Rugby Union

It begins innocently enough,  

a ball oddly shaped like a giant almond,  

something to chase down like a dog  

gone mad in a field of endless green.  

Eighty minutes where the world  

holds its breath,  

and all that matters is this peculiar object  

bouncing unpredictably  

as if it has a mind of its own.

There’s a kind of magic in the pain,  

in the way lungs burn and ribs protest,  

in the cauliflower ears  

earned one scrum at a time,  

the souvenirs of a love affair  

with something that leaves you breathless,  

and sometimes, speechless.

The glory of a win,  

that sweet taste like nothing else,  

and the agony of a loss,  

a hollow ache that stays with you  

long after the final whistle blows.  

Are we having fun yet?  

The pre-season mantra,  

uttered between gasps for air,  

when fitness feels like a slow march  

through hell and back,  

and yet we come back for more.

But then, there’s the camaraderie,  

the songs that rise in the locker room,  

voices mingling in a hymn  

to this brutal ballet.  

The brotherhood,  

the laughter and the mischief,  

the shared bruises and beers,  

the stories that grow  

more exaggerated with every retelling.

It’s said this is the game  

they play in heaven,  

but I suspect there’s a pitch in hell too,  

and in every place in between,  

because rugby is less a sport,  

and more a state of being,  

a world where, for eighty minutes,  

we chase after that odd-shaped ball,  

with all the passion of a lover,  

and all the madness of a fool.

FSF