Sunday - 7 October 2023

UCS 50 v 5 Royston

O Muse, amplify your voice and lend it to me that I may sing of warriors and feats, of UCS's glorious stand against the rabble of Royston, of the rage of Fraser and the steps of Conrad, of the sneaky interception of Luca, of the bald hits of Adam. But it is blessed men, us lucky few, who are able to witness David Cohen’s triumphant tries, not once, but two weekends in a row. Allow me to, with the weakness of mere words, capture the essence of a victory complete.

As Helios drove his blazing chariot across the sky, so too did the day glow auspiciously for a clash on the hallowed green grounds of UCS. The wind serenaded us as if played by Euterpe herself. Sweat from the warm October sun stung our eyes. Royston’s warriors appeared, their fancy water bottles shimmering like the armour of Achilles, their numbers bolstered, and their faces set in determination. Our bottles, by comparison, were stale and missing their tops. Weak.

Though we began somewhat disorganised—our ranks incomplete, our own combatants delayed—none could doubt the nimble speed and youthful zest that coursed through our sinews, that our pounding hearts matched only by the length and girth of our ambition. Oh Muses, the Magpies knew not what they had done by flying down here on the A1.
The horn of Ares sounded. Our roided-up ref blew his whistle (my man was jacked). Battle was joined.

Like the Myrmidons of old, we overwhelmed them from the start. The very earth seemed to quake at the hits of The Teacher, Adam, and I know Royston learned a lesson from him that day. With ball in hand, we were an unstoppable force. Our speed at the ruck was as swift as Hermes; the Ollies total in their lack of forgiveness as they struck Royston's flanks. The UCS essence was captured when Diego, wily as Ulysses, opted for a quick tap penalty on their end (to Fraser’s fury), flooding the enemy ranks and sending the ball wide to Ben Byre. Byre's following chip and chase was a thing of legend, a score to be sung in the halls of our sons.

The trumpet of half-time rang out, and we looked up to see the tally: 38-0. Royston's will was not just broken; it was shattered into pieces on the Hampstead ground. And yet, the only opponent capable of halting our procession to glory was ourselves.

Though basking in glory, we found the second half rife with trials. Our valiant standards slipped; our divine fire dimmed. Knock ons and ill-considered offloads marred our record. But with the help of Athena, goddess of wisdom, we adapted. We sent young Trevor in as a wall against Royston's resurgence, man who has forgotten more about rugby than I will ever know.

Ah, but then came the moment worthy of its own epic—a deed to carve on pillars and etch in hearts. Clague, like Perseus of yore, broke the line, his eyes scanning for allies. And there, racing like a storm wind, came David Cohen. What followed was a feat: a grubber kick by Cohen (a prop!), a fumble by Royston (shame! shame!), and a dive. Cohen scored! His legend swelled as he was mobbed by teammates and adoring fans alike!

And so, as the closing horn sounded, the scoreboard read: UCS 50, Royston 5.
Triumphant were we, with tries scored by Clague, Joseph, Byre, Bos, Falconer, and the ever-remarkable Cohen! Will he score next week too? Probably. He scores for fun these days.

The convertors of extra points were Garces and one by Byre. Luca Joseph shone as Man of the Match, an indomitable force at rucks, a wall in defence.

Myself, alas, earned DotD, for my heart yearned more for twilight's romantic escapades than the clash of Irish titans and Scottish babes on the field.

Lastly, let honour rain upon Theo Falconer (what a name), coming all the way from wintery Canada and who played like a demon; upon Mert, who does us proud as a captain of the Turkish international team and showed why he more than deserves the honour yesterday; upon Harper, whose glare alone felled his opponents; and upon Kold, who, even in illness, faced the fray like the absolute unit he is.

O Muse, I have sung the tale. Let it embolden us for future battles against Watford and Verulamians, let it be a story told whenever UCS men gather. So ends my epic and so begins our legend, slowly but surely.