This past weekend, far away in Utah, my son's Rugby team played in a national high school tournament. Although they had a decent season here in Indiana (and Cathedral of Indianapolis won the national tournament in Utah . . . congrats!) I learned through a series of text-messages that my son's team came in last.
Nevertheless, there's something manly about this Rugby game. Older men like me can break an ankle or shatter a spleen just watching from the sidelines. Sometimes we attempt to crush an empty cola can against our foreheads in order to appear macho, but all we get are indentations that make us look like a Cro-Magnon on a bad-hair day.
A few weeks back I penned this poem about Rugby. Makes me feel young. But I pulled a hammie when I wrote it.
Home From Rugby Practice
My son says he played well
And does not need stitches
In the ear that is dangling
By a thread and beat to hell.
He grit of eighteen years
Has turned him into man
And left him bruised and
Unwilling to shed tears.
But I blanch and recoil
At the sight of his blood
And his open vein.
Impressed by his toil.
Proud in his pain.
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