Juice Box

I love rugby weekends! I am suddenly very sad that this is my first rugby weekend of the spring season because I feel like I've been desperately missing the scene since November. We lost pretty badly yesterday to a division one team, the Maryland Stingers but I really didn't mid so much. Three Stingers are also former PSU ladies and we had an awesome sleepover the night before. What I love most about rugby is how much nothing changes. The second we were back together at my apartment it was like we were still on the same team, packing our duffel bags and sandwiches as always. The weirdest part was arriving to the field in the same car and having to go our separate ways to play for opposite teams. (Though I suppose it was a bit weird for me to have to tackle Rosebud and totally whiff as she ran through my fingertips)

But my own game isn't even what was most interesting for me this weekend. What I loved was the men's game. It was their hooker's birthday and his girlfriend, a prop on my team, brought the men cookies and juice boxes. Just like in kindergarten. As soon as the game was over they all scurried over to the sidelines and started sucking down Capri Sun. Even when it was time to warm up for their b-side match and practice scrums, they weren't letting go of those juicy delights. They all reminded me of my little nephew, toddling around the backyard with a pretzel rod in a death grip in his little fist.

I just sat on the bench beside the field laughing hysterically at these enormous men, ears taped, ribs bandaged, sucking on tiny little straws of juice as they prepared to go get in a big, 80-minute fight. It made me remember that rugby is, after all, just a game. And games are youthful, joyous endeavors. Maybe we should all drink juice boxes to remind us not to take ourselves to seriously.