You can chose your friends but you can’t chose your rugby team.
Sometime, during the early months of 1961, my father took me “down the lane”, to watch my first game of rugby. He took me to see Castleford play Hull Kingston Rovers. My memories of the occasion are scant but I do remember that Castleford won the game and that Harry Poole played for Hull K.R. and Alan Hardisty played for Castleford.
Alan developed into the finest player to ever represent Castleford, and he had a memorable career. However, more importantly, his dad worked at the ground on match days and he allowed me to sit in the main stand for nowt.
Since that day I have been a fan. I have fond memories of catching the bus from Preston Corner to Castleford, where first of all my father would take me to the local pet shop to see a chimpanzee that resided there. Then it was a walk along Wheldon Road, stopping to buy sweets at a corner shop and then onto the game.
Unlike many arenas, Castleford’s stadium has not changed much over the past 50 years or so, although it was renamed ” The Jungle”. If Doctor Who ever paid a visit the Doctor would think that the Tardis had landed here before.
For several weeks I had been looking forward to going to see Castleford Tigers host the new world champions, St. Helens. I was not alone. A crowd of around 10 000 squeezed into the Jungle, including many who had travelled across the Pennines to support “The Saints”.
Rugby League is relentlessly rough and brutal sport. It takes a lot of courage to play the game. The Tigers played tough and started brightly but it was the Saints who roared into a lead and went on to win the contest.
The Tigers were left to lick their wounds, leaving their fans to wander back to their homes, downcast and crestfallen.
Oh well, never mind. It’s Wigan next. We’ll give them a mauling.
Gordon's Gubbins. 