An Old Rugger Tale by Mike Malkovich |
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I once refereed a rugby match. On this great occasion the Pigs hosted their north-port city rivals; as usual at the Polo Grounds. If I remember correctly, it was a pleasant mid-June day: the sun shone warm and the turf was still soft from Spring rains. In those days, a custom I presume continues, when the first-side match finished, the second-side took the pitch. Things were not as organized as could have been, also as usual, and it became apparent that someone needed to volunteer to ref. Well, I stepped up and was presented with a chrome-plated brass whistle (only for a moment did I wonder why the whistle-in-gym-bag-bearer had been still), and someone donated a black-banded wrist-watch (assuring me not to worry; that it was a cheapo). I took the whistle in my left hand, placed the watch in my right short's pocket while measuring the minute-hand and put on my white tee-shirt. Thus equipped, and my appointments seemed not too burdensome, I was determined to be confident, knowing I could well-blow a whistle since at that time I had excellent wind, a half was only 40 minutes on any timepiece and a white shirt, after all, was of a rather neutral color. But it was to be proven that I was ill-prepared to make this judgement. The match started out in the familiar way, and I found keeping pace of the action straight-forward enough, and straight-behind as the ball and, consequently, territory changed possession often. The match became ugly, however, due, I think, to the equanimity of ineptitude; perhaps including my own. Late in the first half I found myself whistle-in-mouth standing over a squirming, kicking, flailing and grunting mass of dirt-bound scrummy humanity (for all I know there may have been one or two bold-hearted--or weak-minded depending on your perspective--backs in there too) in the middle of the pitch; all entangled participants of which were seemingly oblivious to the ball trapped amongst them. I knew this wasn't right. Seconds passed as I searched from without the chaos for an infraction, but honestly I could detect none. An experienced ref would have stopped play and said something like, "Gentlemen, let's clean this play up, scrum down advancing side's put-in". But I blew that accursed whistle and motioned a penalty kick in the Pigs' advantage. This was as heated a contest as ever I'd experienced, and the insulted captain, who in this instance had been wise enough to stay out of the melee and had as clear a view as me, jumped right in my face saying, "What was that for??!!!". Knowing I had been caught-up in the emotion and ferocity of the thing and my call was incorrect due to my less-than-neutral inclination, but, because--and I'm not sure how to put it other than--I did not appreciate his face in mine, I said as coolly and defiantly as I could within one breath, "Penalty kick Red". "I thought so!", he said. Blue retreated; I made the mark and the Pigs took the kick; play went on. Throughout the rest of it I kept decent track of the time, and at the end I walked off remarking, "I won't do that again". The following year we played big-lake town RFC once more. This time on a reminiscent Fall day on their fair Park Point. The grounds were well-watered around and cooled by a light fresh-water breeze. I noted before the match that the former second-side captain was playing my opposite. I had no intention other than to play as well as I could, but that ugly puss-in-mine was imprinted in my brain. Throughout the going the lake-port boys were out-matched, but again and again they rebounded and came at us hard. There was some loose play towards the sideline: clear possession of the ball was questionable, and seeing no advantage in joining in the fruckous I retreated a short bit to a defensive sideline position, thinking if to gain the ball I'd swing it to the other side to out-flank them. (Perchance to rest? To dream? Nay, to live!) Or to do whatever the outcome of the forward-action warranted. The ball came to the hands of my opposite some 20 yards ahead. He made a smart break between defenders, and finding himself open but unsupported with Pigs coming fast to close the gap he popped a short up-and-under (No, not the bar in Milwaukee, man!). It was a very good kick. I drifted a few feet closer to the side-lines, gauged the flight of the ball, noted the on-rushing mad-men and turned my back to them. The ball kicker was in the lead. I'd seen the determination in his eyes. I planted my heels for the hit; looked over my shoulder and looked the ball into my hands while sticking my formerly firm-rounded buttocks sharply towards the supposed attacker. He misjudged my purpose, and his outstretched arms never closed on me. His guts met my gluteus, and with an "ugh" he went down. I stepped out of bounds. Having become accustomed to doing a happy-dance only on a bellyfull of beer and to saving their wind for the next charge (and some windy humor) but always appreciating good play, my mates said, "Well taken". My opposite regained his breath in a few minutes, and with a proper line-out play went on. Recounting later at our host's pub I said, "Ya, I gave him 'The Butt'". And that was the end of that. |
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