Rugby Returns
For the past four years Sunday mornings throughout the autumn, winter and spring have not been filled with late breakfasts, endless cups of tea, and catching up with friends on the internet. Instead they have been all about steaming breath, the thunder of little feet, and stamping back and forth with hands deep in pockets alongside other similarly challenged parents while stood on the touchline of Rugby pitches.
What began as a random idea on the walk home from school one day turned into the discovery of our eight year old daughter's young life. She became the only girl on a team of boys, and surprised us all with her strength, adherence to instruction, and resilience. Where many young boys came trudging from the pitch in tears following exuberant challenges, she rarely did so – I think we saw tears once in four years. Rugby was her game, and the local team slowly infiltrated the coat pegs and winter clothes drawers, with scarves, hats, gloves, and shirts.
We travelled to several stadiums over her time in the youth team, to watch her heroes do battle. The “Stinger” charity match at Twickenham perhaps burns most brightly in all of our memories.
All things change of course, and finally this year her body has begun to change. There are good reasons why the boys and girls are not allowed to play together after a certain age – rugby is a full-contact sport where any part of a player can and will be grabbed in order to bring them to ground.
Her story has started over this year – joining a girls team in a nearby town. Given her experience of only ever playing with the boys of the local club, she is leagues ahead of her new team-mates in terms of experience and skill. Where this year her age group are just learning about Rucks, Mauls, and scrums, she has been in the middle of them for the last two years.
This post wasn't supposed to be about her story though – it was supposed to be about the Rugby World Cup, that began last night with England thumping Fiji at Twickenham. We had been out for a family meal at the local pub, which was full of people waiting to watch the game. While wandering home Miss 11 started asking what time the Rugby started, and I realised we might get home in time to see the start if we ran. We ran.
I've never been a huge fan of football (soccer, if you're reading this in the US) – mainly because of the behaviour of the players, and the fans. There was a moment in the game last night that struck perhaps the most important difference between football and rugby – one of the Fijian players spoke back at the referee – he broadcast his reaction to the statium;
“You don't tell me what to do. If you try again, I will award a penalty to the other team.”
You see, in Rugby, dissent is frowned upon. Only the captain of the team is allowed to talk to the referee, and then only when invited to do so. Any dissent at all will earn your team immediate punishment in the form of a penalty.
You only have to attend a rugby match to also notice that the crowd is mixed – fans of the two teams are mixed together – there is no segregation as happens in football. I'm not entirely sure why crowd violence has become so prevalent in football, but it simply does not exist in rugby. We watched London Wasps play Gloucester at Twickenham a couple of years ago, and sat in a sea of both Wasps and Gloucester fans. Thirty thousand people cheered for our own side, and also applauded good play from the opposing side – nobody booed, and nobody shouted any abuse.
The scene in our living room last night must have looked quite comical – the five of us, and my mother in law – sat around the TV eating birthday cake, riveted to the television screen, and the ebb and flow of the unfolding England Fiji game. The conversation was occasionally interrupted with our youngest screaming “CHEAT!”, or “THAT'S NOT FAIR!” at the screen (she doesn't actually know the rules, but any decision against England seemed very unjust indeed to her).