hull in my head

It was a good day. It began with an interview for a job I applied for. I’ll know for sure soon if I got it or not but I feel pretty confident about it. The job isn’t anything to chalk up as a career choice but it does sounds fun and will give me some extra food or travel money. My position would either be wait or bar staff at this swanky café and bar that is only a five-minute walk from my house. I’ve always wanted to try being a waiter or barista or something to that effect so now is my chance. And in England no less! I just wish they tipped here….

After the interview was my much anticipate rugby match. I organized it a few weeks back in an attempt to make more friends and experience something new. Truth be told, I had previously never seen a rugby match before coming here. In fact I hadn’t yet seen a match before I organized the event. If I had, I may have had second thoughts about it. But the past two weekends were the finials of the Rugby World Cup, and I watched, fascinated by the spectacle.

Rugby is less of a sport and more of warfare. Basically take all the impact and action of American football, increases it a bit more, and then take away all the players pads and protection. Imagine if you will, a man of pure muscle standing over six feet tall running full speed and hurling his body at a man of equal size and stature, and that is rugby. Or try to picture what is called a scrum. This is where the team creates a human battering ram by lifting 4 or 5 interlocked players up to bash into the opposing teams battering ram of flesh and bone. They do it until one of the sides fall down or someone shouts “neck” or “back” indicating which part of their body is now broken.

Oh, also throw out the penalty book because I literally saw players punching each other and the Official’s reactions were something to the effect of a exasperated father: “Ok boys, lets settle it down a bit.” No penalties, no delay of game, the players would merely wipe blood away and carry on. I kid you not.

Needless to say, after seeing the Herculean beasts of professional rugby in action I was a bit apprehensive about the game. But since I am typing this you know that I obviously lived. In fact the game was what I would consider a success. 18 lads (who I recruited from randomly walking around the assembly during the lunch session) turned up. We picked teams, distributed the big fellows evenly, and got on with it.

Let me just tell you, playing rugby is much different than watching it. You have so much more respect and insight for the sport. First is just the sheer physicality of it. The game is divided into two 40-minute halves with no breaks in between. Unlike American football where there are beaks of play after every tackle and for the switching of offense and defense players, rugby is constant and relentless. The same player who just ran the touchdown (or try) is responsible for tackling on defense. I thought I was going to die after ten minutes. I’ve never experienced anything so intense.

Besides that there is the whole abandonment of the notion of protecting your body. In rugby your body is to be sacrificed to either try to break through the oppositions defense, or sacrificed for the sake of tackling the offense. Oftentimes this comes at a price. In our friendly game of Saturday-afternoon-rugby alone we had: 3 bloody noses. 1 cut hand, a sprained wrist, twisted ankle, twisted knee and a burst blood vein. Not to mention the countless bruises and swollen body parts.

It’s the strangest thing though, as we all hobbled of the field we all felt great. Like we had all just bonded from surviving the heat of battle. On that field we were warriors of ancient Rome or Sparta. Or greatest ally and protection was the man to our right, and it was to that person alone that we had to prove ourselves. And we did, every one of us played hard and enjoyed it, and we all felt like men! In the end we all shook hands, shared blood soaked towels, gave emphatic pats on the back, and made plans to do it again sometime.

I took one last look at the pitch (field) feeling particularly proud. Despite never playing before, I had earned two tries (equivalent of 2 touchdowns) and felt like I had gained the respect to the lads. I even earned a new nickname: Slippery Jim. I stood there in my shirt that was ripped to shreds and took a deep breath soaking it all in. Despite my throbbing head and now concaved chest, I felt great. We went to the pub straight after and a pint never tasted so good. I really felt great, and I really felt English.

Later that night however I discovered what truly is the hardest part about rugby: Deciding what hurts the most. For me it was a toss up between: walking up my stairs, chewing, or breathing. For Nathan it was an easier choice. He ended up going to the emergency room because of his busted vein in his knee. But for all of us, things only felt worse the next day. After a sleepless night I got up with the feeling that I had been hit by a car. Not only that, but the car, after hitting me, backed over me and rammed me a second time. Later that day I meet up with Chris and Nathan who were equally bruised and broken. We looked like 80-year-old men as we limped off to coffee, my resolve to organize another game fading with every fragile step.