The Swaffham Crier Online

Boxing Day Hockey

IT WAS APPROPRIATELY A FINE AND VERY COLD DAY. This year Prior suffered the loss of many stalwart males, some still suffering from injuries incurred two years ago. A new scout, Sue Wade, was brought in, and she introduced the young, many of whom were females. This was a break with tradition as previously we just fielded the odd token girl. But they all played magnificently and at one time Bulbeck were overheard to say "C'mon, we've got to beat this lot, they're only a bunch of girls."

Well, not entirely, there was some new male talent as well as some older regulars under this year's captain Nathan Wade. How he led from the front. He scored the only goal of the match. Bulbeck, as is their wont, took him out with a serious inside knee injury. A fully trained therapist on the touch line soon put that right and back he went, only to be pole-axed twice more, and only to bounce back both times.

Both goalies were magnificent and the Bulbeck team under new manager David Towriss were a formidable opposition. With two excellent umpires this was the cleanest match ever - possibly because of the presence of the girls? Sue Wade provided the mulled cider, £50.52 was raised for Magpas, and with all this new talent we now have a range of riches to select from for next year's match.

Now follows the Report from Our Special Hockey Correspondent. This year it is all in verse. In the style of a variety of poets Tony Bowers covers every aspect of the match. Try reading it aloud.

There is a prize of a good bottle of wine to the person who can identify the largest number of poets and the poems/sources which have been the inspiration.

The Game's Afoot (again) - or - The Return of the Hockey Wars

An expectant buzz on the field of play

Goals to score and a match to win,

A bumping pitch, a frosty day,

An hour of war, let trial begin!

And not for the sake of silver tokens

Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,

But a pint of ale or a glass of coke and

Play up! Play up! And play the game.

Oh! Bulbeck's Bulbeck, Prior's Prior

And ever the two shall meet

As long as rival villages

Each other wish to beat.

It matters not to either side

What sort of breed or birth

When two bold teams stand face to face

Upon the muddy turf.

They jog about, they laugh, they joke

And stamp their booted feet

Until the umpire whistles them

To glory or defeat.

And gentlefolk in Swaffhams still abed

Shall find themselves dismayed they were not there

And hold their loyalties cheap when mention's made

Of hockey played upon Saint Stephen's Day!

Play! They clashed their sticks and hacked at shins

And bashed the orange to all quarters

And strove their hardest for a win

And feared to take a high ball on the chin

And greeted umpire foibles with a grin

And battled though the cause seemed dim

With hugger and mugger

At times more like rugger

Surged on the attackers, the defenders dug in.

Along the touchline fervent fans

Urged on the favourites of both clans,

While two girls bore mid mud and ice

A banner with this proud device

Swaffham Prior!

Hark! "Bulbeck' was the cry

Of some, of others "Prior',

As both sides tried

To snatch the triumph of the hour.

No one heard the rebeck sound,

But there were youths and there were maids

Running in the chequered shade,

While young and old were heard to say

It was a jolly Boxing Day!

The crucial contest witnessed either end

Teams keen to raid or desperate to defend.

Both rival forwards struck a post,

Both goalies kicked the ball when all seemed lost.

Was there to be no victor in this war,

A game of stalemate void of any score?

The strife seemed Sisyphean after all

And then the perky Priors scored a goal!

The Bulbecks vowed to hit back and to win,

They were determined,

Prior's margin thin.

Black shirts stormed the line, could white shirts hold,

Would Bulbeck triumph

plucky Prior fold?

At last the whistle blew to great delight

For those who'd gained advantage in the fight.

Now everybody cheered the team

Which this fine fight had won

And hoped the fixture would remain

And never cease to run,

For which all hope and long to see.

Ah! 'T'was a famous victory!

Tony Bowers