What a final, they kept saying, and they were right, but these finals always are. Folk have of late noted that we will not need play-offs any more, when they stretch the domestic season to 10 months, smoothing out those crinkly weekends which overlap with the international game.
Yes we will. This is addictive. To be at Twickenham in high May is to see English club rugby at its best, and there is no reason to think it will be any different in high June. This time, as apparently every time, two superb, attack-minded teams cut each other up in their differing ways, Exeter by thumping Wasps through the guts, Wasps by unpicking the Exeter muscle. Twenty-two rounds could scarcely separate the two during the regular season, so 80 minutes had no chance. For the second time in four finals, we had to go to extra-time. Had to? It was a pleasure.
In the end, the relentless pressure of Exeter prevailed over the pressure-point stings of Wasps. One of those cruel penalties at a scrum, albeit yielded after wave after wave of Exeter attack, allowed Gareth Steenson to convert the winning penalty in the 98th minute, two shy of the full, extra-time-fuelled 100.
The identity of the winners, though, is but a detail on an occasion such as this. In time, we will celebrate the achievements of Exeter, from Championship to Champions in seven years, but for now we should celebrate the day. English rugby must be in rude health. Eighty thousand at Twickenham is one thing, but the deafening noise was tribal, the now-famous Tomahawk Chop lent an edge of omen in an arena like this, while Wasps’ single-syllable reply was reminiscent of the Iceland war chant popularised at the football World Cup, albeit on speed.
And then there was the speed on the field, Wasps’ so deadly, Exeter’s so relentless. But, if Wasps are obviously lacking in any department it is physicality in the backs. Exeter’s heavy-duty three-quarters, particularly the centres, were constantly on the lookout for chances to run at smaller men, and there was never one very far away.
Both sides made their errors in a match as pacy and entertaining as we had dared hope. Wasps, though, were noticeably the nervier for most of that first half. Exeter capitalised on their early dominance, although not as handsomely as they might have liked. When Jack Nowell was worked clean through off a lineout, we knew long before he touched down that he was not going to be stopped. Then Ollie Devoto, the biggest three-quarter of the lot, steamed through Wasps’ midfield to feed Phil Dollman, who steamed through the wide defence to the line.
Exeter know only too well what big-stage nerves can do a rookie team’s first half, having been that side in last year’s final. They recovered well enough in the second half then only to fall short, so they knew to expect a Wasps comeback in the second half. It came even sooner than that, when Jimmy Gopperth streaked through on the stroke of half-time with a Wasps classic.
The phenomenal Nathan Hughes, the one Wasps player whose physicality Exeter struggled to contain, had paved the way for that one, and he did the same just after the break, brushing off Exeter defenders as if they were merely irritating. Then it was over to those deadly little weapons in Wasps’ armoury, Christian Wade off down the right, the bounce of his kick favouring Elliot Daly. Tries either side of half-time – very All Blacks, very the stuff of champions.
For 20 minutes, it seemed Exeter would finish this final as they had started last year’s – as a bag of nerves – but they steeled themselves as the clock wound up. An extraordinary 34-phase passage ought to have yielded points with 10 minutes of normal time remaining, but they had to wait until there was only one before Hughes, of all people, offered up to Steenson the chance to show how nerveless he can be. He took it to draw Exeter level at the death.
The Chiefs’ physicality now started to tell. Wasps’ props were labouring, Matt Mullan having to come back on for the stricken Marty Moore, then suffering himself. The thought occurred they should give in to it and accept uncontested scrums, even if it meant going down to 14 men, as the regulations now decree. But they chose to soldier on, in the noblest tradition. It was to cost them.
Their pain must now be indescribable, Exeter’s euphoria likewise, but that is the corollary of any final and not the point. The final itself is the thing. To win one, a side must show the nerve of champions, no matter where they finish in the league. And the rest of us can relish an occasion for kings. Long may they reign.
