Hot August Day

Not so long ago (in old guy language that ranges from last week to ten years ago) I wandered to the Humane Society rugby field to watch the State Games Rugby Sevens matches. Notice I said watch. I wore sandals, a tee shirt, ordinary shorts. Okay the shorts were quasi-rugbyish being constructed of durable twill fabric. But I was not togged out for a game. I was going to watch.

As a bit of background, I started playing rugby in college and just never quit. I had an instant liking for the game because it was as free-wheeling as basketball, my first love and unlike American football, there were no heavy clanky pads and helmets. It rewarded speed and fitness. it fit my talents and mentality to a tee. There were enough nuances to the game that made it odd and confusing and compelling. Then I discovered Sevens rugby which was comprised of seven players per team, seven minute halves and the same size field as conventional rugby which was 110 meters long by 75 meters wide, lots of room to run. I took to it like the proverbial duck to water. That was a good twenty years ago. I hadn't managed to shake the sport whether to play or watch. Old boys rugby was designed for the over-35 year old player who hadn't gotten over the rugby habit yet.

On this August Day, I drove to the afore-mentioned site of the tournament, ambled over to the shady area where all the teams were sitting waiting for their next matches. All the regulars were there. I exchanged greetings with all my old mates who were sitting around waiting and sweating. It was summer in Nebraska so 90 degrees in the shade. Shade was welcomed.

I sat next to Buster, a long time teammate. Though I had known him forever, I had no idea of his real name, which is very common in rugby. You acquired a personality and a name by being a part of the gang, through your play and attitude. I was known as Stairs for about 15 years, an odd moniker but it stuck.

Buster's first question? “You going to play?”

“Nah, just here to watch.”

“Well, I’m done so you can play in my place.”

“Nah, I didn’t bring my gear.”

“You can use mine, like I said, I’m done.”

“Nah, I’ll just watch.”

He had his rugby boots sitting there…we sat in silence for a bit. I eyed his boots out of the corner of my eye.

“What size?” I asked with a nod toward his boots.

“12, what size you need?”

“12, no socks though.”

“I have socks…” he said as he pulled his sweaty wool knee socks off.

“When’s the next game?”

“About 10 minutes, you in?”

“I don’t know, maybe.” I continued to eye the boots and socks right within my grasp.

“You can even wear my scrum cap.” He was in a selling mode.

“Nah, that seems excessive.”

Without much thought I was donning his sweaty rugby socks. Who can refuse sweaty wool socks? I put on one boot, not a bad fit. I put on the other.

“So you playing?”

“I guess.”

We ambled over to the pitch. Lots of ambling in old boys rugby.

“You want my mouthpiece?” He said jokingly as he tossed me his sweaty jersey.

“Nah, I’ll pass on that.”

Within a couple of seconds, I was on the pitch at my old position of winger, way out on the end, out of the way. Safe.

The opening kickoff took place. The first couple of minutes passed without incident and given we only play seven minutes halves I was surviving.

Then there was a scrum, we won the ball. A couple of quick passes later, the ball headed to me out on the wing. Lickity split, I caught the pass from the inside center and gave the guy marking me a look.

In days of old, I would have left him in the dirt and laughed while doing it. Now, I considered my options. I could probably get around him but as established, it was quite hot out. Check. There was no one downfield, I could just kick it over his head, chase for a bit to put everybody onside, someone younger and fitter would run the ball down, we’ll score. Minimum effort, maximum result. Check.

I went with that option. I got off a lovely kick. I was on our 20 when I kicked the ball. It sailed straight and true and was rolling toward the opposite goal line. The guy marking me had that deer in the headlights look. He knew he had to run after the ball and/or me.

I took off after it, still wanting someone else to get it in gear and run by me.

No one. What a bunch of slugs I thought. I forgot I was playing old boys sevens which is at best an oxymoron.

For the first ten strides I was feeling good. I was enthused. Age is just a number! This is all right I thought to myself.

Suddenly I felt like the pitch was straight uphill and it seemed incredibly long.

Four strides later I could hear the guy I ran by breathing way too loudly, then I realized it was me.

A couple more strides and my arms and legs didn’t seem at all coordinated. I concentrated on my form. It kept me from just passing out. Am I running a marathon?

This used to be fun and yes, that was a question.

After about 30 meters, the chorus from the song American Pie popped into my head, you know the “this will be the day that I die” part.

The ball came to a stop about ten meters from the goal line. I got there ahead of the guy who was marking me and picked the ball up. He kind of dove at my feet and laid there twitching.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw one of my teammates, Stump. Oh happy days! I tossed the ball to him. Let him score!

He took ONE step, TWO at the most. Those steps put me back onside and as the guy on the ground made a feeble leap towards Stumpy, he tossed the ball back to me.

"What form of treachery is this?" I thought. I don’t want to move anymore. All he had to do was run ten more meters. In fairness, all three of us ran further than we wanted to but come on!

Now I had to do it.

I sucked it up and trudged across the goal line and touched the ball down. Try.

I immediately raised my hand for a sub.

I just wanted to watch. Really.