If winning the league in the regular season is akin to reaching the top of a mountain, then losing in a semi final play off is like realising it was only a false summit just as you start sliding back down to a painful death.
Bristol’s dream of a historic Premiership final appearance at Twickenham expired on Saturday afternoon in an avalanche of missed opportunities, Harlequins tries and multiple injuries as a commanding first half lead evaporated into an excruciating, painful and inexplicable defeat that beggared belief and made a mockery of the concept of game management.
It was Camusian in its absurdity, precipitating an existential crisis amongst both players and fans as the game accelerated into extra time.
In his wide sweeping analysis of the capitalist world system, Karl Marx once mused that ‘all that is solid melts into air’ but little did he know that 173 years later his prophesy would manifest itself so sharply on the hallowed turf of Ashton Gate. If Bristol had been the undisputed owners of points production in the first half, then the Harlequins players rose from the ranks of the proletariat in the second, to wrestle the means of that production from their enslavers and unite in a rugby revolution that will live long in the history books.
In knock out rugby there are no learnings. You win. You lose. You raise your head in glorious victory or you hang it in miserable defeat.
On Saturday Bristol lost and in doing so rendered their fans bereft by the manner in which their lofty position at the top of the league after the regular season was revealed to be no more than a cruel chimera – something that had been hoped for but was, in fact, simply illusory. A false summit that promised everything and ultimately delivered nothing.
If it had been nip and tuck all the way then it might have been easier to take. But after the Bears had gorged themselves on probably the most delicious smorgasbord of running rugby that the majority of spectators had probably ever witnessed, they then found themselves reaching for the Rennies as a rapid heartburn took hold. Literally.
Slain at the hands of a swashbuckling foe who were all but dead and buried, but found a way to fight back from their terminal slumber and inflict a mortal wound on the souls of the Bristol faithful who were left to watch helplessly as their hopes drifted into oblivion.
Of course, things were looking very different at half time.
After 35 minutes Bristol were on track to deliver the perfect performance. Focused, clinical and explosive, the team could not have executed a better game plan. It was simply orgasmic as wave after wave of blue battered the Harlequins’ back line as attack after attack was launched from all over the pitch. The court jesters from the Smoke were steamrollered and spent the majority of the half clinging to a precipice as the Bears stamped on their fingertips.
The pack were the fluffers, delivering possession at will but the likes of Charles Piutau, Max Malins and Semi Radrada were the main stars. It was rugby porn on an industrial scale, and it seemed like Quins were only there to arouse the beasts.
The way that Bristol dismantled their opposition’s shaky defence, hitting gaps at will and offloading at leisure, was more continent to continent than coast to coast and as the fans screamed deliriously, the scoreboard operator worked overtime to keep up.
Andy Uren commanded his tops like a modern day Napoleon, Callum Sheedy waved his wand like Rattle at the Albert Hall and even big Dave Attwood got into the act by galloping down the wing like Denman at the Gold Cup. At that point, it wasn’t a case of whether the Bears would win but rather by how much.
And then, like a relationship that reaches the end of the honeymoon period it all went sour. Bristol’s familiarity with the oval led to contempt with its possession. Where Bristol has been coherent, they suddenly became disjointed. Where thinking had been clear it became clouded, and where confidence had been sky high it plumbed to the depths.
It’s very hard to process what happened in the second half and I suspect that the coaches will have to run the data through a NASA mainframe to make sense of it but somehow, inexplicably, there was a tectonic shift in momentum that lead to a tsunami of Harlequins’ points.
Gifting them two simple tries five minutes either side of half time didn’t help. Kings Charles getting injured was also a major factor, but to me, at 28-12 we still had plenty of time to shut up shop, slow things downs and start packing for Twickenham.
However, the Bears’ aching desire to run the ball from their own 22 was ultimately the trigger that started the landslide. It has been a brave and proactive strategy that has enthralled and alarmed Bristol fans in equal measure all season, but it comes with high risk, and when Andy Uren threw out a head high pass that required hospitalisation to Dave Attwood that he failed to control (admittedly having had to skip over an opposition player who was clearly obstructing first) which allowed James Chisholm to rumble over, you could then see the panic starting to set in with the Bears and the confidence grow with the Quins.
The rest of the half was a blur. As the phenomenal away support roared their charges to victory the Bristol faithful clutched to any straw of momemetum swing that came their way. A line break here, a turnover there. Any sign that the descent to the ninth level of Dante’s inferno might be checked was applauded but ultimately the devil was in the detail. Bristol squandered opportunities and coughed up possession when it really mattered as the game became more frantic. It was like being on a two week all inclusive holiday in the sun where the clouds starting rolling in at the start of the second and the remainder of the stay involves furtively checking the forecast for any break in the gloom. To say that the 6000 home fans were in a constant state of anxiety for the majority of the second half was an understatement and the way in which their emotions had been stretched to the extreme in both directions almost made it a medical emergency.
And then, with bodies littered all over the pitch, it was over. The sound and the fury subsided and despite topping the league since game week six, Bristol will never be able to say they were 2021 Premiership champions. Whilst the result ultimately revealed the absurdity of the play off system in all its naked glory, there are no excuses. Everything was aligned. There was a full squad to pick from, there was a passionate crowd, and there was a 28-0 point lead after 35 minutes.
Losing in that context should never happen and it seems inexplicable that they did.
It will take a long time for many fans to get over this last crazy game of an unprecedentedly crazy season, but when they do, they will realise that we should still be immensely proud of what has been achieved. The Bears have lit up the Premiership with a game that has excited the neutral and enthralled the faithful. It has made us proud to be Bristolians, both born, bred and adopted and it is a privilege for all of us to have been part of the journey.
One club, one community, one culture.
Filthy Rig 