A case of confused identity

After Saturday's storm, I was convinced the sun would never shine again. Sun-dance after sun-dance performed in my room, I was desperate for gale force winds not to scupper my second attempt to see the Cornish Pirates play.

The first attempt failed, rather oddly, because I had a notion the boys still played in Penzance. After a failed trip to Alexandra Road (accompanied by my long-suffering mother, somewhat used to my blonde moments by now), followed by being heartily laughed at by our ever-sympathetic Sports desk the following Monday, this time at least I knew where I was going.

Unbelievably at the last moment the wind dropped off and the clouds rolled away. The sun had put its hat on, and we were in for a sporting treat.

Not only that, but the storm had apparently kept a few supporters at home on the sofa, allowing us terrace-dwellers to sit amongst the God's with the injured players on the East Grandstand. So the first half an hour was spent thanking god Sam Betty is currently injured and sitting only a few feet away. Amen.

That done, I turned my attention to my Dilemma of the Day. Pirates vs Southend. Southend. Just a few miles from home. Whatever 'home' means.

After catching a few lazy tones of South London drawl murmur out from the throng of supporters, I began to feel traitorous. The previous week I had practically come to fisticuffs with a (Cornish) friend who had told me, in no uncertain terms, that I shouldn't even be allowed to support the Pirates, as I'm not 'Cornish'.

Not Cornish, no, but living here - trying so very hard to make a life for myself here. Embracing with open arms all things local and meaningful to those kind enough to let me live among them. And here I was in my stubborn defiance, now having doubts.

It's hard also, to not support the underdogs - in this case the away team, who were so very far from home that only a handful of die-hard relatives had made the 250 mile pilgrimage across country, only to be met by an impressively resilient and somewhat intimidating Cornish side, and vocal fan base.

My resolve was to sit in silence, and simply enjoy the experience…

As if that worked. Rugby was never a game I could watch particularly silently, and as the game finally got going (20 minutes from the start and about 10 minutes before the heavens opened), I found the odd combination of desperate shouts of encouragement for a Cornish team yelped in a my London twang oddly amusing. And most confusing for my co-watchers.

A Cornishwoman, not quite. An emmit, yes. A proud Pirate supporter, apparently so.
Although I must admit to already having quite a worry over what I'll do when they play London Welsh in April…

To read the match report, click here