I have a confession: Even though I was born and raised in South Africa; grew up in a home where Saturday afternoons were spent braaiing and watching rugby; married the original Player No. 23; and even played in two of my varsity hostel's rugby games for charity, I have absolutely no idea what the game of rugby is about (gasp!). Sure, I know that the object of the game is to score a try, for which you earn five points; and that the team with the most points wins. But that's it. Don't ask me about off-sides or line-outs or who plays in what position. I just don't know. And after 35 years of sitting in on rugby conversations and still not getting it, I don't think I ever will. Or want to. So there.
I remember to this day the shock and horror on our varsity coach's face when he asked me to switch positions mid-game and I had absolutely no clue where to go. My blank stare completely shook his foundation (and his temper). How on earth was I supposed to know that the 8th man is a loose forward, anyway? Oh, the shame.
Don't get me wrong: I really enjoy attending rugby matches. The atmosphere, the crowds - what's not to love? But don't expect me to chime in during the mandatory pre-game speculation; or air my opinion during the inevitable post-game post-mortem. I'd rather talk about what's for dinner.
Great was Will's surprise then, when I won us tickets to a rugby match over the radio this week. Talk about being a dream wife.
And you know what? We had a lovely time. Baby Girl and I sported orange head gear in support of our team (yes, despite my complete ignorance and total lack of insight I do have "a team") and we cheered our hearts out. Just don't ask me who played. (Just kidding. Well, sort of.)
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