Tuesday, November 9
Bruised And Bleeding (A Bit)
OK, so I'm skipping forward a week right now, but this has to be done whilst I'm still in pain. It makes it easier to write about feeling sore if I am in fact still sore.And no, it wasn't due to rampant sex. Christ, you and your dirty mind.
My various bumps, bruises, cuts, grazes, aches and pains are in fact due to the fact that I took part in an organised form of sport for the first time in a good 3 years. Of course I play football all the time, but it's always with mates, never for a team. The last time I did anything like that was for Corsham Under 18s back when I lived in Melksham, and even then I was only doing it for fitness, rather than to play in the team itself. I'm realistic when it comes to my (lack of) footballing ability.
My rugby ability, on the other hand, has pleasantly surprised me.
For yes, I played rugby last night. I'd bumped into a friend of mine in town during the afternoon, and he told me about the university team's training session that night. He explained that it was completely for beginners, and that it was a good laugh. I had fuck all else planned, and I figured that it was time I did some physical exercise. I've spent too long destroying my body with alcohol recently, and it needs some repair work.
Although considering the amount of bruises and raw skin all over my legs right now, that might not be truly what happened.
It was fucking cold, but I was determined to get out there and at least get fit, even if I played really badly. I'd not played rugby since I was at school, at least 5 years ago, and even then I was barely average. I was quite small until I was 15/16, so I played scrum-half (number 9) most of the time. I was good at passing and running with the ball, but not so hot on the physical stuff.
Not that I was a wuss, you understand, but because I physically couldn't do it. I was just too small. It's very difficult to take down a 6'3 tall motherfucker if you're only 5'1, believe me.
So that was the position I found myself in as we started the training session: very, very rusty, if not back at the beginning again, which was also the experience level of most people there. We started off by playing a game which was kind of like netball, but with some rugby skills mixed in. You couldn't run with the ball, but you also couldn't tackle the ball-holder. Non-contact, that's the word I'm after.
It was played at a frenetic pace, however, and I was knackered by the end of it. I'm desperately unfit, I really am. Not overweight or anything, just out of shape. Give me a few weeks and I'll be back to a decent level of fitness, so long as my body doesn't collapse in the meantime.
We then did some practicing of running with the ball and hitting an opponent. Not full-on, but with big pads held by the defender. It was just to get people used to the idea of impacting on someone as you run. I have to say that it brought memories flooding back, since we used to do an identical exercise back in my school days.
Memories, of the way we were...
We then did some group exercises with the pads, involving taking a hit and offloading the ball at the same time. Again, memories of how to give a perfect pop pass and how to turn on impact kept coming back. It's amazing how you never forget something like that.
It was then time to get a little muddy. We did a similar exercise to the previous, but this time went to ground as we were 'tackled' by the pad-holder. This is the basis of rucking, which I remember being involved with a hell of a lot back at school. I was generally the guy behind all the big fuckers (forwards is the technical term, I believe) who didn't get into all the pushing and shoving, but rescued the ball and fed it to another player. Great fun!
We then practiced actual tackling in pairs. I got matched up with some random girl, and we cracked on with throwing each other to the ground. Apparently, we weren't supposed to be doing it at full pace, but we didn't really know that. It was OK, because I still vaguely remembered how to tackle, and she definitely did.
I can't convey here just how great a feeling it is to remember something which you thought you'd totally forgotten. There I was, my first time with a rugby ball in my hands for years, and I was remembering the correct tackling technique (go for the thighs, wrap your arms round and put your head by their ass. Then allow their forward motion to make them fall over). Great stuff.
She then asked me if I knew how to do the type of tackle where you stop the runner in their tracks immediately, rather than falling backwards as their legs get wrapped up in your arms. This is the best kind of tackle, and it looks fucking great when you do it right. We call it a 'dump tackle', because that's basically what you do.
As the opponent runs towards you, you stoop a bit lower than usual, then drive forward as you meet. The trick is to rise at the same time, which results in their feet leaving the ground, however slightly. They then have no momentum, and you are able to push them back and then dump them onto their backs. Johnny Wilkinson is the prime proponent of this tackle. I remember him doing a beauty in the Six Nations a few years back against a French half-caste back (N'Tamack?). He literally picked him up and drove him back a couple of yards after N'Tamack came running at him full pelt. Classic.
After we'd practised that for a little while (she was OK at it, but I stil had to do a little jump as I ran towards her, so that she could shove me back a bit), one of the other better players said that that kind of tackle was actually forbidden. I asked if he meant just in the women's game, but he said overall. I beg to differ on that one, unless the German version of rugby is a little different from normal union rules. Oh well, chalk it up to experience.
As an end to the session, we played a match of sorts. There were 4 on each team who'd played some rugby before, but most were newcomers to the sport. The 4 "profis" (their word, not mine. It's roughly "pros") weren't allowed to go the whole width of the pitch, but had to stay in the middle section. That suited me fine, I wasn't up for much running.
I have to say that I had the time of my life. I remembered how to organise yourself in defence, and how to support the ball carrier when attacking. I remembered how to ruck, how to pass the ball over distance, how to get physical, and how to tackle at full pace. I particularly enjoyed taking down this big guy who'd played a bit before every time he got the ball.
I loved how I instinctively remembered to throw my arms around my head when tackled to the floor, even though there was no serious rucking (i.e raking the bodies on the floor with your boot when standing over them) going on. It's that kind of thing that will save you from a nasty wound one day.
I scored a couple of times, and was involved in loads of others. My particular favourite came just after I'd pretty badly knocked my back. I was running with the ball full pelt towards some guy, and just before I got there I turned back to face my own team (again, old habit) with the intention of trying to pass the ball or at least to be facing the right way if tackled to the floor.
The tackle never came, for whatever reason, and I ended up tripping over an outstretched leg, to land square on my back. I remember saying "Scheisse!" (eng: "Shit!") quite loudly, and laying there for 10 seconds or so. It really hurt, because I was still going at full pace when I landed. Your back isn't designed for that kind of impact, so I was a bit shaken up.
I eventually got up, walked gingerly back into the game, but kept rubbing my back for a minute or so. The coach even asked if I was OK. I wasn't feeling OK, but I wasn't going to tell him that, was I? Me big strong man, urg.
Within moments, I was given the ball, and I set off on another run. I was heading towards probably the best player there, fully expecting to be tackled. Somehow I ran straight through him, and then round another player before sprinting for the line to score. It was a great feeling to score something like that by myself. My back still fucking hurt though. There's nothing like adrenaline to make you forget / ignore pain.
At the end of the session, the coach said a few things about some social event the next day (I had lectures, couldn't go), and then asked myself and a friend of mine called Fabian to stay for a minute or two. We were the two new guys that night who'd played a bit of rugby before.
He explained (in English, dammit!) that the university didn't really have a team, and that this training session was just to get people into the sport. He said that if we wanted to play at a more advanced level, we should go to one of the many rugby clubs in Heidelberg.
Rugby isn't huge in Germany, and is even lower than Handball on the national sports scale, but for some reason Heidelberg is just about the epicentre of German rugby. We trained at a big rugby club, which even has a rugby museum, and I've seen a few other places around the town.
Anyway, the coach invited me and Fabian to come along to another training session on Thursday evening, where the skill level was a bit higher. I'm definitely going to go. Again, I'm not hugely fussed if I don't get to play matches, but it'll help both my fitness and German. If they speak German to me, that is.
Who would have thought, me joining a rugby club? I love rugby, don't get me wrong, but I'd not foreseen myself ever playing it again, and definitely not for any kind of team. But you just don't know, do you?
And so to the aftermath. I walked home with Numa, beginning to ache already. I dived into the shower, discovered via the stinging hot water where all of the grazes and cuts were on my legs and knees, and cleaned all the mud off of myself. Mmmmm, mud. It doesn't seem right doing any sport unless you get muddy.
I was aching for the rest of the evening, barely able to stand up without collapsing back down in pain, and I also had a recurrence of the chesty cough I'd shaken off at the weekend. I'm forever doing this: getting a bit of a cold, going out in the depths of winter to play football, and then wondering why my cold lasts for 3 weeks. Stupid Rob.
I couldn't get to sleep last night either, though not because of my aches and pains. Rather, I'd stayed in bed until midday (I have no Monday lectures) and was thus wide awake at midnight. The raw skin on my knees was also chafing on my quilt any time I moved (I'm a terrible fidget), and my knees generally were just aching.
It wasn't much better when I woke up this morning. My back aches, my throat is sore, and my knees (especially the right one) are covered in bruises and cuts. Such is the price we pay for enjoying ourselves, I guess.
Same again this Thursday, methinks. Oh, and it'll also keep me out of the pubs on Thursday night, which means a double-sized swing from unhealthy to healthy. Yay for me.
Even if I will ache like a bastard on Friday morning. Meh.
