About six hours ago, all I knew about rugby was: one, it is quite violent; and two, it uses a funny-shaped ball.
Now, mud is smeared across my cheekbones and dots my nose and forehead. My black leggings are splotched with light brown patches that are drying and flaking off like some sort of monstrous dandruff. Even my sports bra has mud on it, which is beyond my comprehension.
I’m not much of a team-sports girl. When I was 7, I ended my last soccer game while being carried off the field screaming by my coach. I did softball and volleyball growing up, and I was decent at them, but once high school started, I really only played recreationally. I lasted one day on my high school track team (I can’t jump with both feet at the same time, and we were doing box drills). Now, my daily workout consists of running and weights, walking everywhere and, twice weekly, Pilates or yoga.
Going out for rugby was, therefore, a decision I shocked myself with – especially now that, at 20, I am beginning to value my healthy and intact body for being healthy and intact. But I also enjoy being out of my comfort zone, and the rule about “doing as the Irish do” isn’t just meant for the pubs.
So, at 4 p.m. today, I arrived at the rugby pitch. The only other girl to show up was, thank goodness, another novice American. A rather patient lad from the men’s team hung around to teach us the basics:
**1. Passing.** The ball (and the game) is kind of like American football on steroids, but you throw it from hip level, dominant hand pushing it out across the body so it twirls like a torpedo into your teammates’ arms. At least theoretically – my throws got to their target, but the aerodynamic twirl was more of a sad, whomp-whomp-whomp flip.
**2. Running and passing.** In rugby, you run down the field, but you pass behind you to your teammates, who must then sprint ahead to pass behind them again. In this incredibly efficient manner of making way down the field, the game somehow progresses. Occasionally someone punts the ball down the field, but I have no idea when this happens.
This went all right, despite the rain that quickly rehydrated the extensive patches of dirt on the field. Ian managed to pass it gracefully to me, but the other American and I managed to turn the drill into a fast-paced game of hot potato. My brain was shocked by this sudden advanced level of hand-eye coordination, but I managed to both catch and throw the ball in between neurological spasms.
**3. Tackling.** In rugby, women don’t get to take it easy: There are no “powderpuff” leagues where players wear pink, and the official rules turn a game of American football into a modified game of tag and giggles.
Instead, we’re fully expected to tackle each other – head to hipbone, hands lifting behind the knees to throw the opponent up and onto their back. Or, you can just go on for the full-on tackle and run straight into them with the force of a medieval battering ram.
We practiced on our coach first and, to his painful surprise, quickly got the hang of it: Our first tackles landed him on his back. Mine left him with a bit of a limp, and I got a knee in my ribcage when he took me down with him.
Then we had to practice on each other, which drew a few boys out from the student union for a conveniently timed smoke break. I was the first to be tackled. The funny thing about being tackled is, unless you’re incredibly agile, you just have to stand there like soon-to-be-roadkill on the train tracks. You watch the train coming at you full-speed and hope you still have teeth in five seconds while thinking ahead enough to pull down your opponent with you.
A navy-blue blur tossed me on my back, which briefly knocked the wind out of me, then I got up and did the exact same thing to her. It was oddly satisfying, though I should probably continue to rely on yoga for stress relief instead of tackling people.
**Results:**
The good news: I loved it.
The great news: Our “practice” (let’s not kid ourselves) only lasted an hour, so I had time to get a lovely run up and back to St. Stephen’s Green in.
The bad news: Because there are only two of us girls, we’re to begin training with the men’s team next week. Every day. We run on Monday. Also, my upper ribcage is slowly turning the most magnificent shade of violet.
But I managed to keep my pearl earrings in.