MY TURN -
Dan Holden
The Ruck, the Maul and the Joy of Surviving it all
(The
Oregonian 02/12/04)
"I think I'd like to play rugby
again," I blurted out to no one in particular as I sat with my family at
the dinner table a few months ago.
Stone cold silence was the response.
Then Kathleen, my 10-year-old soccer star, broke the silence by saying with a
grin, "That's cool, Dad."
My wise and worldly 13-year-old
daughter, Rachel, was not that impressed: "You'll get killed."
I then turned to my wife, Barbara,
waiting for her praise or condemnation. In her typical intellectual style, her
response was stoic: "You know the number -- it's 9-1-1, so don't call
me." Barb, on more than one occasion, has driven me to the emergency room
for torn ligaments and broken fingers, albeit all non-rugby-related injuries.
Admittedly, it did sound crazy for a
45-year-old man to take up a sport most guys gave up 10 years earlier. But I
had the urge to give it a shot just one last time before I really am old --
whenever that is.
So call it a challenge or call it a
midlife crisis, it doesn't bother me. Some middle-aged baby-boomers buy red
sports cars, have affairs or get hair plugs -- so what if I want to see if I
can still take the knocks?
And if you think I'm an idiot, get
in line. My younger brother thinks I'm nuts. My best friend, a banker down in
Stockton, Calif., said I must have a mental defect. My friend at Nike wished me
luck at "bone-breaking" and Serge, my former rugby teammate at Oregon
State University, is certain I'll break a hip. Even my golf buddies at work
lectured me endlessly about making such a stupid decision.
All except my friend Andy, who said,
"This is no surprise -- you never do anything normal anyway."
After contacting two local rugby
clubs, I chose to join the Oregon Rugby Sports Union, a.k.a. the Jesters. What
a suitable name. The other option was the Portland Pigs. But who wants to tell
people he is a pig? I get enough of that at home.
In preparation for trying out for
the Jesters, I dropped 25 pounds, hit the weights hard and worked on my
endurance, which wasn't good when I was a young man.
I have tried to involve my daughters
as to how the game is played, along with teaching them the peculiar rugby
idiom. It did take me some time to explain that "ruck" isn't a bad
word -- although bad words often emanate from a ruck -- and that a
"maul" isn't a place where you can buy cool shoes.
At the heart of all this is the
desire for my daughters to remember me as the dad who wasn't afraid to try
crazy things, not just the guy who scoops up dog doo and fixes the toilets.
The first few Jester practices were
a real eye-opener. I quickly realized I was no longer fast -- I'm not sure I
ever was -- and that I had forgotten many of the nuances of the game since I
last stepped onto a pitch 23 years ago. I also noticed the guys were a lot
bigger than I was. I could really use that extra 25 pounds now.
Not only bigger, but also younger. I
expected that. No one really bothered with me during the first practice.
Finally, a younger fellow named Michael strolled over to introduce himself. He
had a cherubic face on a large head that sat on an even larger body. Michael
was easily a biscuit over 300 pounds and stood at least 6-foot-4.
He told me not to be discouraged if
the guys didn't introduce themselves right away. For every five guys who try
out, four don't come back, he explained. He compared it to World War II.
"No one wanted to get to know the rookies because they always got
killed," he said with a smile.
I wasn't sure I was comfortable with
the analogy, but I got the drift. After a few more practices, all of the guys,
at one time or another, came over to introduce themselves. No one made any
"old man" jokes or offered to resuscitate me if I vapor-locked on the
field.
Frankly, I think they'd just step
over my lifeless body anyway. At a recent practice, one of the guys got smacked
in the nose and was bleeding all over the place. "Hey, go bleed off the
field," one of the older Jesters said with a smirk as he jogged by.
I played, and survived, my first
game in 23 years against my alma mater, Oregon State University, on a cold and
rainy Saturday afternoon at the Jesters' home field in West Linn. I had been
promised at least 20 minutes of playing time, but ended up playing the entire
game. Eighty . . . very long . . . minutes.
Partway into the second half, I
asked the Jesters coach if there were any subs available. He smiled broadly, looked
at the sidelines and said with a laugh, "You don't see anyone waiting to
come in, do you?!"
So I gutted out the rest of the game
and had a ball.
If you are suffering from a
middle-aged complex and decide to follow in my footsteps, take my advice and
don't be timid. Just make sure you have good medical insurance and then find a
very understanding physical therapist. Another lecture you won't need.
Dan Holden lives in
Wilsonville.