After my bachellorette bar tour in my hometown, I dragged my bag to Baltimore to play rugby. It wasn't pretty. It was made less pretty by a raw rookie referee who, during a game against host Chesapeake, awarded the Ospreys a do-over. Yes. That's right. They effed up a lineout and he blew the whistle and said "Let's do that again." A do over. In rugby!
For those of you unfamiliar with the game, there are few substitutions, no timeouts, no bocking, and certainly no do-overs. In the next game, when Pittsburgh's men's team was playing, they were also awarded a do-over. I don't approve of negative cheering, but our entire team roared "DO OVER! WOOOOOOOO!" We just couldn't help it. The idea was so preposterous.
How often in life do we all wish we could get a do-over? I wouldn't have chosen to buy a house, write a manuscript, and plan a wedding simultaneously. Perhaps I can get a do-over for the past five months. I wouldn't have yelled at my mom this weekend. I wouldn't have stuck my big foot in my mouth so many times recently.
Where's my ref? I wish that sometimes, off the field, I could look up to a big whistle blower and sigh in relief at the chance for a do-over. On the field is a different story of course. Just give a penalty.