A resigned old man resigns
Coming
to terms with change
By
Paul Dobson
An old man, a battered prop with round
shoulders, stooped, knuckles dragging on the ground, a devoted servant of game
and club, a man determined to move with the times and not be a
stick-in-the-mud, wrote to his club and shocked them all by resigning from
active participation. His letter contained the following:
When we changed from 3-2-3 to 3-4-1, I
adapted.
When you stopped having to play the ball
with the foot after a tackle, I adapted.
When you were allowed to fumble and it was
not a knock-on, I adapted.
I also adapted from time to time with the
tinkering with points for drops and tries.
When hookers started throwing in at
line-outs, I adapted.
When loose scrums became rucks, I learnt
the new vocabulary.
When the swing pass went out of fashion, I
adapted.
When the coach was a man and not just a
means of transport, I coped.
When props got penalised for working their
man over and dribbling ceased, I knew that I could never play again.
I even adapted when advertising boards
were put around grounds. Later I sighed and pondered but yielded when they
stuck advertisements on the jersey I loved so much.
When brown leather balls with laces gave
way to feelingless plastic of leprous white, I still picked them up and put
them in the bag.
When hookers stopped hooking, when the
ball could be put in at any sort of angle and foot-up joined the horse-drawn
trams in the past, I gritted my teeth and stayed in the game.
When the torpedo kick disappeared for a
funny Australian way of kicking, I adapted.
When they let women into the bar, I found
an agreeable corner to reminisce with my friends.
When women started playing, I adapted by
pretending they did not exist in the hope that they would go away.
When they brought on dancing girls and
fireworks and played canned music, I did not watch but concentrated, and hoped
the players did the same.
When players hugged each other like soccer
players after scoring tries and embraced instead of three cheers at the end of
matches, I turned away in sorrow but kept my peace.
When they let league players back to play
our game, I ignored them and never learnt their names.
When they gave me money for doing my jobs
at the club, I said thank you and put the money in the poor box.
When players stopped paying subs, I
doubled mine.
When they called players by numbers as if
they were cattle and not men, I stayed with names and kept going.
When they came with all sorts of big words
like phases, rush defence, fetchers, back three and tight five, I tried to
learn but in my days after matches we had a tight fifteen, not just a tight
five - and we sang all sorts of songs to prove it.
When they allowed lifting in the
line-outs, I shut my eyes and prayed but shut up about it.
When the man next to me booed the visiting
kicker to put him off, I did not hit him.
When instead of beating a man, you bashed
into him, I grimaced but carried on watching.
When referees started coaching and giving
instructions, I shut up in bewildered sorrow.
When touch judges started sticking out
their flags and telling the referee what to do, I was grateful for my
bareknuckle days but accepted the change.
When beer and steak were replaced by
energy drinks and pasta, I was uncomprehending but adapted.
But when I collected the valuables in the
changing room before the match and most of the valuables were ear-rings, I
decided it was time to write you this letter.