Rugby Six Nations was on this afternoon (the photo above was taken at the Guinness Cup Final last year, so don't be misled) and in his usual fashion, John was shouting, jumping, and (occasionally) swearing at the screen. But instead of plugging in my earphones or using this as an excuse for a shopping trip, I was glued to the screen as well. That's because I love rugby.
In order to explain why, you've got to know two things about me:
1) I hate sports. I was the one who got hit by the basketball in elementary school. I was always last picked for teams. I was the one with no hand-eye co-ordination in junior high. I was the one who the P.E. teacher referred to as, "exceptionally bright in the classroom but talentless in the gym" (he actually meant that as a compliment).
2) I especially hate American football - the closest sport to rugby. I have zero interest in football teams, football scores, football games ... you get the idea. I hate football culture.
But there's actually a third thing you need to know ... I have something I call ... The Rage. I've suffered from The Rage since I was a little girl. Back then, my mom thought the best thing to do was put me in a room by myself when I had a Rage Attack and tell me to take deep breaths in and out and count to ten. I pretended it worked then silently seethed inside when I left the room. Now that I'm older, The Rage is no easier to control. Even John cowers in the presence of The Rage. In fact, my temper has gotten me into a lot of trouble before and the only thing stopping from me either getting arrested or hurt has been an increase in my attendance at yoga class and an increase in the number of people who carry concealed knives in London, thus hindering me from starting any fights.
So that's why I love rugby. I may not be able to express my Rage, but some stocky, 6-foot-something, somewhat attractive (um, Jonny Wilkinson anyone?), testosterone-pumped men can.
Oh, yes they can.
I love the scrum, the tackling, good passes, and good kicks. But what I love most is that exhilaration, the thrill of that one player breaking free and cleverly dodging his way between walls of pure muscle and terror to fly through the air and score a try (I'm pretty sure I've dreamed about scoring a try - when I woke, I was lying face-down with my arms outstretched). I do believe I left the Guinness Cup Final hoarse because I was screaming so loudly (for Leicester Tigers, of course).
Until The Rage subsides, I'll be down at the pub ... err ... I mean, at home. Watching the rugby.
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