Update: I am too old for this.
So, it's Monday. I am on a heavy dosage of Naproxen to cope with the after effects of Saturday's game. Our opponents were the Columbia medical school RFC. At 21, I would have laughed at the notion of playing a bunch of future doctors, sure that the Hamilton Exiles would quickly dispatch these science geeks into various emergency rooms around the city. Of course, as with so many other things I felt sure of when I was 21, I would be wrong and proven asinine before I could cry out “triage!”
This was the Columbia School of Business RFC’s first game of the season. 20% of the starting 15 had not played before, and something like 60% had never played together as a team. The doctors handed us our asses 21-5. You will be pleased to know that my own involvement, starting as scrumhalf, did very little to better our chances.
A word about our opponents. Medical school students are driven, type A maniacs. At Columbia, one of the best programs in the country, they are even more so. This noted, compounding matters, they are also younger (22, 23, 24 versus 28, 29, 30…or 33) and healthier than guys in business school (studying and going to the gym vs. drinking and more drinking). Also, they’ve played together for several years. This is not an excuse, but an explanation. They played a better game, with better stamina and brutal technique. Hence, a rough loss.
Sunday morning, I awoke to the stiffness, popping and cracking I expected, my elbows and knees black and blue. Such was rugby on a body in its 33rd year. What I wasn’t prepared for was an incredibly sharp pain on the left side of my chest that didn’t go away and was only exasperated when I tried to perform tasks such as: getting out of bed, lifting my arm or moving my torso in any way but the most limited capacity. An activity such as sneezing or coughing would elicit pain unlike anything I’ve experienced, if only for a few moments.
As I was able to breathe in and out without such significant sharpness, I ruled out cracked ribs. (Not that there is anything a doctor will do for you with broken ribs other than proscribe meds that make the world furry and soft and which inspire drooling of the highest order. )
I recall a single play where I (tried to) tackle the opposing prop who had built up a full head of steam running our way, uncontested. We collided with some significant force, my poor form enabling him to get under me and drive me back as we made contact, falling to the ground as a ruck formed over us both. Because I was too high, this character (who looked about 6’2” 245) was able to drop his shoulder, drilling into my chest with some significant impact, only to land on me as I attempted to wrap him up and bring him to the pitch.
This, I am sure is origin of my suffering. Some sort of deep tissue contusion or bruised bone. Hell, I’m no doctor. All I know is I’m moving around like a 90 year old. It's Monday now and even dosed up with the best NSAID I can find, I can barely handle carrying around my laptop.
All in, I had a good time, as masochistic as that sounds. I’m hardly good any more, not that I was great to begin with. But somehow, the stress of the competition is engrossing. If only I was a little younger. I think I will skip next week’s game and heal up. Got any good excuses for me? I mean outside of the fact that I’m an old, crippled, wuss.
Hope you’re all fairing better than I these days.
This was the Columbia School of Business RFC’s first game of the season. 20% of the starting 15 had not played before, and something like 60% had never played together as a team. The doctors handed us our asses 21-5. You will be pleased to know that my own involvement, starting as scrumhalf, did very little to better our chances.
A word about our opponents. Medical school students are driven, type A maniacs. At Columbia, one of the best programs in the country, they are even more so. This noted, compounding matters, they are also younger (22, 23, 24 versus 28, 29, 30…or 33) and healthier than guys in business school (studying and going to the gym vs. drinking and more drinking). Also, they’ve played together for several years. This is not an excuse, but an explanation. They played a better game, with better stamina and brutal technique. Hence, a rough loss.
Sunday morning, I awoke to the stiffness, popping and cracking I expected, my elbows and knees black and blue. Such was rugby on a body in its 33rd year. What I wasn’t prepared for was an incredibly sharp pain on the left side of my chest that didn’t go away and was only exasperated when I tried to perform tasks such as: getting out of bed, lifting my arm or moving my torso in any way but the most limited capacity. An activity such as sneezing or coughing would elicit pain unlike anything I’ve experienced, if only for a few moments.
As I was able to breathe in and out without such significant sharpness, I ruled out cracked ribs. (Not that there is anything a doctor will do for you with broken ribs other than proscribe meds that make the world furry and soft and which inspire drooling of the highest order. )
I recall a single play where I (tried to) tackle the opposing prop who had built up a full head of steam running our way, uncontested. We collided with some significant force, my poor form enabling him to get under me and drive me back as we made contact, falling to the ground as a ruck formed over us both. Because I was too high, this character (who looked about 6’2” 245) was able to drop his shoulder, drilling into my chest with some significant impact, only to land on me as I attempted to wrap him up and bring him to the pitch.
This, I am sure is origin of my suffering. Some sort of deep tissue contusion or bruised bone. Hell, I’m no doctor. All I know is I’m moving around like a 90 year old. It's Monday now and even dosed up with the best NSAID I can find, I can barely handle carrying around my laptop.
All in, I had a good time, as masochistic as that sounds. I’m hardly good any more, not that I was great to begin with. But somehow, the stress of the competition is engrossing. If only I was a little younger. I think I will skip next week’s game and heal up. Got any good excuses for me? I mean outside of the fact that I’m an old, crippled, wuss.
Hope you’re all fairing better than I these days.
posted by Wilson at 7:53 AM
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