There is no doubting the brotherhood of mud and blood that exists between rugby players.
A clever dude once put a Shakespeare quote on a tee shirt that rings pretty true.
There is no place to hide on a rugby field. The action seems to somehow seek out the cowards, i know I always ran at the new back on the wing!
That the man who stands his ground and sheds his blood on St. Crispin's day with feats that echo thru time is my brother in Eternity, BE HE NE"ER SO VILE.
Yes, I am vile. As in Violent. The front row does that to you. Scrum after scrum after ruck after ruck after scrum . Rugby is based on the word Ruck. If you aren't in a ton of rucks you are basically a spectator so shut the fuck up when the real men are talking. Unless your name is Lomu and you are a beast. Or when your name is Kenny Madden or Paul Dennis your massive hits echo in fellow rugby brothers brains for eternity. I have a ton of respect for centers. I played a couple of games there and it was a lot of full speed head on collisions. Deft tacklers like Rob Church may not have been true cruncher, but no one got by him. Technique is technique. There is room for all kinds of people on the rugby field. It's tough to find fifteen to twenty good ones. So you make do and try to limit the exposure of some of your team mates to the real rugby. Or am I wrong?
I am open to the idea that I may have missed some heroic shit. But I never missed a party. And Shakespeare mentions rugby parties in an odd way in the same speech from Henry V. http://nfs.sparknotes.com/henryv/page_186.html The names of Harry the king, et al...be in their flowing cups freshly remembered. That's a rugby party he is talking about and that was a big part of the game for me with the shit talking and singing,eating light bulbs, jumping off of roofs, and other assorted feats of idiocy, male dominance and gentle mayhem. The post game stuff is where the collective memory of rugby lies. It all comes out.
The big fellow who came up small, haw haw haw, the slippery moves of a face, a stuey, or the fear you face as All-nAmericanDixie Dean is dancing in front of you, a simple prop, on the sidelines of the final at PAC sevens. Dixie, of the real Duck Brothers rugby dynasty in the 80's. Give him a step and you are toast. Half greyhoud, half antelope and trying to wrong foot me, so I did what came naturally and hit him late and out of bounds and made sure I landed on top of him hard. The nest time he's dancing I am shitting my pants again because he is lightning. He's dancing, I'm trying to stay between him and his destiny and edging closer. Sevens is a funny game at times. Lucky for me he passed it back inside just as I tripped over my feet trying to dance with him on that sideline.
Endless ten minutes halves in the final of a sevens tourney. Our rallying cry of "Cheeba Cheeba!" echoed by team mates across the field as we somehow hung on against Goliath. What a summer that was. One kick away from nationals. Washington made it from about midfield. Those are some rugby brothers. The Cheeba Cheeba crew, John Porter, the REAL AC, Rob Church was that you driving that night past all those Maryland cops on 95 protesting something on the border there by pulling everyone over. Mooning those chicks. Singing Tone Loc. We won the game and were the last ones out of the party. Of course we found a rugby brother who had a place to sleep for the night because we were the conquering vikings, in town for some pillaging. Nothing is sweeter than returning to the city where you really learned to scrum and drinking from the champions cup as your ex team mates eyes bug out at your new skill set. Yes that was that prop who used to play for us on that fifty meter sprint down the sideline for a try. That was the summer when I learned to pass and score and put people through holes. Thanks DOC!
It is in Shakespeare's flowing cups of lore that the memories sear into your brain. There is no higher affirmation than when a true rugby warrior from the opposing Visigoths seeks you out at the party to pick your brain, that's the stuff there. That's the Brotherhood I speak about when I am talking about this fraternity of mud and violence. When the opposing team gives you the hard earned man of the match award. I lived for my violent rugby Saturdays. We all make our choices in life. I chose to put rugby ahead of women and jobs and would do so again. Those things come and go.
Do you remember when you caught the rugby bug? I do. It was in the beaucolic countryside of Kutztown Pa with a bunch of coal miners kids and Jersey boys. Hunters. Alphas. I would play A,B and C games back then a more relaxed era when you could have a keg or 4 on the sideline. Before the rugby police. Coach Ernie would talk wistfully of when rugby was even more real. Fifteen dudes a side only. You lose one to injury, you play with 14.
Then there are my rugby cousins. Dudes you are related to, dudes that fill out a side, but who seem to disappear when the rugby starts somehow. Too smart to hurt themselves in a stupid game played by aggressive drunks I guess. Superior men. Self proclaimed Cro-magnons, alleged supervisors to my Neanderthal Bretheren. Guys that wear the shirt and love to be around warriors, but dudes that stay on the ground an extra second or two miss a lot of rugby that way. Always joining the ruck just as the ball is working its way out. It's sad what lengths people will go to to protect themselves on the rugby field. The fear is the fun, isn't it? Use it.
This is not to say that you have to drink to play this game. Nope. I know a couple of determined and brave tacklers who don't touch the stuff. One of them is a prop who was the scrum captain of a team that went from D3 to D1. You hear the flesh smack when he is the man leading the charge to stop the penalty move. That is something you can't teach. That is instinct. That is desire. And a dude like that makes you try to beat him to the fun in the next ruck and you become a true pack of war dogs on the hunt.
The other tea-totaler, adding tea? That can't be right. Whatever, this "adder of teas" (now he's a snake? focus man focus). The other non drinker of merit is a straight edge dude who loves the same kind of music that the non-drinking prop does. Maybe that's what fuels their fire, the music of Rage. This dude can't be more than 160 but he is in the mix, dragging dudes twice his size down, a bantam fury. A natural. Real recognizes Real is how the kids in the hood would say it. You just KNOW who these guys are. The Naturals.
It was nice to finally know what to do with my violent tendencies. A lightbulb went off in my head as I chewed a lightbub with the West Chester team in a ratty basement party. A society that wants and needs my services. A place where my bad attitude could be put to good use. A way to stay out of jail most weekends. A home in the front row for almost 20 years with a few vacations out at wing forward in college and when a team called the Hibo's gave me a job to come and play for them. Living the dream. With an all world fly half from Australia named David Niu who played for the US national team. Those guys are fun to play with. Those guys are fun to play against.
I remember a Blackthorn team playing at the Washington Irish tournament vs. NOVA against one of David's countrymen. A Samoan shit house. A linebacker size dude who was clearly my targeted opposition. A dude that need to be slowed down as much as humanly possible. You never get tired of tackling Pacific Islanders because what other option is there? That's the job. Stop the big slob, or go play softball. No fags in the tight five baby. The engine room. You are welcome for all the balls, back line glory boys. Anyhow, this was back when the great new idea in penalty plays was to have four or five forwards turn their back and do something tricky with the ball. I loved this play because it gave me a free run at a target that could not see me coming or put a move on me. There was no way I could miss laying this dude out and I did with relish. On the next penalty play they ran he was peeking over his shoulder with an elbow waiting for my face so I hit the dude next to him.
So spotting the rugby cousins is a little bit harder, but you sense something about them that. Something is missing and they don't quite fit into the "brother" category, but they are dressed like you. Guys that are overheard talking to the other teams captain before the second day of a tournament on a hot Sunday morning. Guys who say"take it easy on us we were all out drinking pretty late last night, ha ha" That is an actual quote, from an actual rugby cousin. That quote forced me to rethink my alliance with a certain club and made switching teams very easy. It is a sad thing that happens to a rugby team. They lose focus on the rugby and instead become side line cooler hero's with craft beers clinging to memories as they develop mammaries. People who retire from rugby in their late 20s even.
It is even sadder when the performance of a team is different when key tacklers are missing and you suddenly are haunted by rugby ghosts. Making ghost tackles, getting to every ruck just as the ball is leaving and somehow getting caught up or in the way of whats left of the rugby players. Get the fuck off the field. Pussies who slow to get up, saving their mojo for what I ask you? What? But yelling at them makes them stop coming to practice. Then you are playing A and B side games in your late thirties because propping is hard work and this is saturday and I have a ______________ this weekend that I can't get out of. Real rugby players go to weddings concussed and still a little muddle from the quick shower, running on the adrenaline that a truly pissed of woman is able to give you an endless supply of. Yes dear. So you make your choices. She makes hers. Life goes on.
Then there are the rugby snakes. Your girlfriend is not safe on the sideline when you have one of these guys on your team Or the shit talking snake. The un warrantedly arrogant snake, all snide comments and judgement. That's why I love rugby practice and rucking so much. There is no place to hide from me. Don't poke the sleeping tiger.
A clever dude once put a Shakespeare quote on a tee shirt that rings pretty true.
There is no place to hide on a rugby field. The action seems to somehow seek out the cowards, i know I always ran at the new back on the wing!
That the man who stands his ground and sheds his blood on St. Crispin's day with feats that echo thru time is my brother in Eternity, BE HE NE"ER SO VILE.
Yes, I am vile. As in Violent. The front row does that to you. Scrum after scrum after ruck after ruck after scrum . Rugby is based on the word Ruck. If you aren't in a ton of rucks you are basically a spectator so shut the fuck up when the real men are talking. Unless your name is Lomu and you are a beast. Or when your name is Kenny Madden or Paul Dennis your massive hits echo in fellow rugby brothers brains for eternity. I have a ton of respect for centers. I played a couple of games there and it was a lot of full speed head on collisions. Deft tacklers like Rob Church may not have been true cruncher, but no one got by him. Technique is technique. There is room for all kinds of people on the rugby field. It's tough to find fifteen to twenty good ones. So you make do and try to limit the exposure of some of your team mates to the real rugby. Or am I wrong?
I am open to the idea that I may have missed some heroic shit. But I never missed a party. And Shakespeare mentions rugby parties in an odd way in the same speech from Henry V. http://nfs.sparknotes.com/henryv/page_186.html The names of Harry the king, et al...be in their flowing cups freshly remembered. That's a rugby party he is talking about and that was a big part of the game for me with the shit talking and singing,eating light bulbs, jumping off of roofs, and other assorted feats of idiocy, male dominance and gentle mayhem. The post game stuff is where the collective memory of rugby lies. It all comes out.
The big fellow who came up small, haw haw haw, the slippery moves of a face, a stuey, or the fear you face as All-nAmericanDixie Dean is dancing in front of you, a simple prop, on the sidelines of the final at PAC sevens. Dixie, of the real Duck Brothers rugby dynasty in the 80's. Give him a step and you are toast. Half greyhoud, half antelope and trying to wrong foot me, so I did what came naturally and hit him late and out of bounds and made sure I landed on top of him hard. The nest time he's dancing I am shitting my pants again because he is lightning. He's dancing, I'm trying to stay between him and his destiny and edging closer. Sevens is a funny game at times. Lucky for me he passed it back inside just as I tripped over my feet trying to dance with him on that sideline.
Endless ten minutes halves in the final of a sevens tourney. Our rallying cry of "Cheeba Cheeba!" echoed by team mates across the field as we somehow hung on against Goliath. What a summer that was. One kick away from nationals. Washington made it from about midfield. Those are some rugby brothers. The Cheeba Cheeba crew, John Porter, the REAL AC, Rob Church was that you driving that night past all those Maryland cops on 95 protesting something on the border there by pulling everyone over. Mooning those chicks. Singing Tone Loc. We won the game and were the last ones out of the party. Of course we found a rugby brother who had a place to sleep for the night because we were the conquering vikings, in town for some pillaging. Nothing is sweeter than returning to the city where you really learned to scrum and drinking from the champions cup as your ex team mates eyes bug out at your new skill set. Yes that was that prop who used to play for us on that fifty meter sprint down the sideline for a try. That was the summer when I learned to pass and score and put people through holes. Thanks DOC!
It is in Shakespeare's flowing cups of lore that the memories sear into your brain. There is no higher affirmation than when a true rugby warrior from the opposing Visigoths seeks you out at the party to pick your brain, that's the stuff there. That's the Brotherhood I speak about when I am talking about this fraternity of mud and violence. When the opposing team gives you the hard earned man of the match award. I lived for my violent rugby Saturdays. We all make our choices in life. I chose to put rugby ahead of women and jobs and would do so again. Those things come and go.
Do you remember when you caught the rugby bug? I do. It was in the beaucolic countryside of Kutztown Pa with a bunch of coal miners kids and Jersey boys. Hunters. Alphas. I would play A,B and C games back then a more relaxed era when you could have a keg or 4 on the sideline. Before the rugby police. Coach Ernie would talk wistfully of when rugby was even more real. Fifteen dudes a side only. You lose one to injury, you play with 14.
Then there are my rugby cousins. Dudes you are related to, dudes that fill out a side, but who seem to disappear when the rugby starts somehow. Too smart to hurt themselves in a stupid game played by aggressive drunks I guess. Superior men. Self proclaimed Cro-magnons, alleged supervisors to my Neanderthal Bretheren. Guys that wear the shirt and love to be around warriors, but dudes that stay on the ground an extra second or two miss a lot of rugby that way. Always joining the ruck just as the ball is working its way out. It's sad what lengths people will go to to protect themselves on the rugby field. The fear is the fun, isn't it? Use it.
This is not to say that you have to drink to play this game. Nope. I know a couple of determined and brave tacklers who don't touch the stuff. One of them is a prop who was the scrum captain of a team that went from D3 to D1. You hear the flesh smack when he is the man leading the charge to stop the penalty move. That is something you can't teach. That is instinct. That is desire. And a dude like that makes you try to beat him to the fun in the next ruck and you become a true pack of war dogs on the hunt.
The other tea-totaler, adding tea? That can't be right. Whatever, this "adder of teas" (now he's a snake? focus man focus). The other non drinker of merit is a straight edge dude who loves the same kind of music that the non-drinking prop does. Maybe that's what fuels their fire, the music of Rage. This dude can't be more than 160 but he is in the mix, dragging dudes twice his size down, a bantam fury. A natural. Real recognizes Real is how the kids in the hood would say it. You just KNOW who these guys are. The Naturals.
It was nice to finally know what to do with my violent tendencies. A lightbulb went off in my head as I chewed a lightbub with the West Chester team in a ratty basement party. A society that wants and needs my services. A place where my bad attitude could be put to good use. A way to stay out of jail most weekends. A home in the front row for almost 20 years with a few vacations out at wing forward in college and when a team called the Hibo's gave me a job to come and play for them. Living the dream. With an all world fly half from Australia named David Niu who played for the US national team. Those guys are fun to play with. Those guys are fun to play against.
I remember a Blackthorn team playing at the Washington Irish tournament vs. NOVA against one of David's countrymen. A Samoan shit house. A linebacker size dude who was clearly my targeted opposition. A dude that need to be slowed down as much as humanly possible. You never get tired of tackling Pacific Islanders because what other option is there? That's the job. Stop the big slob, or go play softball. No fags in the tight five baby. The engine room. You are welcome for all the balls, back line glory boys. Anyhow, this was back when the great new idea in penalty plays was to have four or five forwards turn their back and do something tricky with the ball. I loved this play because it gave me a free run at a target that could not see me coming or put a move on me. There was no way I could miss laying this dude out and I did with relish. On the next penalty play they ran he was peeking over his shoulder with an elbow waiting for my face so I hit the dude next to him.
So spotting the rugby cousins is a little bit harder, but you sense something about them that. Something is missing and they don't quite fit into the "brother" category, but they are dressed like you. Guys that are overheard talking to the other teams captain before the second day of a tournament on a hot Sunday morning. Guys who say"take it easy on us we were all out drinking pretty late last night, ha ha" That is an actual quote, from an actual rugby cousin. That quote forced me to rethink my alliance with a certain club and made switching teams very easy. It is a sad thing that happens to a rugby team. They lose focus on the rugby and instead become side line cooler hero's with craft beers clinging to memories as they develop mammaries. People who retire from rugby in their late 20s even.
It is even sadder when the performance of a team is different when key tacklers are missing and you suddenly are haunted by rugby ghosts. Making ghost tackles, getting to every ruck just as the ball is leaving and somehow getting caught up or in the way of whats left of the rugby players. Get the fuck off the field. Pussies who slow to get up, saving their mojo for what I ask you? What? But yelling at them makes them stop coming to practice. Then you are playing A and B side games in your late thirties because propping is hard work and this is saturday and I have a ______________ this weekend that I can't get out of. Real rugby players go to weddings concussed and still a little muddle from the quick shower, running on the adrenaline that a truly pissed of woman is able to give you an endless supply of. Yes dear. So you make your choices. She makes hers. Life goes on.
Then there are the rugby snakes. Your girlfriend is not safe on the sideline when you have one of these guys on your team Or the shit talking snake. The un warrantedly arrogant snake, all snide comments and judgement. That's why I love rugby practice and rucking so much. There is no place to hide from me. Don't poke the sleeping tiger.
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