A couple of Sundays ago I watched a match with Simeon and some of his friends. It was Australia v Scotland and everyone was super excited. The majority of the room were rooting for Scotland and Simeon in his beautiful contrary way was rooting for Australia. I mean, I can see where he's coming from - they do have sexy accents.
Anyway, upon walking in the lounge I realised how serious the viewing of this match was going to be. Everyone was huddled together on the various sofas and chairs watching the TV screen intently waiting for victorious results from their beloved Scotland (which is kind of funny because under any other circumstances the English would be eagerly awaiting the fall of their northerly neighbours).
No one had their phones out, the snacks had barely been touched - this was serious business. I sat myself down on one of the sofas and, naturally, went straight for the snacks. The game was already underway and Scotland were doing quite well.
I tried really hard to concentrate on what was going on. It was really difficult. As my eyes followed the little blue and yellow men on the screen, I was constantly distracted by the various beards and hairstyles they were sporting and by how their mashed up their faces were. I also found the enthusiastic fans quite fascinating - especially the guy with the very realistic kangaroo mask on. I imagine he must have been really hot in that mask what with all the jumping around and general excitement. Also, how could he even see anything through the mask...?
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| It looked a bit like this |
I still wasn't really sure who I wanted to support. While Australia is a very cool country, I really felt for the Scots who apparently haven't won anything significant since the early 90s. Also the slightly camp referee, whom no one in the room seemed to like, was dishing out a lot of yellow cards to them and that made me feel even more for them. I'm very easily swayed by pity when it comes to choosing a team to support.
Half-time came. Scotland was doing really well. I ate more snacks while I further contemplated who to support.
As the second half started and I tried to concentrate on what the little huddle of jerseys was actually doing, I began to wonder how on earth Britain always manages to get its butt whipped by the southern hemisphere teams.
But seriously, why? What gene or training technique do they have that we don't? Cos I somehow doubt that it's their beautiful accents and radiant tans that win them one cup after another. Maybe it's their intake of exotic nutrients from the Pacific reefs or their ability to run on little water because they train in the desert. Maybe. You never know.
Of course this is just the picture of rugby that has been portrayed to me by the media and my peers. Maybe Britain doesn't suck, but from what I have seen and heard, we probably really do.
Another thing occurred to me as the teams battled it out: in rugby you have to be so okay with people grabbing your butt. I mean, imagine this: you're running along with the ball and BAM! a big dude and some of his buddies from the opposing team chuck themselves on you to get the ball. They grab your arms, your legs, your torso, your head, your... butt. How personal. How intimate. But I guess when your head's in the game it doesn't really matter. It's a contact sport after all.
My mind was brought back to the game when the tea coaster that had stuck itself to the bottom of my glass suddenly hit the nearby sideboard. The game was almost over and Scotland was doing really well - SO well in fact that I was quite sure they'd win it.
Aaand then... they didn't. And that was it. Australia won by one point. 35-34. Everyone in the room (except Simeon) exhaled in defeat as the players on TV slapped each others' sweaty backs and cuddled their bros - Scotland to console one another and Australia to celebrate.
What can I say? Rugby is intense. I may not have a clue what is going on, and what is going on may not hold my attention for very long, but it is still quite an entertaining game to watch.
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