Lesson gets lost in translation

RUGBY can be a difficult game to explain and, sometimes, even harder to justify.

Ironically, for a sport of such brutal intensity, rugby has always struggled to shed its image of being the pastime of privileged nancy boys.

Perhaps it relates back to the game’s origins in a very proper English public school.

Those institutions have long had a dubious reputation and not only did rugby’s pioneer William Webb-Ellis have a double-barrelled name, he also quite likely had a young lad to toast his crumpets and throw logs on the fire, as was customary at the time.

There is a perception out there that there is too much “bonding” in rugby, that the showers are full of lascivious laughter and sly glances and that the dressing rooms thrill to the sound of wet towels being flicked against unsuspecting rear-ends.

If you are associated with rugby, you become used to the jibes.

There’s this one guy at work, let’s call him Fred, who is always on at me.

Fred is a rabid GAA man who believes rugby is played by men of questionable masculinity.

At the very least, he believes my own masculinity to be in question - his most regular accusation being that I “walk like a girl.”

Now, when I say “rabid GAA man”, I do not mean that Fred walks around doffing his cloth cap at ladies while clutching a camán and gnawing raw potatoes (or “poppies” as they are called in GAA circles).

No, Fred is actually quite intelligent, and witty in a quaint, rural sort of way.

He merely labours under the myopic belief that hurling is the sport of the gods and all other games are inferior.

The slagging has never really bothered me; I am quite at ease with my ambulatory gait.

In common with all other athletes and devoted disco dancers, I walk on the balls of my feet, which does indeed accentuate the hip-roll which accompanies any man’s walk - but what’s wrong with that?

However, while comfortable with Fred’s scorn and the manliness of my sport of choice, I did recently endure a rather embarrassing incident while trying to educate two uninitiated Americans in the specifics of the game. What happened was this. We fell into amiable conversation one evening in a public house and, after discussing the friendliness of the local lassies and the best night clubs to go to, started on sport. The Yanks were big Gridiron fans and I referred to a brief, unsuccessful dalliance I had with American football.

They then wanted to know about rugby, and how to go about attending tomorrow’s match between Ireland and the USA, having heard the games were quite similar.

They were particularly interested in the workings of the scrummage and how it compared to American football’s “scrimmage.”

“You say you were a second row? So, what is a second row’s role in the scrummage,” one asked.

“Well, it’s like this,” I said. “First up, I have to hug the second row next to me, as close as possible.

“So, I put my arm around his back and grip him tightly by the front of his shorts. Then I get down on my knees and put my free arm through the spread legs of the prop in front of me and grab his shorts above the groin.

“The prop is bound tightly to the hooker, so I force my head in between their thighs and we all squeeze.

“It’s a marvellous feeling of togetherness.”

As I spoke, I gradually became aware that the two Americans were exchanging nervous looks and subtly inching their stools away from my own.

There was a long, awkward silence during which time I realised just how the description must have sounded to their innocent ears.

Feeling more foolish than Jake White at half-four last Saturday, I frantically tried to salvage the situation. “Of course, a second row’s most important job is jumping in the lineout.”

“Oh, okay,” said one of the Americans hesitantly, “what happens there?”

Breathing a sigh of relief, I sprinted for safer ground.

“Well, we all stand one behind the other and, when the hooker is ready, the two props approach me.

“One places his hands on the front of my thighs while the other one grabs me under the buttocks and ...”

“Hey, buddy, great to talk to you ... listen, we gotta go.”

“But what about the Ireland-USA match?”

“We’ll catch it on TV.”

And they were gone, leaving one very shaken second row to walk - on the balls of his feet - to the disco alone.