How I Became a Rugger

People who met me after the mid-2000s associate me with rugby. It’s almost inconceivable to them that there is a quite adult Vikki that didn’t even know what rugby was, and would never have been predicted to play it. And yet.

During Memorial Day weekend of 2003, I had been in Colorado for just over a year. I lived with my sister near Boulder, where we both worked at the university. She was then an assistant professor on her third or so year at CU, while I was a counselor in the admissions office, having been hired permanently in January after completing a six month internship in the second half of 2002.

My sister and I decided to go to the annual Boulder Creek Fest. We had a perfectly nice time there, enjoying beers and music and carnival food. Then she ran into a friend of hers, and the two of them went off on their own. I had no trouble with that; I'm always happy to entertain myself. A few minutes later, though, I realized that somehow she'd ended up with all the money, and I had no money for beer!

Desperate times call for desperate measures. I found a spot where I could stake out the vending operation and see where my in might be.

The first thing I saw was the sign that said "Tips benefit Boulder Rugby Club." I didn't exactly know what rugby was, but I did know that it was some kind of aggressive sport. I immediately judged "meatheads" and figured I'd have no trouble chatting someone up for a beer or two. I identified a target and moved in.

It turned out that these rugby boys were lovely. I realized immediately that "meatheads" was unfair; it's inappropriate stereotyping which should be avoided whether or not a traditionally oppressed group is being judged. I did end up getting a couple of beers, but I don't think it was the flirting. They may have felt sorry for me, or maybe they knew right away that I was one of them.

I decided that I wanted to play rugby, and lo and behold it just so happened that there was a group of women trying to start a women's rugby team in Boulder. The boys sent me to the other beer tent, and just like that I joined a rugby team.

When I woke up the next morning (hung over), I wondered what the hell I'd gotten myself into. I was no athlete. I'd played softball and baseball in middle school and beer league, but that hardly counted. My athletic history mostly consisted of getting cut from teams. Maybe she'll never e-mail me, I thought. But no, there was an e-mail announcing practice that Tuesday.

I decided that I was no quitter, and I went to practice that Tuesday. On Wednesday, I couldn't move. 

That summer we were only playing sevens, which is a shorter version of the game that has only seven players a side instead of fifteen. Still, we had a hard time getting seven people every week, so I hung in there and played pretty much all the time, if you can call what I did "playing." I was absolutely terrible. I truly was not certain whether it was better for the team to have me there or to play short. After our final match of the season, I said as much to one of our teammates.

“I don’t think I’m going to play anymore,” I said. “I really think the team is better off without me.”

“Oh bullshit,” she replied. “You belong here.”

“But I’m so bad.”

“Look, maybe you’re so great yet. But how many new players were here on the first day of practice?”

“About six.”

“And how many are here playing tonight?”

“Just me.”

“That’s right. I’ll see you at practice on Tuesday.”