Balls Out! (I must be drunk.)
Or an idiot. I am 32.5 years old. But somehow I have decided that it would be fun to play rugby again. Not withstanding that I have the cardio and lung capacity of Doc Holiday, and that I haven’t been on a pitch in nine years, somehow I thought this was an idea of merit. Blame business school, that graduate program of commercial esteem which brings out the inner high-schooler among its students. I am no MBA candidate myself mind you. You need brains and grades for that. Rather it is my wife, Maren, who is sitting through Corporate Finance classes and cramming for Stats exams. I’m not even affiliated with the program beyond that. Still, with all of the naiveté of a single girl thinking she will be left alone to enjoy “dance party” at Delta Upsilon, I signed up for the Columbia School of Business Rugby Football Club.
Standing practice is on Friday in the middle of the afternoon. I am unable to attend. Our first game is this weekend. With these two points in mind when I learned there was a practice last night at 9PM up at Butler Field (the northernmost tip of Manhattan) I rushed out and bought some boots, cheerfully excited to begin my adventure.
That was last night. Today is this morning. With conviction I can say I am in trouble. I forgot how much running there is in this game and how little power point. My legs were shaking mercilessly by the time I got home (at 12:50AM, by the way) and the only comfort I had, as I crawled into bed, was the fact that I didn’t vomit or have a full blown coronary in front of my new teammates.
Perhaps you’ve seen the ads for the superb Dyson vacuum which never loses suction? I was doing my best impression all over Butler field last night. This was not only with regard to the dearth of oxygen in my blood, but also in reflection of the style of play I demonstrated. Surely, I knew what I was supposed to do, I played for eight season, but my body would not always cooperate. My passes were passable, but my support was insupportable. I blame the extra ten or twelve pounds of red wine and take-out-meal-fueled fat I carry around my mid section. (Not to mention the rift in my relationship with my local treadmill.)
Yes, and now I am limping around the office, a shiny mystery bruise on right knee making crossing streets annoying and stairs embarrassing. How I got it I’m not sure. We didn’t even have full speed tackling last night.
So what’s an old man to do? The young man inside says to suck it up. I’m going to listen to him for now. I’m going to go to the game this weekend and see how well I survive the fray. If it’s a total bust and I’m doing more harm than good to both myself and the team, I may concede victory to the old man I am, who wants very much to sit on the sofa and watch movies all weekend versus try to bring down a 225 pound Aussie banker who has been playing the game since he popped out of his mother’s kangaroo pouch.
Stay tuned for updates. At least I hope they’re updates, and not a bloody obituary.
-W
PS:
In addition to my surprise at how good these b-school guys are, it seems our little D3 team has become quite good itself. See a recent article.
http://spec.hamilton.edu/sports.cfm?action=display&news=1527
Imagine how we’d have played if Picarello had quit smoking cigarettes, if Cooley had stayed off of the mushrooms, and if I had any talent!
Standing practice is on Friday in the middle of the afternoon. I am unable to attend. Our first game is this weekend. With these two points in mind when I learned there was a practice last night at 9PM up at Butler Field (the northernmost tip of Manhattan) I rushed out and bought some boots, cheerfully excited to begin my adventure.
That was last night. Today is this morning. With conviction I can say I am in trouble. I forgot how much running there is in this game and how little power point. My legs were shaking mercilessly by the time I got home (at 12:50AM, by the way) and the only comfort I had, as I crawled into bed, was the fact that I didn’t vomit or have a full blown coronary in front of my new teammates.
Perhaps you’ve seen the ads for the superb Dyson vacuum which never loses suction? I was doing my best impression all over Butler field last night. This was not only with regard to the dearth of oxygen in my blood, but also in reflection of the style of play I demonstrated. Surely, I knew what I was supposed to do, I played for eight season, but my body would not always cooperate. My passes were passable, but my support was insupportable. I blame the extra ten or twelve pounds of red wine and take-out-meal-fueled fat I carry around my mid section. (Not to mention the rift in my relationship with my local treadmill.)
Yes, and now I am limping around the office, a shiny mystery bruise on right knee making crossing streets annoying and stairs embarrassing. How I got it I’m not sure. We didn’t even have full speed tackling last night.
So what’s an old man to do? The young man inside says to suck it up. I’m going to listen to him for now. I’m going to go to the game this weekend and see how well I survive the fray. If it’s a total bust and I’m doing more harm than good to both myself and the team, I may concede victory to the old man I am, who wants very much to sit on the sofa and watch movies all weekend versus try to bring down a 225 pound Aussie banker who has been playing the game since he popped out of his mother’s kangaroo pouch.
Stay tuned for updates. At least I hope they’re updates, and not a bloody obituary.
-W
PS:
In addition to my surprise at how good these b-school guys are, it seems our little D3 team has become quite good itself. See a recent article.
http://spec.hamilton.edu/sports.cfm?action=display&news=1527
Imagine how we’d have played if Picarello had quit smoking cigarettes, if Cooley had stayed off of the mushrooms, and if I had any talent!
posted by Wilson at 11:02 AM
0 comments
