If it seems like I have a chip on my shoulder sometimes, there is a very good reason for it. I was a smaller than average bear until I got to college. The clowns I hung out with in high school were a diamonds in the rough. I ran into my egg throwing buddy while I was home from college a couple of times. He was still the same size roughly at 132 where he was quite the competitor. I was over 210 at this point having shot up and out 4-5 inches. My 28 inch waist in HS was now 34 and I thought for sure I could handle this tiny old friend. Not a chance. Slippery and quick he kicked my ass on the front lawn. Then after some adult beverages we tried on the back lawn. My theory was that my beer muscles were superior to his. They weren't. It is fun to get your ass kicked every now and then. It keeps you humble.
He told me about taking his wife to the diner catching their kid, and then his wife, from the bathroom window in a classic up date on the dine and dash. The next time we met he was telling me of his new used bicycle business. "They just leave them on their porches in this town', they never lock them up! I have a garage full.!' Being a victim of bike theft as a youngster wasn't enough to make me break the code. Losing a bike teaches you a very zen like detachment from objects. You either have a code or you don't. When I have a code I buy two pineapples and a bottle of tequilla. Both slay viruses in a fun way. Mandarin juice is my second choice, but any vitamin C does the trick.
The last time I ran into him I was carrying a quarter keg up the hill to the dorms from the distributor in my dad's army duffel. Army duffels are very handy in this regard. If you can't fit your life into one you have attachment problems. He was on parole. He was less enthusiastic about the area because "the cops were being real dicks." The last I heard was something about construction in the west. He missed the 25 year reunion. I wish I had.
So this was one example of a low risk violent opportunity for macho mayhem. My dad was a different kind of veteran. My Uncle strafed water buffaloes in Nam. His kids called him "Sir," as in "Can I have more potatoes. WHAT?" I had a Dad. They were fun to listen to at the beach with my Grandad and all of us cousins just running wild. So I wasn't exactly encouraged to play the sport I wound up loving. My Dad came to one game. It worried him. He goes to my nephews football games because the violence is not as sustained. It has order. They stop every five seconds and re-organize. The flowing, chaotic, poorly reffed game he watched in the 80's was too much for him to take in.
I wanted to talk about violent opportunities because I was remembering a newsletter I read from my days of yore. Days when I had a job because of my sensitivity. My sensitivity to an insult, to the wrong color jersey, to a New York or North Jersey accent. I would hear that "funny tawkin" and want to kick their ass for the time the Jets fans shit on my car. Or for their Capitalistic, world polluting attitudes, or just because they needed to be beat on on account of general practices. Get a bunch of them together and it is a fine, bruising day of fun. People who were a perceived threat to "Tiny high school me" did not know that this fully operational death star neanderthal was targeting them because of something that happened years ago, or some tv show about New York attitudes that I recently watched the rubbed me the wrong way. It was not always a lot of fun to be mad at the world, but rugby provided relief. I could not very much pound on the frustrating little kids at work, now could I?
The newsletter called me "one of the most opportunistic players" he had ever seen. I extended that attitude into all areas of my life. No one else was going to do what I was going to do all day Saturday. Dealing with the bullies on the other team. Containing them, striking fear into them or at least trying to give our colored shirt the advantage in this one facet of the game. Being better than the dude across from me my first priority. That's what's easy about rugby. I would also try to terrorize their dainty woodland creatures whenever possible. There was a rumor that I was a little "over-strategic" sometimes. But that's the game, find their weakness and exploit it. Use your strengths. to do so while hiding your own softer rugby players.
When you look at your team and there is a lot of hard physical stuff to do in scrums and rucks and there is no one who you trust to do it better than yourself, that's when you stop playing wing forward and start playing prop. Like a saint. Saint Harry, the asshole. yeaaaa. The stereotype of fat dudes playing prop is only found on beatable teams. Rugby is about running. Fat slow dudes are an exploitable liability. If you let them disrupt your game, I feel sorry for your rugby experiences, you missed some wonderful moments.
He told me about taking his wife to the diner catching their kid, and then his wife, from the bathroom window in a classic up date on the dine and dash. The next time we met he was telling me of his new used bicycle business. "They just leave them on their porches in this town', they never lock them up! I have a garage full.!' Being a victim of bike theft as a youngster wasn't enough to make me break the code. Losing a bike teaches you a very zen like detachment from objects. You either have a code or you don't. When I have a code I buy two pineapples and a bottle of tequilla. Both slay viruses in a fun way. Mandarin juice is my second choice, but any vitamin C does the trick.
The last time I ran into him I was carrying a quarter keg up the hill to the dorms from the distributor in my dad's army duffel. Army duffels are very handy in this regard. If you can't fit your life into one you have attachment problems. He was on parole. He was less enthusiastic about the area because "the cops were being real dicks." The last I heard was something about construction in the west. He missed the 25 year reunion. I wish I had.
So this was one example of a low risk violent opportunity for macho mayhem. My dad was a different kind of veteran. My Uncle strafed water buffaloes in Nam. His kids called him "Sir," as in "Can I have more potatoes. WHAT?" I had a Dad. They were fun to listen to at the beach with my Grandad and all of us cousins just running wild. So I wasn't exactly encouraged to play the sport I wound up loving. My Dad came to one game. It worried him. He goes to my nephews football games because the violence is not as sustained. It has order. They stop every five seconds and re-organize. The flowing, chaotic, poorly reffed game he watched in the 80's was too much for him to take in.
I wanted to talk about violent opportunities because I was remembering a newsletter I read from my days of yore. Days when I had a job because of my sensitivity. My sensitivity to an insult, to the wrong color jersey, to a New York or North Jersey accent. I would hear that "funny tawkin" and want to kick their ass for the time the Jets fans shit on my car. Or for their Capitalistic, world polluting attitudes, or just because they needed to be beat on on account of general practices. Get a bunch of them together and it is a fine, bruising day of fun. People who were a perceived threat to "Tiny high school me" did not know that this fully operational death star neanderthal was targeting them because of something that happened years ago, or some tv show about New York attitudes that I recently watched the rubbed me the wrong way. It was not always a lot of fun to be mad at the world, but rugby provided relief. I could not very much pound on the frustrating little kids at work, now could I?
The newsletter called me "one of the most opportunistic players" he had ever seen. I extended that attitude into all areas of my life. No one else was going to do what I was going to do all day Saturday. Dealing with the bullies on the other team. Containing them, striking fear into them or at least trying to give our colored shirt the advantage in this one facet of the game. Being better than the dude across from me my first priority. That's what's easy about rugby. I would also try to terrorize their dainty woodland creatures whenever possible. There was a rumor that I was a little "over-strategic" sometimes. But that's the game, find their weakness and exploit it. Use your strengths. to do so while hiding your own softer rugby players.
When you look at your team and there is a lot of hard physical stuff to do in scrums and rucks and there is no one who you trust to do it better than yourself, that's when you stop playing wing forward and start playing prop. Like a saint. Saint Harry, the asshole. yeaaaa. The stereotype of fat dudes playing prop is only found on beatable teams. Rugby is about running. Fat slow dudes are an exploitable liability. If you let them disrupt your game, I feel sorry for your rugby experiences, you missed some wonderful moments.
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