to worry the English. Six minutes from half-time, Chalmers kicked his third penalty from 40 metres after Ackford was penalized at a line-out which Scotland had swept superbly.
However, if there was a moment when the English recognized intuitively that theirs was a lost cause, it was in the opening moments of the second period when Scotland scored a superb try.
Jeffrey and Armstrong once again set up copybook scrimmage possession for the little Jed scrum-half to break and find the omnipresent Gavin Hastings with a pass which the full-back held almost by instinct. Hastings’ chip up the touchlines reduced the English defence to shreds and tatters, and Tony Stranger, stretching for the bounce, was over in the corner.
Chalmers could not convert, but no matter, the psychological damage done was immense and the visitors grew desperate in their attempts to salvage something from a game which was slipping from their grasp.
That they succeeded in committing Scotland to a rearguard action owed much to the precision of Rob Andrew’s kicking and to the tireless efforts of Will Carling to inject some penetration into his three-quarter line. On more than one occasion the captain was swept to the perdition of a Scottish ruck, while an escaping Underwood was magnificently tackled by the best defender in British rugby – Scott Hastings.
England’s only score in the second half came from a Simon Hodgkinson penalty goal after 15 minutes, but their hearts and hopes were dashed by the iron discipline of the Scottish scrimmage, its backrow cover and the mighty, relieving boot of Gavin Hastings.
At the whistle, several members of the English pack were close to exhaustion but John Jeffrey sprinted 50 metres in exultation for the tunnel.
Thus ended the greatest rugby show on earth. Thus England failed to meet their rugby destiny and thus Scotland once more realized their highest aspirations. Thus triumph and disaster were wrought at Murrayfield – imposters both in the eyes of Rudyard Kipling. Is rugby, after all, on such a day only a game?