Rugby War Wounds

Lost to Concordia today. Lineouts were shit. How does one actually work on their lineouts except through rote repetition? Very smashed from the game.

In particular, I have discovered a lovely token that will come to remind me always of my season with McGill (as thus far, little else will); shattered cartilage in my ear. Yup, after 12 (yes I counted) seasons playing rugby, I have finally managed to cauliflower my ear.

Don't worry, I have never counted my ears among my more seemly body parts, and it is virtually unrecognizable lest you take time to note the symmetry of one's ears. That said, it hurts, and a pinna piercing is probably out of the question for my beloved left ear.

By the way, if you google image search "Pinna piercing" (yeah, ok, I didn't know what it was called prior to authoring this post- sue me body art enthused indie dilettantes!) you get an uncensored photo of Janet Jackson's nip slip at the SuperBowl 38 (it's football - it is not really worthy of roman numerals, let's be real). Don't know what that is about.

So my pride, my ear, and the insides of my knees, which have been randomly taking a lot of blunt force these days, are hurting. Only 2 guaranteed games left in my rugby career before I relegate myself to the club season for the rest of my days. Got to turn it out.

I leave you with words more poetic than I could ever pen, regarding anything, let alone rugby.

Truro Sevens - by Anna Mancini We find ourselves past mud scraped roads, on rare prairie patches of rooted sun gazers. Boundaries have been left behind, and itching in pale winter skin our limbs twitch with memories of bone and grit, of thick warm earth. All reason must be thrown away flaked and tossed like last year's crumbs baked inside our thinning boots bound by fraying hardened knots. On the pitch we are what's left of prior seasons, hopes for Spring. We are nothing but our bodies with adrenaline's denial. We beat our cores to worn out chants thrust ourselves for old time's sake breathing, breaking, waiting for our thoughts to keep pace. These burning thighs and flesh skinned hands, chipped toenails and loosened knees bring us something more like life something like uncharted truths. Our worth is all we have to prove between the stomps and locked down ribs, the mud streaked brows and grinding teeth. This is the closest we can come to dying for each other. On the pitch we find ourselves lost inside our frantic calls lost inside all there is to glorify in war. On the pitch we find ourselvesin the heavy heat of game.