From Zero to Hero - Mrs Jonny’s Diary
A couple of weeks after my slightly overwhelming, and let’s face it, pretty ineffective debut, I moved onto match number two - another friendly against a ‘beatable’ team. Whereas I spent my previous match like a rabbit in headlights, I had a lot more fun at this one and spent the whole time charging up and down the pitch and shouting at anyone who would listen. And as I found out afterwards, this is apparently what’s required of a back…
I was feeling pretty psyched up on arrival, and felt a pang of disappointment when I was told I would be on the bench - I’ve been training every week, learning the rules (as many of them that are fathomable, anyway) and know I’m fitter and faster than some of the other backs who were in the starting line-up. It was my first lesson, I guess, in having to prove myself, however small the stakes, against girls who have been members for longer and feel they deserve a place on the team. Infuriating, but such are the foibles of amateur sport, I suppose.
Anyway, as it turns out, I was on the pitch from the start after all, after one of our team (a nurse!) pulled a calf-muscle two minutes before kick-off from not warming up properly. Our coach was furious, stomping around telling us all off for chatting and gossiping (well, duh - we are girls) when we should be concentrating on stretching, but I was too delighted to take much notice.
I thoroughly enjoyed every minute of the 80. I was playing at No. 11 and reckon it could really suit me - sprinting up and down the wing, creating space and only having to mark one tiny girl opposite me. Easy! I’m still really bad at tackling - too much of a scaredy-cat - but I reckon I can now handle being tackled. You just have to remember to let go of the ball when you hit the ground so that a beefcake doesn’t stamp on your face. And as I shimmied past one defender and dashed for the try line with a person hanging off each leg, I felt I’d really made some progress.
I didn’t actually score a try, of course - serendipity may have prevented me, thus far, from injury, but there’s only so much luck a girl can expect - but I did get stuck in at various critical moments and didn’t wuss out when it started raining (really heavily, dammit) at the start of the second half.
We ploughed on through the mud, like the gallant little soldiers that we are, but sadly a win proved elusive and a couple of late tries from the opposition sealed our sorry fate. The most frustrating thing about this was that it dawned on me what was going wrong but I didn’t feel I could do or say anything about it. Basically, for whatever reason, and despite a blinding first half for the forwards, we lost every single line out in the second half. Honestly, it was a total mess. And as our kicker kept booting it into touch, because neither she nor our No. 9 had cottoned onto this fatal error, we edged ever closer to defeat. So there I was, poised, ready to run and full of beans with nothing to do but stand there like a drowned rat and watch the opposition take possession over and over again.
With hindsight, of course - and this is where my inexperience betrays me - I should have spoken up. So perhaps, wise sage that I am, I shouldn’t get too big for my boots and expect too much too soon. Some of the backs may be slackers at training, but they would have had the guts to step in!
Still, it was a good team effort overall and for a novice like me, there were some rather splendid moments. And despite their inability to throw in a straight line when tired, our forwards are a pretty impressive bunch. Frankly, I’m glad I’m on the same team as them!
We retired to the clubhouse for food and drink - I can’t believe how tiring this match malarky is - and prizes were awarded to back- and forward-of-the-match on each team. And you’re not going to believe this, but I won back-of-the-match! No sh*t! Mrs Jonny won a prize for rugby! Being a total cynic, I reckon it says more about the standard of my team than my prowess on the pitch, but still… I was very chuffed.
My pride at this accolade turned to horror, however, as I was instructed to down yet another hideous pint of snakebite & black. Whilst standing on a chair. In front of both teams. I’m not a complete wall-flower or anything, but this was pretty scary stuff for me and not really the kind of thing one does anymore, being a respectable grown up and all. I managed about a third of it by the time the other winners had drunk theirs, before one of my team-mates, a flanker, stepped in to rescue me and quickly saw it away. As I was saying, you’ve gotta love those forwards!
So there we go… I am a fully fledged, decorated rugby gal. One more match of the season to go and I can’t wait…
Mrs Jonny makes her debut
Here is the long-awaited match report from Mrs Jonny’s rugby debut, and her subsequent initiation into her new club. From all of us at The Rugby Blog, I’d like to offer huge congratulations and thank you for keeping us posted and thoroughly entertained.
If you’d have told me 4 months ago that I would, by now, have played not one but TWO full-blown rugby matches I’m not sure I would have believed you. Re-reading my earlier blogs, the concept of me (or, dare I say it, any sane girl) playing rugby still seems mildly ridiculous. And yet I’m now so hooked, I’m already thinking about my post-season summer training and how I can improve for next winter.
My first scheduled match was a false start; a disappointing, last-minute cancellation by the opposition followed by two lacklustre training sessions with only half a dozen players.
So it was with some excitement that I packed my boots and set off to the heart of the south-west a couple of weeks later for my debut. I had an overwhelming, and somewhat alien, sense of pride and camaraderie as my new official post-match kit was thrust into my arms and I donned my team colours.
But this was quickly replaced with near-panic as I walked out of the changing rooms and realised that (a) I’d never actually been on a pitch before, thanks to our evening training sessions being held on the floodlit fringes of our club ground and (b) when faced with the real thing, I really don’t have a keen grasp of the rules after all. I managed to hang back and watch the first half but then jumped (or was thrown?) into the deep end for the second half, where I was installed at full-back.
It went pretty well I think. I put in an early tackle on someone smaller than me, just to make myself feel better, and managed to catch a few long balls - though I didn’t quite know what to do with them once I had them. (Though that hasn’t proved problematic in Ian Balshaw’s career…) And though I took what I consider to be a pretty big bash to the nose, no visible injuries ensued and I was told to stop fussing if there wasn’t any blood.
We lost, rather heavily, but despite this everyone trooped into the post-match meal and then onto the pub where I was initiated into that other great rugby tradition - downing pints. Though friends from Uni, who have seen me flourish in many a drinking game, will be amazed to hear this, I no longer seem to have the capacity for alcohol consumption I once did. As I slowly ‘downed’ a hideous pint of snakebite & black - in a record-breaking 15 minutes - I decided I may be taking after my namesake in at least one area of rugby tactics.
And as the other girl who was celebrating her debut in much the same fashion (but 10 times faster) is now known as ‘Chucky’ for her resultant downfall, I reckon I made the right move.
I’ll share the delights of the second match with you next week…
Jonny’s not the only one that’s been selected this weekend - Mrs Jonny’s diary
I have changed my mind. Whether we’re playing the vicious chavs or the nice girls from down the road who are struggling to pull together more than ten players, I have decided that this weekend is match time for Mrs Jonny. Well it’s not so much my decision, as the coach telling me to stop fussing and demanding I show up on Sunday. But regardless of where this impetus has come from, it’s time for me to shape up and get motivated.
While I leave it to you experts to dissect the last minute training nuances and leadership requirements of the England Six Nations squad, I thought I’d investigate the key facets of sports psychology and figure out the best way to prepare. I’d love to hear your tips and comments - what secret training regime do you have? - but meanwhile, here is what I’m planning to do. A slacker’s guide to match preparation you might say…
Skill and preparation
As every sports hero knows, success on the pitch is all about the hard slog and the hours of practice spent honing the minutiae of one’s talent. As Jonny Wilkinson once said, “good preparation is power”. This is all well and good, but as I have only been playing for six weeks and barely know what the hell I’m doing, this could be problematic. I have certainly learnt a few skills this winter (how to fall on the floor without crushing my head, how to run in and out of cones etc) but I may have to skip this step for now, and hope for the best.
I’ve noticed that everyone naturally seems to pass to the left, so perhaps if I stick to the right wing, I’ll be okay. Now if that’s not shrewd preparation, I don’t know what is!
Fitness
I have actually been doing something about this and I reckon I might be improving a little here. Our fitness drills certainly bring out the competitive streak in me, and sprinting up and down the pitch every week, trying to beat girls with nicknames like ‘Legs’ and ‘Cheetah’ because they run so fast is pushing me to work harder off the pitch, at the gym. Plus, in true girly fashion, I need to wear a slinky wedding dress in seven months’ time, so I gotta get in shape!
Psychology
Apparently, according to the BBC Sports Academy, 60% of ‘talent’ is down to mental strength and having the confidence to win. Looking for role models and inspiration, I turn not to our ‘elite’ men, but to the England Ladies rugby team, who gave the Welsh a 55-0 kicking last Saturday and who are now well on course for their third successive Six Nations trophy. Firing on all cylinders and working as a team, they’re focussed on points scoring and seriously psyched up for victory. Who said girls can’t play rugby, eh? Bring it on!
And of course, there’s the pre-match music to consider. In the gym, I’m quite a fan of cheesy Ibiza house music - it takes me back to my Essex roots (gawd bless ‘em!), my boyfriend won’t let me listen to such mindless trash at home and, more to the point, a study showed that you burn more calories if you’re listening to tunes with high BPMs. However, on this occasion, I feel something a little more macho is required to fire me up. I will therefore be listening to “Eye of the Tiger” on repeat, solidly, for 24 hours starting on Saturday afternoon. I defy anyone to come up with a better alternative…
Look the part
Finally… Boots? Check. Kit? Check. With sponsor’s logo and everything? Check. The pair of socks a Rugby Blog reader kindly offered to knit me last week? I look forward to receiving those soon…
Actually, other than my shiny new boots, I don’t have a clue about kit. Unlike school sports, where everything was immaculately washed and labelled in advance by your Mum, the deal now is that you turn up on the day, and then fight for shorts and shirts. If you’re really lucky you may find a clean pair of socks somewhere, but if not, you just get what you’re given. Hmm.. athlete’s foot anyone…? For the first time in my life, I may actually arrive early on Sunday and get in there first.
And if it all gets too much, well, Mrs Jonny can just keep referring to herself in the third person and pretending this crazy ordeal is not really happening.
Wish me luck!
Brute force and bunking off - Mrs Jonny’s diary
So I have a confession to make – I bunked off training last week and that’s why (as I’m sure you all noticed!) there was no blog from Mrs J.
What can I say? I’d spent the day over in London village and was tired from hours of travelling on primitive modes of transport and from all the high-powered business deals I’d been cutting. The train was late and there was most definitely a threat of rain in the air. What if it had turned into a freezing downpour?? It could have been breaking point!
My namesake would be very disappointed with me, of course – it takes at least a torn ligament to get Mr Jonny off the pitch. (Or a highly suspect selection decision… Cipriani? Don’t make me laugh…)
Anyway, it turned out to be a most sensible decision on my part. While the weather was as calm and collected as could be expected at this time of year, the training was anything but. As my Welsh rugby-novice companion informed me the following morning – let’s call her Mrs Henson, shall we? – the main focus of the training exercises was on the following weekend’s planned grudge match with our sworn enemies – the nastiest team in our league. The enormous bruises and crusty scabs on her shins were testament to just how physical it all got.
Rough and ready and from – how can I put this without sounding like a posh twat? – the somewhat less desirable part of town, the team my new friends were preparing to face is the only thing between us and the top of the league.
But they’re pretty vicious girls by all accounts – lots of dirty tricks and language fruity enough to make a sailor blush. You remember our scrum-half I mentioned in the first week? The Gobby Little Pipsqueak? Last time we played this team, the ref had to send one of them to the sin-bin for threatening to “mess up that pretty little face” of hers – and then actually trying to. While the ball was in touch. So you get the picture. Anyone would think we were playing football!
It turns out the weather saved their skins though and with lots of rain later in the week (I knew it was on its way!) the water-logged pitch forced a re-scheduling of the match.
This week, I was far more full of beans and toddled along for my ritual boot camp experience. And get this – I have even acquired for myself a shiny new pair of real-life rugby boots (well, okay, Junior-size football boots with new studs) so I totally look the part. What with my smart new rugby shirt and menacing gumshield, I am certainly starting to look like a pro, even if I can’t actually play the game. “All the gear, no idea” as the saying goes!
But who cares? I felt very buoyant by the end of the session – lots of running around and charging up and down the pitch to practise different passing formations and the like (you’ve got to love those cones!) And as I jumped up to catch a rather nifty pass and shimmy past the defender, I even began to entertain the possibility that I might just be ready for a match. We have a friendly coming up in two weeks’ time; I’m free that day; the opposition aren’t that good; I’m actually not that shite – so why not, eh…?
It was somewhat deflating then to discover that the cancelled grudge match from last weekend, against the Narly Teenage Mums, has been rescheduled for – yep, you guessed it – two weeks’ time.
I feel another bout of skiving coming on…
It’s not over until the fat lady sings - Mrs Jonny’s diary
When it comes to hobbies, I have to admit that I am generally more at home in the world of the arts than with this sporting malarky. As you may have gleaned from these narcissistic ramblings, I don’t know a huge amount about the finer points of rugby tactics and - let’s face it! - I’m a bit of a fish-out-of-water on this well-informed website. I’m more at home with dressing rooms, intervals and directors than changing rooms, half time and coaches.
But as I dragged my sorry ass back onto the pitch this evening, to continue my inexplicable quest for rugby brilliance, I did feel I’d been touched by a little of the opera Diva spirit by one particular team-mate.
A formidable combination of height, weight, strength and dedicated training, and topped by a somewhat incongruous pair of perfectly tied little ponytails, The Diva is a pretty scary forward - I want to say front row? I think? But basically whatever the female equivalent of “double hard b*stard” is - and she was in my group. For tackling practice.
Just to reiterate for any newer readers out there, while I am not exactly Tinkerbell, I am certainly no match for this Valkyrie.
Or so I thought! The drill was pretty straightforward. The person carrying the ball had to run in a straight line past the person designated as tackler. When it came to my turn to be tackled, I was pretty scared and wearing only mouldy astro-turf boots and an ill-fitting gum-shield for protection. So on my first attempt at running past the Raging Bull of female rugby, anticipating what was about to come crashing into me, I did what any self-respecting sports hero would do - I screamed. At which point, The Diva stopped running towards me, stamped her foot and pouted, “well I can’t tackle her if she’s screaming.” And walked off. Result! Yay me! Next week I might try wearing glasses and see if that works as a survival tactic too.
I also learnt, in the very same drill in fact, that - as with the way a conductor might adapt the ‘rules’ laid down by the composer of a piece of music to suit his style - so there is a fine art to be found in the way one chooses to interpret the rules of rugby tackles. In particular (once the screaming becomes ineffectual), it seems there is a fine distinction between seriously illegal ‘tripping’ of ones opponent and, ahem, ‘wrapping’ ones legs around a much bigger player, once you’ve grabbed their waist, in order to topple them to the ground.
After the disgrace of my earlier girliness, you can imagine The Diva’s horror then, upon discovering that her status as grande dame of the tackle could be upended by a little runt like yours truly. I may need to do some work on this new dance move, but - oh yes! - with a little practice, it would seem there’s a new star in town, who’s actually not so scared of the big girls any more. And her name is Mrs Jonny!
Ha ha! We’ll see…
Mrs Jonny’s Christmas message
And so my quest for sporting brilliance - or at least regular, athletic mediocrity - reaches the end of the year. The December blog-writing has been somewhat waylaid by a cocktail of Christmas drinks parties, excessive mince pie consumption and (unrelated, I’m sure) a rather nasty stomach bug. But you’ll be relieved to hear that my rugby playing goes from strength to strength. Using the word ‘strength’ in the loosest possible sense of course…
It’s been an interesting few weeks, and this new pastime is certainly not one I’d have predicted taking up six months ago. As I sit here in my pristine, new rugby training shirt, reluctantly purchased for me by my despairing Dad, I can’t decide if I’m discovering a brilliant secret or just submitting myself to the most pointless form of torture.
I appear to be in danger of making it past my first goal - Christmas - and on to the second challenge - the terror of a real-life match situation. Having been measured up for the new team kit (including some rather fetching, not-at-all-butch polyester post-match shirts) and with some friendlies coming up in the next few weeks, this is all too real a possibility. Bring it on? Come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough? Erm… please don’t mess up my dainty little face?!
We’ll all have to wait and see what happens in the next few months (can you contain your excitement?) but in the meantime, I have been pondering what I’ve learnt in these halcyon weeks…
Firstly, tackling is not necessarily as bad as it looks. Unless you upset a burly forward, in which case she will pick on you. Secondly, shouting for the ball is very important in team sports but not something that comes naturally to me. Mainly because I still find it very amusing to watch if the screamer then fails to catch said ball and fumbles for it in a girly manner. Thirdly, laughing at burly forwards who drop the ball (see points one and two above) is not recommended.
What else? Getting muddy is a lot of fun. Kicking does not feature heavily in beginners’ grassroots rugby training. The basic principal of “run forwards, pass backwards” is not as easy as it looks on telly, especially if you used to play hockey. Breaking a nail doesn’t count as an injury. And, not so much something I’ve learned, as something I’ve come to realise - rugby is full of mysterious calls, positions and set-plays, all of which are unfathomable.
But amongst all my tidbits of new knowledge, the thing that’s impressed me most about my new found hobby, and which has quietly featured throughout this experience, is the patience, enthusiasm and dedication of our coaches.
As the four of them train us, week in week out, in the freezing cold, I’m amazed by their unwavering commitment. I can understand the desire to coach a team of juniors - the promise of youth, the feeling that you’re nurturing a new generation of rugby enthusiasts and (just maybe) star players - but to trudge along voluntarily every week for a bunch of no-hoper, adult females is just astounding to someone as self-absorbed as me.
It must be the same across the country - a small army of unsung heroes making amateur sport tick throughout the UK. To me, it embodies the spirit of sport and is certainly something I’ve come not to take for granted. So on behalf of unfit, mildly enthusiastic band-wagon jumpers everywhere, I’d like to say thank you very much to everyone who helps out behind the scenes.
And for you budding players out there - just in case you’re an armchair rugby connoisseur, who’s pondering their new year get-fit schemes - I feel I should take this opportunity to spread the word and recommend you visit the RFU’s site - http://www.rfu.com/goplayrugby to find your nearest (English) club…
Merry Christmas and a happy new year from Mrs Jonny!
We don’t have to take our clothes off to have a good time – Mrs Jonny’s Diary
Another fun night at training yesterday, although the motivation required to leave my cosy living room was pretty gargantuan, I can tell you. As one friend wryly observed, the honeymoon period is now well and truly over…
That said, changing room banter, even amongst the most strapping members of our squad, generally revolved around the utter crapness of having to be outdoors during these long, cold nights so I guess I’m not alone.
Once out in the chilly field, it seems bawdy humour and cheeky flirtation with the coaches are the main motivational tools. Whilst this is not quite my style, the constant flow of Les Dawson-esque double entendres certainly keeps me entertained.
Everyone’s so chirpy, especially amongst the backs, that it’s really quite baffling, especially for a grumpy old cynic like me. It’s good, old fashioned fun though – anyone wearing a white top is a prime target for tripping or mud throwing, any excuse to comment on the coaches’ physique is taken up with relish (they love it!) and although this will probably sound pretty tame to most of the blokes reading this blog, who have no doubt been doing this since they could stand, the freedom to look totally ridiculous, red-faced and charging towards a defender with one single purpose – to score a try – is so invigorating.
Two hours of running in and out of cones and throwing a ball around. Brilliant! However, it wasn’t all that straight forward…
Once we started practising set pieces I began to understand that the concentration required – along with everything else – is pretty formidable. I realised at one point, at the bottom of a ruck (again, dammit), that I actually have no idea what I am doing. I couldn’t even tell you what position I was in! Somewhere at the back…
Someone told me just to keep to the right of a certain girl and it was all I could do to remember this one simple thing and try and keep up.
Again, probably stating the obvious here, considering the average readership of this website, but it’s no wonder rugby is such an interesting game to watch (and play) – I have only begun to skim the surface of the tactics, secrets and methods employed to fool the opposition and already you can see how the strategy builds up. Presumably the brain power and mental agility required for all this split-second decision-making compensates for the frequent head knocks?
I have studiously read the BBC’s online guide to the rules and positions, but I’m guessing this is one of those things that requires – shock, horror! – regular practise. Not exactly my forte, but I will see what I can do.
I felt a bit bewildered by it all really, and ended the session not quite as elated as I’d hoped. I think I just prefer charging about for now, but it was still worth braving the wintry weather…
Rugby takes my breath away - Mrs Jonny’s Diary
I was feeling rather reluctant before last night’s training session, following the previous week’s freezing mudbath, but I was delighted when I stepped out of the car and realised it was actually rather mild outside and pretty much lacking in rain. Hurrah!
To add to my delight, our regular pitch was so waterlogged that we were ‘forced’ to train on a sort of sandy, spare pitch instead. As well as the consequent lack of muddiness, this suited me for two reasons: as I am yet to purchase some proper rugby boots (I can be a little disorganised…), I was in my element in my old, increasingly mouldy, astro-turf hockey boots; and secondly, a hard surface meant no tackling. Hurrah again!
So the forwards trundled off to spend the evening shoving their heads between each others legs and practising cryptic, Masonic line-out calls, whilst us backs ran around like excitable puppies for an hour and generally ignored the pleading of the coaches to exercise some discipline in our tactics.
It was all rather fun though – three teams of four, with one team sitting out, trying to score trys against each other, ostensibly to practise having a flat defensive line (the battle analogies keep on coming) or a steep attacking line. If you can’t see both ears and both bum cheeks, girls, you’re not far enough back!
Once a team scored a try, the other team had to run off, whilst the third team came on – without stopping play. It was truly knackering, but fun for the winning team who could just sprint back and score again if the new team wasn’t quick enough to sort themselves out.
Once more, my generally rubbish fitness became apparent. We were running around so much you could actually see the steam coming off of everyone’s foreheads, racehorse style. And although I scored a triumphant try, the sprint required – and then the sprint back to attempt another score at the other end – nearly caused me to keel over.
I am off to the gym tonight to start rectifying this. I’m starting to think that being on the wing might be cool (and it was my old hockey position – mainly so I could just charge up and down, shouting loudly but not actually having to touch the ball all that often), but I’m not sure I can deliver the required Forest Gump-like speed just yet…
Thank you so much for your comments last week – I promise not to be too grumpy in future! And I’m too chicken to play a match yet, but I’ll keep you posted. Various friends and family members have threatened to come and watch my first outing, so I may have to keep it secret…
Got mud on y’face, y’big disgrace… Mrs Jonny’s Diary
I’m sure, dear Rugby Blog reader, that you are desperate to tune in for my diary, rather than for any of the insightful, thought-provoking Heineken Cup analysis found elsewhere on this site, but I barely have the energy to breathe at the moment, let alone type, so only a brief update on this week’s sporting heroics from yours truly…
In case you hadn’t noticed, it rained this week. A lot. A friend of mine graduated from Sandhurst a couple of years back and still takes great pleasure in describing the ‘beastings’ the senior officers inflicted on them in bad weather. Well, I’m starting to understand what he was talking about.
Within 30 seconds of finishing the warm up at this week’s training (in the rain), we were alternating between popping the ball about and – every time an error was made – dropping down into the freezing, oozy mud for press-ups, sit-ups, burpees and any other god-awful punishment our coach could think of. I had mud in my hair, in my tracksuit bottoms… everywhere. I was pitiful. I nearly cried. I felt a lot like Goldie Hawn in Private Benjamin.
I kept trying to weigh up the cons (early stage hypothermia, entire loss of feminine charms, total mud bath, possible major head trauma from skidding over) versus the pros, which mainly amounted to the fact that I will be nails (at least by my meagre standards) by the end of the season.
Not that I’m planning on bragging about this. Instead, I am joining a very girly gym tomorrow (fitness + kicking skills = survival!) and am now off to bed with a mug of hot milk to nurse my aching limbs. And in a somewhat ironic twist, I am writing this whilst enjoying a soothing mud pack on my face… it smells a little nicer than the last one I had.
(P.S. Two lovely West Country wins this weekend – well done Gloucester and Bristol!)
Mrs Jonny’s Diary - Crouch, Touch, Pause…I’m engaged!
Well, what an eventful week it’s been for Mrs Jonny! Not one, but two sessions of rugby training in the freezing cold, my first cache of sporting injuries and – rather off topic but totally exciting – a genuine, real-life wedding proposal! It’s all been most lively, I can tell you.
I will try to focus on the rugby, rather than my forthcoming nuptials, but frankly, I can’t promise anything. Perhaps I could start a parallel blog about rugby fitness tips for weddings. You know, bride’s versus groom’s family scrum competition to see who foots the bill, kicking exercises for all guests to get in shape for the inevitable “New York, New York” dance floor can-can and, for the bridesmaids, special practise to perfect the end-of-the-evening try-line dive for the bouquet. Whaddaya reckon?
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, oh my god, we did tackling practice on Friday. My worst fears realised. The girls reassured me that in a match it doesn’t hurt as much because the focus on winning detracts from the pain, but that didn’t exactly help my battered little body or the rational voice in my head which after five minutes was on over-drive, screaming, “what the hell are you doing girl? It’s Friday night – why are you freezing your bits off, being crushed by Sapphic beasts when you should be down the pub?” I’ll tell you why. Because when I stormed in with a lovely low tackle, slid down my opposition’s legs, totally floored her AND got a round of applause from the coaches (a first in my sporting career)… It. Felt. Gooood!
Monday night’s training was also rather too tackle-focused for my liking (still no kicking practice – surely we must do it soon?) but I quite enjoyed diving into those massive yellow tackle-bags like some kind of deranged lemming. Very therapeutic. And I had my first ‘proper’ game as well – three on three, no holds barred – which was brilliant fun. At one point I accidentally head-butted my opposite number (whilst doing another rather tasty tackle), but I reckon she came off worse than me, which was very satisfying for yours truly! How evil is that?! We only played for twenty minutes, but it was surprisingly tiring – loads of stop start running, resistance training and concentration required. I think my fitness needs a bit of work, as I don’t fancy being on the receiving end of a fitter team. Too scary to contemplate…
At the end, I thought I’d sustained my first visible injury – a perfectly round stud mark, just below my ankle – but on closer inspection, it was just a blister from the top of my boot. I was strangely disappointed at my mis-diagnosis, but if this week’s anything to go by, I won’t have to wait long for a genuine war wound. I suspect my wedding date won’t be during the rugby season. No-one likes a bride with a broken nose.
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