Rugger-buggers

As discussed earlier I have never really gotten into rugby, the second most popular sport over here. In the States, the only people who play it are annoying upper class frat boys, as a means to while away the idle hours between attempted date rapes. Which, actually, is pretty much rugby's constituency over here. I do appreciate the rampant homo-eroticism of the sport, though; the grappling and the outfits are not unlike what you might see walking through the streets of Soho at night.

Still, I got caught up watching the Six Nations this year (to the Expat's American audience: this is a yearly tournament between Europe's rugby powers: England, France, Ireland, Wales, Scotland, and, er, Italy). There is something in that Orwellian dictum that sport, particularly on the international level, is essentially "war minus the shooting". My interest was piqued more on a vague patriotic, nationalistic and ancestral level; my Irish roots (and passport) mean I always cheer for the boys in green and it was nice to see them romp home with the Grand Slam (beating everyone else in the tournament).



The final Wales-Ireland game was enthralling, nevre-wracking, back and forth. I was swept up, found myself getting overly emotional at the end for a sport I don't really care about and a country I have never lived in. Thrilled for Ireland, but I also felt sad for the poor boy from Wales (didn't catch his name, but I'm betting the surname was Jones) who missed the kick at the very end which could have won it.