Honours are even after the Battle Against the Islanders: Part Deuce

If Tolkien taught us anything, it’s that some days aren’t about the comfort of the Shire—they’re about trudging into the shadow, locking shields, and discovering whether your mates will still be mates when the scoreboard starts looking like a prophecy you’d rather not read aloud.

And so it was for Hammersmith & Fulham, marching into contest with Jersey RFC: an outfit with the calm, weathered confidence of people who live surrounded by sea and therefore fear nothing—least of all a ruck.

The omens were mixed. The lads arrived with the usual pre-battle rites: boots tightened like armour straps, tape applied with the seriousness of medieval surgeons, and a quiet, unspoken agreement that whatever happened out there… it would definitely be someone else’s fault.

Then the whistle.

And like any good saga, the first act belonged to the villains. Jersey came out with the sort of purposeful intent normally reserved for siege engines. The ball moved, bodies collided, and the game immediately took on that “long afternoon at Helm’s Deep” feel—less about elegance, more about survival. Hammers stood firm where they could, scrambled where they had to, and generally tried not to look directly at the scoreboard in case it started speaking in riddles.

But epics aren’t epics without a response.

And Hammers responded the way heroes do: not with magic, but with stubbornness.

Enter Anushan, who decided that if there was going to be a fight, Hammers might as well land a meaningful blow. High pressure. A wayward pass. Interception. Try. Hope rekindled.

The Hammers faithful allowed themselves a brief smile—the kind that says, Right then. We’re in this.

From the tee, Geoff stepped up—part wizard, part gambler, entirely at the mercy of wind, angle, and whatever dark forces reside in touchline heckling. One conversion landed; the other didn’t. One from two—enough to keep the torch lit, even if the storm kept trying to put it out.

Jersey, though, are not a team that misplaces momentum and politely asks if you’d like to have it back. They pressed on with the cold efficiency of a well-run campaign. Every inch was contested, every carry answered, every collision taken as personal correspondence. Hammers battled, but Jersey kept finding ways to turn pressure into points, inch by inch, blow by blow.

Still—Hammers refused to let the story be written without a second chapter.

Step forward Gregor, who brought the sort of energy that turns weary legs into suddenly-not-that-weary legs. At the right time, in the right place, with the right amount of “not today, thanks,” Gregor crossed for Hammers’ second try.

For a moment, it felt like the tide might turn; like somewhere in the distance a horn sounded; like the cavalry might yet arrive.

But rugby—like war, like fantasy novels, like trying to leave the clubhouse early—rarely goes to plan.

Jersey rallied again, composed and relentless, and as the match ran into its final passages, the visitors’ control told. Hammers kept swinging—never folded, never stopped competing—but the gap remained, and the final whistle arrived with the blunt honesty of a closing chapter.

Final score: Jersey RFC 28 – 12 Hammersmith & Fulham
Tries: Gregor, Anushan
Conversions: Geoff 1/2

There will be no songs sung about the scoreline.

But there should be something said for the fight: two tries carved out against stern opposition, a side that kept fronting up even when the plot looked unfriendly, and enough moments of grit to suggest that this wasn’t an ending—just a hard page in a longer story.

The season rolls on. The fellowship regroups. And next week, the lads go again—older, angrier, and significantly more interested in the details of defensive spacing.