Note to self: There is such a thing as truth in advertising. For example, if the box art for a movie is made up of approximately 75% Matt Damon’s gaping maw and 25% Morgan Freeman’s profile, you’re going to get more Damon than Freeman.
You’re also going to learn a whole lot of things about rugby you did not know previously. Things like:
- It exists.
- People play it.
- And “Roller Derby Queen” would make a strangely appropriate soundtrack.
Now, in honesty, I knew of rugby prior to this. It is the surprise staple of collegiate intramural sports the world over, including those hosted by my dear alma mater. Unlike many intramural athletes, rugby participants were always easy to recognize on account of being built like Maytag products and struggling to manifest in class with four functional limbs and a minimum of facial scarring.
Yes, we’re talking coed intramurals, mind you.
But having confessed that, four years in an environment that existed parallel to such savagery, in addition to 120 minutes of Matt Damon’s glorious jawline, have not brought me any closer to understanding how the !@#$in’ thing is played. Furthermore, the more I watch, the more I grow convinced rugby is loosely based on Fizzbin.
Take these, for example:
I call this the Great Grunting Pile, which is approximately 9/10ths as disappointing as Linus’s Great Pumpkin from which it takes its name. For the record, I have no idea what they’re doing here. I just know there’s a heap of men in tight shorts having a good ol’ fashioned grunt off, and every now and again a ball flies out. Where the ball comes from, I’m not sure, and I’m not entirely unconvinced that the ball does not start in someone’s rectum, and what I’m witnessing is some sort of communal cavity search.
I call this the Man Tower, and if the picture is any indication, it is approximately the worst idea since the Scots started throwing whole trees in the air and calling it a sport. On that note, is this a bad time to have a discussion to the effect of what, precisely, is wrong with the British Islands? They couldn’t all make it as literary giants, and so everyone that was left met up at the pub, knocked down a few pints, and proceeded to come up with the most bat!@#$ insane sports they could concoct.
Cricket – I’m looking at you.
And where do they get these names anyway? Even rugby, in a desperate attempt to return to the topic at hand, sounds like something I’d ask for at my local carpet outlet.
Of course, when not confirming that gravity is working more or less as designed, and presuming one can somehow extract the ball from the Great Grunting Pile, I can pretty much promise this is going to happen to you. Immediately. Some guy who looks like a Fitch Barrel with legs is going to apply several principles of Newtonian physics to an uncomfortable point in your torso. Should he, for whatever reason, not be successful at doing so, there are fourteen other men with contempt for your life ready, willing, and eager to take his place. And unlike in, say, Invictus, you will not get a handshake with Nelson Mandela/Morgan Freeman out of it.