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My mutt isn’t allowed to go to rugby practices anymore. He gets too excited, thinks he is the starting outside center and doesn’t like to sit on the sidelines. And he can’t get enough of that odd-shaped ball.
I don’t think anyone has seen me do it, but sometimes I take my rugby ball out to a baseball backstop. Then I throw it over and over, chasing my own ball. It’s the closest I’ve come to understanding my mutt’s ball obsession. But that’s what rugby is for me and the others who play it, an obsession.
I started playing rugby in ninth grade. A handmade sign hung in our cafeteria advertising an interest meeting after school. The rugby club members were not allowed to advertise over the loud speaker, or hang signs anywhere in the school except for one small bulletin board by the water fountain. The Midwest is a supporter of rugby, but high schools are hesitant to endorse the sport because of the risk of injuries that go along with it. It’s fortunate I even saw the sign. It was a spring sport, and if I hadn’t joined, I probably would’ve continued playing softball, and therefore sitting on the bench all season.
I’m five foot five and 125 pounds, far from large, or even strong looking. I’m the typical Midwestern woman who is polite and smiles when there is no real need for smiling. When there is conversation, people expect me to sit in near silence, observing, detached. Rugby was a contradiction to what most people saw in me. Growing up, I was basically the same person I am today: the quiet girl in class, staring out the window, the calm, supportive friend. I just spend too much time thinking and watching what’s going on. I do things like purposely wait in my car if a coworker and I arrive to work at the same time, just so I don’t have to walk into the building with someone else and think of things to say.
But I am also part of a sport that requires violence, and in it is the feeling of power that only comes from hurting someone else. In rugby, I’ve broken an opponent’s nose, been threatened to leave a match and witnessed countless players carried off the field on stretchers. It’s all part of the best sport in the world.
The easy way out is to call rugby a combination of soccer, football and maybe a little trench warfare. Really, this is just a way to explain it to Americans who have grown up with the NFL. Rugby is rugby. Fifteen players on a side, all fighting for one ball. Eighty minutes of competition, with a five-minute halftime.
The way it feels to be complete after a day of ass kicking is unlike anything in the world. I’m starting to appreciate my youth because even though I will continue playing as long as a team will have, I know I won’t be able to do this forever. You can be a 60-year-old marathoner or an 80-year-old swimmer if you’re lucky, but besides a few city teams, there aren’t enough rugby clubs beyond graduate school.
So, with spring almost here, Ace and I can’t wait to get out and chase a ball around.
If you liked this post, read my rugby post on the blog Women Like Sports.
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March 16th, 2008 at 7:31 pm
Great post - I admire your love of sports! I’ll be visiting here more often for sure. Oh, and by the way, my cat is leash and car trained!
Apryl DeLancey’s last blog post..Sunday Sports Wrap – March 16, 2008