Rugby. I Love It.

Saw Sale Sharks lose last night

Walking the dogs yesterday afternoon, we bumped into our tame rugby player, who offered us free tickets for last night’s pre-season friendly against Edinburgh.  Five free tickets, because we are minus one first-born but plus one niece and plus one nephew.  Our rugby player is a nice guy.

I don’t mind that they lost: the thunnk of many men crashing into each other is so thrilling that it doesn’t matter who wins; I’m too excited to care.

It has taken me almost thirty years to learn the basic rules of football; most of it by osmosis – when you’re married to a man who buys products based on who is sponsoring his team at the time, you watch, read and hear a lot about soccer.  In comparison, however, footballers are huge wimps with their diving and calls for bookings; give me a pitch punch-up any time, like last night’s.  Rugby is a man’s game.

My love of rugby has taken me by surprise: despite the Hub’s passion for it (third only to football and athletics; and pipping beach volleyball – women’s – to the post), I never got excited about it, even when he made me watch South Africa win the 1995 World Cup.  Spud took it up in high school, and I actually disliked it intensely, especially when he was knocked out.

I would go to his matches and cover my eyes.  I reached the point of watching with my back to the pitch.  That was when I discovered the big boys’ rugby – strapping eighteen-year olds, thunnking and crashing into each other…

…I love rugby.

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