back in the eighties i played rugby with a bunch of ass-kickers in the middle of nowhere, kutztown pa
the motto for the team was "d" for degree
we were the guys who sang the songs of fornication and perversion
tunes of loves lost and acts most athletic
then there was the rugby queen
the way we honored her in song upon her shoulders would probably wind up in a lawsuit today
very un PC to be singing of all that anatomy, but it was all in good fun
then it was time to dive off a roof
or eat a lightbulb
tricks we learned from out comrades on the reading mens team and the boys at millersville
there was nothing to do in those towns on weekends either
we were young, bored and liked to hit things
rugby kept many of us out of jail
or delayed the trip in some cases
and, sure, many of us lied under oath or changed a key detail or two to keep a teammate out of jail
hearing a lawyer describe your random drunken acts of mayhem as a typical saturday night after a big rugby game is an experience i will always cherish

"and isnt it true, mr baker, that this saturday night was no different than many of your saturday nights after a big game, with headbutts, boisterous songs and whooping, blindsided tackles and wrestling a commonplace occurence."
"dont forget the dancing"

sociopaths are drawn to the game
its violent and fast and theres only one set of eyes watching fifteen players on each team
there are opportunities for mayhem
but if you cross the line between dirty and agressive you must be prepared to pay the price when fifteen guys in a different colored jersies are intent on settling the score
its kinda like vikings without the axes
samouri without the swords
when its done right
what else a gonna do on a saturday
or as my first rugby captain would say when things werent going well
rallying the troops under the goalposts after the opponent had scored
hed do his patton imitation
and ask the question that all rugby players must ask themselves in the bottom of their souls
what are ya, a bunch of pussies?
thats a tee shirt there
bold letters
what are you?

and a bunch of cats
like that booth guy draws in the new yorker
i could sell a million of those
but you do it
my gift to you
but really that question is the one that all rugby players must ask themselves
what are you?