Uppies & Downies look back in anger March 30, 2008

The Easter games 2008 by Joe Clark (no relation as such)

Good Friday

A quarter past six and the anticipation is tangible, already the crowd of players is about 200strong and the spectators are beginning to assemble in small packs around the long bridge.
A cold night, the hardy, or foolhardy, players in their tee shirts standing out from those more sensibly attired, bravado on show for all to marvel at.
Friendly banter echoes across the beck, player to player and players to crowd, old friends greetings, some only meeting from one year to the next at the Easter games.
I am interviewed by the press and by border television, will it be the end of the games?
In their current form, yes, the development of our ancient playing ground will certainly have an impact but we will carry on the tradition none the less.
Half past six and the game is about to begin, the crowd has swelled to two thousand, with some three hundred players positioned either in the pack or in their favoured positions on the fringes, hoping for that slice of fortune that brings the ball their way.
Its up! Straight into the middle of the pack, ‘in the beck with her’ the shouts arise, ‘push it uppies’ ‘get behind it downies’ the cacophony of sound mingles into a roar as the crowd add their encouragement.
Tussling to and fro on black pad, a mighty push from the uppies sends the pack into the beck where the ball is spilled.
This is what the crowd like to see, players hurl themselves down the grassy bank into the stinking mud.
The ball is thrown onto the cloffocks car park and the pack mass around it to push, pull and shove in their chosen direction.
The downies gain momentum, pushing as one they advance across the car park, spinning off as the uppies try to get in front of the ball, ‘keep it moving, its turning, get behind it downies’
The downies momentum increases, they are effectively ‘bouncing’ the pack along the road, forty to fifty bodies being swept along, some on the fringes being brushed aside or simply trampled over.
We reach the grassed area at the top of church road, it is imperative that the uppies halt the momentum or the downies will walk the ball all the way down.
The uppies enter the pack in force, the plan being to ground the ball, this is achieved by two means, getting to the ball and dropping to the floor with it or simply throwing oneself in front of the advancing pack to trip them up.
The ploy works and the advance is halted.
There is no doubt that once grass is reached the players are happy to take a breather, a small scrum develops around the ball and whispered plans are concocted to smuggle the ball away.
Those who have been in the beck often crawl into the scrum at this stage to warm up.
Others dip in and out of the scrum, some to try for the ball, others to make sure the ball is still there.
A number of dummy runs are made to create diversions while a player can walk away with the ball up his jacket.
This can be a painful experience for the dummy runner, who is usually brought very sharply to the ground.
This tactic eventually works, in the darkness runners break and there are three or four scrums taking place simultaneously.
The confusion helps Paul Clark, who slips the ball up his jacket and calmly walks away, taking the ball up by a very circuitous route to Curwen Hall.
One nil to the uppies!

Easter Tuesday

One nil down and the downies are determined to even the score, having lost the previous three years they do not want to lose again.
The banter before the game now has an edge to it, the greetings curt rather than friendly, some players withdrawing into their thoughts.
The difference becomes more evident upon throw off as the downies display a ferocity in the pack which simply brushes aside those not fully alert to the game.
Very quickly the downies get the ball onto the disused dog track, their aim to get to the river.
They know that despite the uppies resurgence in recent years there are many uppies who will not enter the river.
A stalemate ensues, the ball grounded and very little obvious movement to the observer, though within the pack the plotting and wrestling remains intense.
Its free! The crowd scatters in alarm, the ball somehow retrieved from the mass of bodies and hurled toward the river, only to be picked up and thrown back toward whence it came.
For over an hour this pattern is repeated, the downies slowly inching their way toward the Derwent.
Seeing this pattern of play I make my way over Navvies bridge to the Northside side of the river in order to ambush any downies that may come across with the ball.
Two other uppies have had the same idea and follow me round.
We sit and watch for half an hour, then, in the darkness I see four people coming across the river but no chasing pack.
It is obvious the downies have managed to smuggle the ball out.
We wait at the top of the riverbank, unseen by the downies, and as they emerge we jump them, catching them by surprise and causing the ball to spill.
It gets really frantic then as we wrestle with the downies and try to make our way parrellel to the river toward Hall Park.
I take a punch on the side of the head, I have no idea who from as arms and legs are everywhere.
We end up in a scrum and eventually other players arrive from both sides, some having run up to Hall Park in the belief the ball had been smuggled up.
The scrum on the northside road had to be seen to be believed, it was immense, displaying a ferocity that was undimmed despite two hours of play having elapsed.
As a veteran, I had seen nothing like this in over thirty years of play, the ball being so close to the northdside, downie, stronghold and yet the downies unable to make headway for something like forty five minutes.
Again, somehow out of this throng, an arm appeared and hurled the ball back toward the river, chased by the pack as the crowd scurried out of the way.
Into the river, the tide is out so the water is low, a good sized scrum around the ball, both uppies and downies, which is gratifying to see.
‘Get round it uppies’ someone shouts as the tussle moves toward the middle of the river, a bit deeper here, almost up to the waist.
Inexorably, the river takes the pack downward toward deeper water.
I have been in this position many times over the years, I can only recall two occasions when we uppies managed to retreive a ball from this far down the river.
There is nowhere to go, if you get to the bank with the ball the downies either fight to retrieve it or simply push you back in the water, knowing you will not hail the ball down and eventually let it go.
The ploy works, one by one uppies start to emerge from the water until there are only downies around the ball.
Dean Askew has the ball and with his friends walks it the remainder of the way to the hailing point.
One all!

Easter Saturday

All to play for and the atmosphere is electric.
Once again the media are out in force, ‘the last game? Never! We will carry on the tradition no matter what is put in our way.
The ball is thrown off and it is quickly apparent that the downies have learned from Tuesday, they keep the ball away from the beck and quickly get it onto the old dog track.
The river beckons and we uppies have a mighty struggle to slow the progress of the ball.
We ground the ball, then rise to push back toward black pad, grounding again as the downies threaten to make a recovery.
This goes on for an hour and as the darkness deepens I suspect a repeat of Tuesday so I make my way to the other side of the river.
I am alone this time and wait in anticipation, hoping a lone downie comes across and that I could catch him unawares and steal the ball.
Half an hour passes with no sign of movement so I make my way back through the crowd to the scrum.
I need to check the ball is indeed still there and perhaps try to smuggle it out myself.
I flatten myself to the ground and crawl beneath the tangle of bodies, the heat is unbelievable and there seems to be almost no air.
Someone farts in my face, a hand caresses my nether regions, a voice says come on lads the pubs are going to be shut, another says if you’re going to be like this I will take my ball home.
It’s another world in the scrum, funny comments, whispered plots, wandering hands, a threat here and there.
Breaths are heavy and pungent, bodies wet with sweat and beck water, the smell of dog shit.
In the darkness my finger touches leather, the ball!
I push further in, stretching both arms, my body aching with the exertion.
Finally, I have both hands around the ball as others weary fingers loosen their grip.
I jerk hard a couple of times to pull the ball closer to me and hunch my body over it to shield it from prying fingers.
A whisper in my ear, is that you dad.
It’s my son Paul, I whisper in return, pull it to the left so I can get a better grip.
Lying still for a few moments I hear muffled shouts of ‘its gone and she’s away’.
I pull the ball up under my jacket and begin to edge my way backward from the scrum.
Damn, I feel a hand reaching from behind, patting at my chest and stomach, someone knows I have it.
Suddenly the pack collapses on me and my body is crushed onto the ball, a rib breaking instantly.
I shift weight, twisting off the area of pain, but the pressure is too much and I am crushed again, another rib breaks and I know I am in serious danger of more going.
I shout pull me out but the pressure is becoming worse as players fooled by the ploy hurl themselves back into the pack.
Back off, back off I am shouting as hands tear at my jacket for the ball.
Let the ball go someone shouts, while friendlier hands seek purchase under my armpits to pull me free.
I have no choice, I pull down the zip of my jacket and release the ball as I am hauled bodily out.
As I lay in agony on the fringe of the pack a number of downies frisk me in case I am pulling a flanker, I laugh despite the pain, they must think me a good actor to really think I still had the ball.
My game over, I move away from the pack to watch what happens next.
Dummy runners start to break, some heading toward the river, others toward the beck, players chasing after them in packs.
Those in the scrum rise in confusion, has it really gone?
People frisking one another, a shout of its here but it is a false alarm.
In the dark and confusion one lucky person has walked away unnoticed with the ball, I hope its an uppie.
Shouts along black pad, its gone up!
Turns out a sixteen year old lad had got the ball but panicked and gave it to Tony Berwick, who walked off and then ran up to Hall Park.
2–1 to the uppies, bragging rights for another year.

joe.a.clark@ukaea-sellafieldsites.com

nota bene : This was possibly the last year in its 1,000 year-old form.