Rugby League

Times have changed now, but back then, a good jockstrap was compulsory equipment for rugby league. I knew that some of the professionals wore abominable Speedos, and those god awful compression shorts were also just starting to appear around then, but, thank fuck, I never saw a man with anything other than a jockstrap under his shorts in our club. They were highly recommended by Dave Briggs and nothing but a jockstrap was acceptable under your shorts as far as Dave was concerned. Our earnest coach would have laughed a pair of compression shorts out of the changing rooms in an instant. A decent jockstrap always does its job: It keeps your essential bits tidy and out of the way from swinging about all over the place in a game, and keeps you fairly cool without your arse getting too sweaty, with no irritating seat material to get wrinkled up and have to be forever pulled out of your crack.

Litesome Sportswear's 'standard' model was the very best jockstrap by far, favoured by myself and most of my team mates, with a sturdy waistband with green tracer lines at the top and bottom, robust stitching and a really comfy and supportive soft ribbed cotton pouch. The pouch was adequately supportive but roomy enough for even the biggest of blokes in that department. Cleverly, the elastic legs tapes, or technically, the 'stirrups' or 'side straps', had a cotton tube sheathing them, so they felt really snug over your arse: An incredibly comfortable and hard wearing product, and an entirely different kettle of fish from the totally fucking uncomfortable elastic horrors produced overseas. The cream and green Litesome jockstrap was the traditional colouring, but there was a very brief run in Royal Blue, which reputedly had some commemorative connection to Scotland's 1984 Rugby Union Grand Slam.

I'm was proud to say that the Litesome "Athletic Supporter", as it was grandiosely marketed, it never referred to itself as a jockstrap, was made in West Yorkshire for 60 odd years, but sadly, Fred Hartley & Sons of Keighley, manufacturers of the stalwart Litesome brand are no more, and their most famous product is long gone from sports shop display racks. It was sold briefly under the Puma brand after the company bought up Fred Hartley's, but even those have long since sold out now. The "Prosport" brand seemed to corner the quality jockstrap market since the mid nineties, and was a reasonable successor to the Litesome, clean white with yellow and blue waistband tracer lines, though the pouch always annoyingly looses its shape after a few washes and the supportiveness goes. Even Prosport sadly only make their cricket type model now with a pocket for a box.

These days, a jockstrap seems to have become a dubious fashion statement, but you might have gathered that I fondly recall the days when a jockstrap was an essential piece of equipment for every serious sportsman, and parting with £3.99 apiece for my first couple from the local sports shop was a necessary and defining event at the start of my adult rugby career. Some of the lads had what was virtually a 'lucky' jockstrap, worn until it frayed to threads and you usually bought your jockstrap one size larger than was strictly necessary to massage your genital ego. Washing your jockstrap too often was slightly frowned upon, and some players never washed it until it gave the rugger who owned it a fungal infection.

The style of shorts for rugby league back then, our own strip included, was fairly tight with the cut off high up the leg, just under your backside, so they didn't restrict your thigh movements, and usually made of shiny finished polyester. Not only did they keep you cool, but they showed of players arses superbly, clinging around the contours of your buttocks and dipping into your crack.

The short cut off always meant that the leg tapes of your jockstrap would frequently show at the bottom of your shorts, and anything involving bending over, especially in the scrums and tackles would always result in a quick glimpse of one or two proudly displayed jockstrap leg tapes. I'll admit I've always found that quick revelation of what a player was wearing under his shorts on the field an arousing sight. I'll even admit that I used to pull my shorts up just that bit higher, or tuck over the waistband, to make sure I was showing off my jockstrap and I'm sure I wasn't the only one who used to do it. It wasn't overtly sexual, well, maybe a bit in my case, but it certainly made a bold statement. It shouted that you were a bloke, a rugby player, you had big balls, and you meant some serious fucking business on the field.

I doubt whether a jockstrap has been seen in rugby league for some years since they starting loosing out to compression shorts in the mid nineties, but watching VHS recordings of old games always brings a grin when you see a big strong arse tautly covered with tight shiny shorts, and jockstraps' leg tapes showing out from underneath the bottom of shorts in the rucks and scrums. Castleford, Bradford Northern, and Wakefield Trinity players always used to uphold the tradition, and watching their old matches always has plenty of jockstrap on show, though for Lancashire teams, Warrington and Salford never did too badly. I still wear a jockstrap for the gym but I'm sadly only one of a couple of others. Who knows, maybe it's time for a revival?

Nonetheless, when I was sat with my exposed arse on the cold wooden rugby changing room bench that afternoon, the future sales markets of what I'd just pulled on to support and protect my bollocks was the last thing on the mind. I pulled on my Gilbert shoulder pads, worn by all the forwards, which had probably spared me a snapped collar bone in more than one tackle. I was soon into my Ellgren shirt, with my second row number 12 in giant black ironed on numerals in a white square on the back, my blue shorts, and my well scuffed size 10 Mitre rugby boots which I carefully laced up. I had a slight strain in the calf from the prior week's game which I eased with a bit of Deep Heat. Dave Briggs helped me finish battle preparations, taping my ears down flat with a wad of bandage under the black tape, and thickly smearing my brows with Vaseline to counter the friction I was likely to get on the field in the tackles.

Chomping on my gum shield to work it back into shape, I got on with my warm up physio: a slow stretching routine, slowly loosening my muscles, minimising the risk of cramp. Dave gave his prep talk which largely mirrored Sam's advice on how we were going to handle the next 90 minutes of mud, sweat, blood and pain.

"Right lads, we know we can have 'em, so keep it sharp, keep your eyes open, watch the right wing and don't ever stop fuckin fighting!" Dave told us in his sternest 'Retaking of Port Stanley' tone. I always suspected that Dave's prep speeches were largely similar to those he must have given to his troops in the Falklands. As I headed out onto the field with the pack, Dave gave me a solemn warning not to let Daz and Trev wind me up:

"Those two big fucking wankers will be out for you lad, they know they can wind you up, and believe me, there gonna fucking try to, so don't let 'em get under yer skin!" Dave cautioned, and I nodded my agreement as he gave me his usual friendly slap on my arse, his big hand firm through the thin material of my shorts and warm against my bare skin underneath.

Fortunately for us, the weather had been keeping up. It wasn't too cold for February, just nippy, if overcast and at least the semi dry spell had eased the field water logging problem which I hoped would give us a bit of an advantage. There was a small smattering of spectators, by the field side, mainly local friends and family having a quick break from an afternoon downing Tetley Bitter in the warmth of the pub. I even thought I glanced Smithy, probably round from the garage for a quick nosy. Our opponents were already out, limbering themselves up and looking smug and confident. Their distinctive strip, black shorts, and black and red striped shirts, made them look like a pack of tigers looking for some prey to sink their fangs into. They were an intimidating looking team, most of them were really big, tough, grim looking men, and probably a bit above us in average pack weight. They looked fit as fuck, ready for us, quietly confident and coldly determined.

Facing away from me I saw my new nemeses, two familiar, strapping, burly giants with thick, strong bull necks and shaved bullet heads, swaggering about, rotating their massive shoulders, cracking their knuckles and tensing their tree trunks thighs. I could just make out the shape of their shoulder pads under shirts, further emphasising their size. I didn't need to read their numbers, 8 and 10 on the backs of their shirts to recognise the new prop forwards, my new mortal enemies, Daz and Trev, looking even more menacing in their strips.

I watched Daz bend over to smooth a nipping wrinkle out of strapped up left thigh, presenting me with his broad arse, the muscular contours and deep cleft clearly defined by his tightly fitting satiny black shorts and his massive thighs thickly foliated with curly dark hairs. He might be a complete bastard, but he had a beautifully shaped arse. His shorts rode up presenting me with a glimpse of both of the white leg tapes of his jockstrap over his backside standing out in sharp contrast against the bottom of his black shorts. He reached back to give his arsehole a shamelessly conspicuous scratch while spitting out a big wad of phlegm onto the field.

Trev spotted me, and nudged his burly sidekick, and they both shifted their strapping bodies round to grin stupidly at me. I found myself staring them down, and looking forward to trying bang a few extra lumps out of them in the 90 minutes to come for aggravating me in the car park. They were soon distracted by Neil and Martin, our stalwart props, and an intense psychological eyeballing started between the four of them. Some fucking sparks were going to fly when those four huge men clashed. I could feel the tingle of the deep heat on my calf under my sock taking effect. It felt like an ominous warning omen. The referee, appropriately a local traffic warden, had arrived, and after conferring briefly with the two linesmen, shoed Williams of the field, away from giving a last minute pep talk to his new pet winger, young Edwards. We lined up facing each other across the halfway line, a meeting of 26 determined men, brimming with tension, concentration and mounting aggression, ready for off, ready to be let off our leashes and give each other a hard fucking taste of the sort of stuff we were made of.

It started with a bit of bad luck, with our fearsome opponents winning the toss, and at 3:00 pm sharp, the referee blew his whistle, and I felt the mental surge of a game commenced. The enemy's left wing started play with a colossal fucking kick that rocketed the ball off the centre line and sent it soaring toward our try line. It was deftly caught Pete the fullback, who went off up the field like a rocket, leaving us bobbying after him, but we were starting a long way back. I glanced over my shoulder to get myself into position among the men spread out over the field, and I bit down grimly on my gum shield, preparing for the path we needed to smash to the try line 80 yards in front of me.

Pitched Battle.

THUMP! The ground came up fast and hard and felt like concrete rather than grass hitting me as I went down, smacking into the surface of the field. I could smell the turf and taste the mud as I wriggled like an electrified otter out of the strong arms round my thighs that had taken me down in a crunching third tackle with 20 yards ahead to go. We were 35 minutes into the first half, 10 – 4 behind with only a try to two tries and a conversion. Danny had only just managed to squeeze past the enemy in a flashing streak of brilliance, quickly sneaking round the snarling mountain of Trev to seize the chance and win us a slick try in the right corner.

They'd come back against our effrontery nearly instantly and 5 minutes later, Daz had clocked up an early four points with an unbelievable charge, crashing through our forwards like a Challenger tank, fending off every challenge to slam the ball down right between our posts. Bastard. It made me livid watching the effortless ability with which he did it, his team, and Trev especially, backing him up all the way, feeding him the ball when his size was of best advantage to the opportunity they'd seem coming, probably from 5 passes back. They just danced around us and briefly left us looking like a bunch of well outclassed, hopeless ball chasers. Then they quickly increased their lead with another try and a stupidly conceded penalty kick. We were up against a commanding lead and a fucking good squad this year, but it was all still there to play for, and by fuck, we were still trying hard though. I was already tiring rapidly, having taken down man after man in tackle after tackle, but I wasn't positioning myself to get enough support, our opponents repeatedly smashing right through our centre.

I was desperate for us to see another try to claw things back in what was left of the first half. I got back on my feet like lightning and played the ball quickly to Stuart, our squat hooker, waiting sharp and alert behind me, getting up, off and away before you could blink. He was off like charging bull, stampeding toward the enemy as I sucked the breath back into my winded lungs. I spat out a mouthful of soil, grass and spit as I ran, seeking position again, determined to back him up as he surged for the try, pushing my way through the scrabbling pack of players. I could sense the team regrouping behind me, as the shouts of the players cut across the field.

"Fuck orffff...",

"Gerrup you cunt!"

"Take the bastard DOWN!"

"Referee, REFEREE!! That's a fucking knock on!"

"This way, over here, over here, right pass RIGHT PASS!"

Stuart passed the ball, swerving around the momentarily bewildered enemy centre, nicely received by Neil, but our position was wrong, still reforming, with men thundering up the field behind me. Neil was blocked by a grim wall of red and black shirted enemy forwards with no one near enough behind him to safely take the pass, and with no option but to hang on the ball, went down in a bone crunching tackle launched by Trev and Mike Jones, their dauntless fullback, who was still on the wary of me after one of my earlier tackles had taken in him down hard and ended a dangerously fine run from him 20 yards from our line.

The referees hand flew up on the touch line: Fifth tackle. Shite. And we had only 10 yards to go. We were wedged over to the right wing, and there was no chance or need to attempt to ground the ball between the posts. Only the try, however or wherever we got it mattered from this one last push. Stuart untangled himself from the ruck, ready to play the ball. I was the only one near enough and big enough to take it and have a chance, and I ran to a lumbering halt behind Stuart, ready to receive. Stuart played the ball the moment a glance confirmed I had my bulk securely behind him, determined to keep up the drive and pace we'd set. I heard the men shout their encouragement behind me, sense the anticipation and thudding heartbeats.

"Go on lad!..."

"Fuckin' smash 'em!..."

"Go ONNN!"

The ball flipped back from Stuart's boot, and I was onto it, gripping tightly on the mud slicked leather. I set my shoulders and pushed forward like a class 46 locomotive, every muscle of my arse and thighs pushing me toward that try line, tantalisingly near behind the black and red Hadrian 's Wall of defenders.

The air rushed past my ears as I ran and I glimpsed a towering bulk challenging me from the left, surging forward as Daz and Trev barrelled in, growling and snarling, to block my valiant attempt and the laws of physics displayed themselves in a rending impact of 50 combined stone of heavy muscle and bone.

"Fuckkkk!"

THUMP!

Stars. Blue Sky. Smell of grass. Pain.

I vaguely heard men shouting.

"Linesman!"

"Foul!"

"OBSTRUCTION!"

"Referee! REFEREE!"

"Did ya see that!"

"PENALTY!!!!"

"Blind cunt!"

My eyes focussed on the goal post high above me. I was dazed, bruised and sprawled out on my back staring upwards. My senses and memory came spilling back. I didn't know who I was for a moment. Had I made the line? I knew in my heart I hadn't, I probably hadn't managed to get 5 yards. I remembered the flashing instant of the tackle, Trev smashing into me, knocking me back of his solid barrel chest, then going down under his weight as Daz launched in with a flying leap to finish the job off properly with an earth shaking gang tackle.

I also remembered Trev's knee coming up sharply and squarely toward me making a shattering connection with my right eye. For a moment all I could see was red and black as my face slid down his sock and scraped off his boot. Deliberate action or did I just fall onto it? I had a good guess, and with my senses returning, blood rushing to my head, pure searing fury gripped me. I focussed on Trev looming above me, legs apart astride my head, like a vanquishing barbarian over a fallen enemy. I could see up his densely hairy thighs and up the leg of his black shorts just enough to focus on the white pouch of his jockstrap bulging at the front. I felt like reaching up, grabbing hold and tearing his fucking balls off. White hot fury seared through me in an instant and I was on my feet, still slightly dizzy from the blow to the head, but rage and indignation quickly blossomed into an overwhelming red cloud. Trev stepped back, with a triumphant leer on his face, goading me on, a mocking twinkle and a final challenge in his hazel eyes.

I was just reaching for his throat intent on nothing less than murder, sick of his usual dirty play, and blatant fucking recklessness that could well have had me badly injured and out for the year. Probably exactly what he wanted. I was going knock that fucking smirk right of the fucking cunt's face there and then, no matter how bloody big he was. Luckily, my teammates were there quickly and Neil and Martin wisely stopped trouble before it could begin, standing in front of me, and pre-emptively blocking my antagonist from view and reach. Martin ruffled my hair.

"Nice attempt lad, nearly there. Just keep it coming, we can still have this! You wanna get that seen to though," he added looking at a cut that Trev's knee or boot had opened just under my left eye, and had just started dripping blood. I could feel its sticky progress down my face. At least Martin's calm steady voice and tact had drawn a lot of the anger out of me. I could hear a lot of incensed shouting from the touchlines as our handful of spectators shouted their opinion. The pain was beginning to filter through my rage, and it caught me suddenly, nearly taking my breath away. I winced as a dull throbbing ache took hold through my eye socket.

The referee's whistle abruptly cut through the noise and milling players. Through my bleary eye I saw his hand fly up to award us the penalty, but in a wise move to calm me down off the field and avoid any brawling or serious injury, the referee sent me off to the blood bin to get cleaned up and let someone check me over for concussion.

"Off you go lad, get that cleaned up."

"What! I'm fine, I don't need it!"

There was no way I wanted to be out of the game with 10 yards to go. I was going to finish what I started, and show the enemy who they were dealing with. Two of them in particular.

"Come on lad, don't argue! Get it seen to!"

I knew he wouldn't be swayed and in my frame of my mind, with a scrum on the 10 yard line to fire me up even more, it was a sensible decision to have me off the field until I'd calmed down. Angry, and with black thoughts of murdering Trevor in a thousand painful, humiliating and inventive ways, I stomped off the field sulking like a big kid in a man's body.