Me 7: Rugby
Hmm, rugby. 10 best moments in my sporting life, I said, didn't I? That's proved pretty hard to make varied and interesting. I've searched my back catalogue and I revisit so much joy playing cricket, wonderful moments playing football, great satisfaction inrunning, but what then ... there are other bits and bobs, racquets and what not, but I've had to face up to that other sport I played extensively in an organised structure, had to see if there was anything positive in there I could use.
Hello again, my rugby playing days. I tried so hard to forget you.
I can think of good rugby moments, actually. About three. One was a lovely game of touch rugby on a summer House Party. I just remember it was grat, everyone was throwing it around, dodging and weaving, it was beautiful. Another was a try I scored as a 10 year old against my previous school which won the game. I grubber-kicked it all the way down the pitch and dived on it in the corner. People were pretty happy about it. Is there an interesting and non self-indulgent narrative I can compose around that? ... No, I've tried, not quite. The other's fun and a bit random. In that same Under-11 year we went and played in a Sevens tournament in Normandy and we won it. It was really a thrilling adventure. We slept on bunks in a French school and I was pulled out of my bunk (you know who you are!) and landed on my head! We told ghost stories! Ate Hollywood chewing gum. Found out the word 'melee'. Felt like ambassadors.
That was as good as rugby got for me. I have such mixed feelings about it. I abhor it but I still watch and enjoy it, though I haven't been within a million miles of playing in a contact rugby match for the best part of two decades. So I'll start at the beginning.
My father played rugby, as I think I mentioned, at London Irish. He was heavily involved in the club. I thought it was his sport. It was only later I realised that he'd only taken it up as an adult in England and actually it was Gaelic games he'd grown up playing back in Cork and that was really where his heart lay.
And it was never my sport. Never. I just knew that, right from the start, it didn't sit with me. But both my schools were rugby schools. I started playing when I was 7. I was deemed to be pretty good, though I was never quite convinced that I was. When I was 9, I was picked out to play for the team of the year above, mainly, hilariously, because of my relentless and fearless tackling ... ha! I've never been short of sporting self-confidence but I always felt it was a bit of a mistake, that I did nothing to distinguish myself and merit that inclusion.
I was right - I continued to play for my year team but not that often with all that much distinction. One of the problems was that I didn't really have a position. I was a back, and I could play everywhere in the backs, but I wouldn't say I was really good at any of them. I lacked the lightning spin pass of the top scrum half, the big boot of the fly half, the electric pace of the winger, the patience and big kick of the full back - the centres was where I often ended up, and that was about right, except the centres are all about tackling, and at some point, goodness knows, despite my early ferocity, I lost the taste for it. I decided not to be aggressive and fearless. I was young for my year and small, I was a little effete, and frankly, bone-headed aggression was not to be my bag.
However - i'll interject now although it slightly spoils the chronology - I seemed to be able to turn that desire to tackle on and off - there were various years where I really didn't want to be playing rugby and I do admit I shied away from the confrontation, but there were also years where I threw myself back into it, for whatever reason. Either way, that kind of ambiguity and vacillation doesn't sit well in any position on the rugby pitch.
After that tour to France, what happened was that my year group became really, desperately bad at rugby - bizarrely hopeless. We were a small lot and there weren't that many great natural sportspeople full stop, then there was a morale thing too. We just kept on losing. Three seasons in a row, there weren't more than a couple of victories each - this was hardly an environment for me to rediscover my love for the game.
Furthermore, the (up until that point, for me) unthinkable happened. I was dropped. Unceremoniously. I must have had some kind of alpha male attitude back then because I think I did not come to terms well with becoming a beta. I found myself captaining the Under 14 Bs and that's when it really turned sour. Not a terribly popular captain, for some reason! I won't go too deep into the psychology of why, but those boys (in the Bs they tended to be growing lunks rather than natural sportspeople) didn't take kindly to my delicate ways and they let me know it.
Another season of failure followed. Spending cold rainy winter Saturdays trailing round various public schools leading a group of people who don't like you, don't listen to you, losing over and over again, playing a sport you've wished not to be playing for some time; it's not my golden time.
In some ways, the next season was worse, in some ways it was truly the nadir of all things, though in a different way. We didn't actually have a coach for the start of the season (there was an Australian called Moore coming but I think there were visa issues) but, strangely, with me still an unpopular captain, we began to win. We even beat Wellington, a renowned rugby school.
When the Australian came, a junior rugby league intentional, the first game of the season was one we narrowly lost, and i think i played poorly (to be fair, i think i was filling in at scrum half). Anyway, the new Aussie took one look at me and slung me out of my own team, much to everyone's delight.
The chagrin increased tenfold. There's a certain unpleasantness possessed of privileged young men full of testosterone that, though it of course is not the very worst of the world's unpleasantnesses, is pretty damn pungent. To be on the receiving end of it for a while back then is something that sticks with me to this day.
No wonder I loathed rugby. I needed out. Surely I could sneak out of it next year, now nobody needed me? I was barely a C team player now.
But, no, when I tried to get out of playing next year, those stolid forces that be did not relent - rugby came first and I had to keep playing. So, I made a little pact with myself. This will, by hook or by crook, be my last year playing rugby, but I'll at least do it properly this year. By this time (Under 16s) I'd probably grown into my age group a bit more and found myself back in the centre. I got myself back in the B team (still with plenty of arseholes, but a few less than the year before), took my bravery pills and played on. I think I even enjoyed it a few times, and in one game, due to an injury, even found myself back in the A team, in a game that was won. I don't think I played terribly well, but it was a small personal triumph.
My final competitive game of rugby summed it up - it was a cup final, the Middlesex cup, and my friend James, the fly half, couldn't play, so I had to fill in that key role. I think I did ok, considering, but the team lost, and I remember various team members saying "well played, good effort" etc but I heard one of the prime antagonists muttering about me not being up to the job and any thought that I might relent and play again next year went. Time to get out of this game of pricks.
Not that it wasn't a struggle. I had to get a doctor's certificate to say that my migraines were linked to a head collisions (from an obliging family doctor) and even then, I was suspiciously disallowed from playing any other sport that term in rugby's stead and had to do Voluntary Service instead.Why this thirst to force teenagers to play some shitty sport where there's a better than average chance they'll get a kick in the head? Is this the army?
Well, no, but that's rugby. It is the sport of the uberman, of the officer class, of the dominant male who believes in teamwork and obligation and leaves little room for weirdos and eccentrics. It is not the universal sport of the little shoeless kid from the street who becomes a billionaire, like football, or the intriguing exemplar of postcolonial national identity that cricket is, where the greatest players of all are kooks like Murali or little wizards like Tendulkar and Lara.
Rugby has its wizards and its weirdos, of course it does, whether it's Shane Williams or Jonny Wilkinson, but rugby is not a rock'n'roll sport, it's not an indie sport, it's not a folk sport. It's, yes, a military sport. That's how I perceive it.
To me, it represents bullying and its own ill-conceived sense of moral superiority to other sports, it represents the validation of unseen violence (what goes on at the bottom of a ruck) and the quashing of the weak. Other people might feel football represents those things, but that's my experience.
So, this blog is about picking a moment. I think my rugby moment involves my head slamming down on hard ground, experiencing a double deja vu and feeling a little disorientated, and then being told off by a coach for dawdling. Aah, rugby.
Hello again, my rugby playing days. I tried so hard to forget you.
I can think of good rugby moments, actually. About three. One was a lovely game of touch rugby on a summer House Party. I just remember it was grat, everyone was throwing it around, dodging and weaving, it was beautiful. Another was a try I scored as a 10 year old against my previous school which won the game. I grubber-kicked it all the way down the pitch and dived on it in the corner. People were pretty happy about it. Is there an interesting and non self-indulgent narrative I can compose around that? ... No, I've tried, not quite. The other's fun and a bit random. In that same Under-11 year we went and played in a Sevens tournament in Normandy and we won it. It was really a thrilling adventure. We slept on bunks in a French school and I was pulled out of my bunk (you know who you are!) and landed on my head! We told ghost stories! Ate Hollywood chewing gum. Found out the word 'melee'. Felt like ambassadors.
That was as good as rugby got for me. I have such mixed feelings about it. I abhor it but I still watch and enjoy it, though I haven't been within a million miles of playing in a contact rugby match for the best part of two decades. So I'll start at the beginning.
My father played rugby, as I think I mentioned, at London Irish. He was heavily involved in the club. I thought it was his sport. It was only later I realised that he'd only taken it up as an adult in England and actually it was Gaelic games he'd grown up playing back in Cork and that was really where his heart lay.
And it was never my sport. Never. I just knew that, right from the start, it didn't sit with me. But both my schools were rugby schools. I started playing when I was 7. I was deemed to be pretty good, though I was never quite convinced that I was. When I was 9, I was picked out to play for the team of the year above, mainly, hilariously, because of my relentless and fearless tackling ... ha! I've never been short of sporting self-confidence but I always felt it was a bit of a mistake, that I did nothing to distinguish myself and merit that inclusion.
I was right - I continued to play for my year team but not that often with all that much distinction. One of the problems was that I didn't really have a position. I was a back, and I could play everywhere in the backs, but I wouldn't say I was really good at any of them. I lacked the lightning spin pass of the top scrum half, the big boot of the fly half, the electric pace of the winger, the patience and big kick of the full back - the centres was where I often ended up, and that was about right, except the centres are all about tackling, and at some point, goodness knows, despite my early ferocity, I lost the taste for it. I decided not to be aggressive and fearless. I was young for my year and small, I was a little effete, and frankly, bone-headed aggression was not to be my bag.
However - i'll interject now although it slightly spoils the chronology - I seemed to be able to turn that desire to tackle on and off - there were various years where I really didn't want to be playing rugby and I do admit I shied away from the confrontation, but there were also years where I threw myself back into it, for whatever reason. Either way, that kind of ambiguity and vacillation doesn't sit well in any position on the rugby pitch.
After that tour to France, what happened was that my year group became really, desperately bad at rugby - bizarrely hopeless. We were a small lot and there weren't that many great natural sportspeople full stop, then there was a morale thing too. We just kept on losing. Three seasons in a row, there weren't more than a couple of victories each - this was hardly an environment for me to rediscover my love for the game.
Furthermore, the (up until that point, for me) unthinkable happened. I was dropped. Unceremoniously. I must have had some kind of alpha male attitude back then because I think I did not come to terms well with becoming a beta. I found myself captaining the Under 14 Bs and that's when it really turned sour. Not a terribly popular captain, for some reason! I won't go too deep into the psychology of why, but those boys (in the Bs they tended to be growing lunks rather than natural sportspeople) didn't take kindly to my delicate ways and they let me know it.
Another season of failure followed. Spending cold rainy winter Saturdays trailing round various public schools leading a group of people who don't like you, don't listen to you, losing over and over again, playing a sport you've wished not to be playing for some time; it's not my golden time.
In some ways, the next season was worse, in some ways it was truly the nadir of all things, though in a different way. We didn't actually have a coach for the start of the season (there was an Australian called Moore coming but I think there were visa issues) but, strangely, with me still an unpopular captain, we began to win. We even beat Wellington, a renowned rugby school.
When the Australian came, a junior rugby league intentional, the first game of the season was one we narrowly lost, and i think i played poorly (to be fair, i think i was filling in at scrum half). Anyway, the new Aussie took one look at me and slung me out of my own team, much to everyone's delight.
The chagrin increased tenfold. There's a certain unpleasantness possessed of privileged young men full of testosterone that, though it of course is not the very worst of the world's unpleasantnesses, is pretty damn pungent. To be on the receiving end of it for a while back then is something that sticks with me to this day.
No wonder I loathed rugby. I needed out. Surely I could sneak out of it next year, now nobody needed me? I was barely a C team player now.
But, no, when I tried to get out of playing next year, those stolid forces that be did not relent - rugby came first and I had to keep playing. So, I made a little pact with myself. This will, by hook or by crook, be my last year playing rugby, but I'll at least do it properly this year. By this time (Under 16s) I'd probably grown into my age group a bit more and found myself back in the centre. I got myself back in the B team (still with plenty of arseholes, but a few less than the year before), took my bravery pills and played on. I think I even enjoyed it a few times, and in one game, due to an injury, even found myself back in the A team, in a game that was won. I don't think I played terribly well, but it was a small personal triumph.
My final competitive game of rugby summed it up - it was a cup final, the Middlesex cup, and my friend James, the fly half, couldn't play, so I had to fill in that key role. I think I did ok, considering, but the team lost, and I remember various team members saying "well played, good effort" etc but I heard one of the prime antagonists muttering about me not being up to the job and any thought that I might relent and play again next year went. Time to get out of this game of pricks.
Not that it wasn't a struggle. I had to get a doctor's certificate to say that my migraines were linked to a head collisions (from an obliging family doctor) and even then, I was suspiciously disallowed from playing any other sport that term in rugby's stead and had to do Voluntary Service instead.Why this thirst to force teenagers to play some shitty sport where there's a better than average chance they'll get a kick in the head? Is this the army?
Well, no, but that's rugby. It is the sport of the uberman, of the officer class, of the dominant male who believes in teamwork and obligation and leaves little room for weirdos and eccentrics. It is not the universal sport of the little shoeless kid from the street who becomes a billionaire, like football, or the intriguing exemplar of postcolonial national identity that cricket is, where the greatest players of all are kooks like Murali or little wizards like Tendulkar and Lara.
Rugby has its wizards and its weirdos, of course it does, whether it's Shane Williams or Jonny Wilkinson, but rugby is not a rock'n'roll sport, it's not an indie sport, it's not a folk sport. It's, yes, a military sport. That's how I perceive it.
To me, it represents bullying and its own ill-conceived sense of moral superiority to other sports, it represents the validation of unseen violence (what goes on at the bottom of a ruck) and the quashing of the weak. Other people might feel football represents those things, but that's my experience.
So, this blog is about picking a moment. I think my rugby moment involves my head slamming down on hard ground, experiencing a double deja vu and feeling a little disorientated, and then being told off by a coach for dawdling. Aah, rugby.
And the craziest thing is I still feel a pang of jealousy at knowing that there were people the school valued enough to force them to play a sport they didn't want to, and not allow them to do something else instead. But I'm sure you're eqaully jealous at never having had the opportunity to swordfight with Wieland Hoban.
ReplyDeleteI don't think it was the case of the school valuing me, it was my unbudging and uncompromising tutor forcing me to carry on, Le roi Juan.
ReplyDelete