I’m married to a prop. He could have been a lock or a hooker. But he’s built like a linebacker, so he’s a prop on the Fresno Thundercocks rugby team. Rugby: grown men in tiny shorts beating each other to a pulp without pads. They have plays called scrum, ruck and maul, most of which involve one man’s face in another man’s balls and are as deliciously cruel as they sound. I’ve seen bloody noses and bloody skulls requiring stitches. And bodies raked across the field. I’ve see men who know nothing about medical care guessingly relocate a dislocated shoulder. I’ve see men go home with blown-out knees and bulging eyes and fingers swollen three times their size. There’s nothing more brute than this. And I married it.
They call him Price. It takes me back to high school when I dreamed of dating a football player solely because it was cool to date a football player, and well, because they called each other by their last name or some cool nickname. It’s not Matt or Matthew but Price. Waldo. Fish. Why don’t girls do that? I could start calling my girlfriend Tikijian or Weazer (she’s allergic to cats) instead of Jaime. Maybe we have to play sports to do that. We don’t. So, then maybe that’s stupid.
There’s this guy, Dill. They call him Pickle. There’s a guy named Andrew they call Walt. I don’t know why. And there’s Adam. Just Adam. I figure it’s ok because he’s got his foo-man-choo to fall back on. There’s the team’s back, Shamoon, who had to take a body shot off of Fish. Shamoon made a bet he would win the season’s Tight and Bright contest. He didn’t. He should have. He wore a neon green banana hammock.
Pickle always spearheads “the boot” ritual. When a player scores a “tri” for the first time the entire sideline yells “Shoot the boot.” Then I watch Pickle borrow the most disgusting foot-sweat-soaked cleat and fill it with mayonnaise, mustard, tobacco spit, beer, and God knows what else for the ceremonial ritual which catapults some poor soul into manhood. Brotherhood. Rugbyhood. They sing songs and chant and grab each other’s nipple while the honoree pounds the cleat. And they pretty much look about as manly as grown men in tiny shorts singing, chanting and grabbing each other’s nipples.
Last season, I went to kiss Price after he came out second half with a rolled ankle, he pulls back and says, “No kissing during game time.” I ask if this is a Fresno Rugby rule. He says, “No, my rule.” Seriously? He can make out with all these guys but not with his wife. So that night at the bar when he went to kiss me, I pulled back and said, “No kissing during my first beer.” He was pissed. I was proud. I had to have something.
Men.
And when I say men, I mean it. After 80 minutes of scrumming, rucking, and mauling, they rip off their jerseys smelling of sweat and blood and dirt and hand them over to their B-player teammates to wear in game two. And one guy is old enough to be my grandpa. They sit around at bars saying things like “Rugby till I die” and drink till one or all of them are an incoherent mess. And things happen. Things that end with young rugby lads visiting from New Zealand bedding girls after “Hello” because the accent has super powers that make clothes fall off.
But beneath the rough and tough outside, they're big softies inside who generally care about four things: Rugby, food, sleep and their women. Not necessarily in that order. Rugby players are the most loyal, humble, give-you-the-shirt-off-my-back kind of guys you will ever meet. I married one, and I love him – broken nose and all. I should note, however, that particular injury he sustained at birth because his head was too big.
