Scrum

Once upon a time the Hubs played college rugby.

And I cried.

No, really. I did.

Every Saturday I would go out to the rugby field and watch my stud crack heads with other players. Have you ever seen rugby? That's really what they do- run around smashing their heads into one another without helmets. Or pads. Or...well, you know...those things that protect the possibility of future children. Nothing. They go out there in their uniforms and bash into each other at the speed of light. It's a tough sport. And the Hubs? He is all about the tough sports. Bring on the concussions! Bleed some more! Look at the way my arm dangles by a thread after I sack that guy!

He is a stud.

I am a pansey.

When you are a spaz like me, tough sports are fully capable of sending you over the edge. I would stand on my tippy toes to watch my man the entire game, and any time he went down with the rest of the pack, I would hold my breath and pray pray pray he came out alive. And he always did. He would stand up on two feet and then walk around the field like he had downed 80 Coronas before he'd meet up with the other guys, who were all stumbling their way back to the scrum to do it all over again. I used to keep a running tally of the brain cells I figured he lost after each crash, but I gave up after I reached 7 trillion. I break out in hives just thinking about it. Oh, wait, those are the hives I have had for a month now. Still, rugby is insane, and each week of rugby season I would walk away with a new stomach ulcer after watching the madness my boo willingly took part in.

The one thing I did enjoy was the terminology. It's not everyday you get to say "Yeah, that's my boyfriend out there. Number two. He's the hooker." And he was. The Hubs played "hooker" and was right in the middle of the mess they call the "scrum". There's something about the vocab that just screams "a bunch of muddy drunk men made up the terminology for this game." In the scrum, two huge guys would come up on either side of the Hubs, grab him by the shorty short shorts and the Hubs would heave his arms up over their shoulders.

The other team would do the same thing on the opposite side, then more team members would come join the mess and form a wall. The ball lies on the ground between the two teams/walls of sweaty, bloody men. Two teams on either side of the ball, leaning into each other, ready to scrum.

Then the two walls would bash into one another when the whistle blew. That's when things really got crazy and the guys grunted and hollered until someone kicked the ball out of the pile. I was always afraid I'd see the Hubs head roll out of the scrum rather than the rugby ball. Do you see why I walked away with ulcers?!?

So those were our dating days. The Hubs playing college rugby, games every Saturday, sometimes home, sometimes away. When there was an away game, I was forced to listen to and love Irish pub music to and from the opposing team's field. Sometimes it was a 4 hour drive. I am just saying. The Hubs always attributed it to something about the "pump me up" needed before one hits the field to bleed in agony through sweat and tears. I don't know why Taylor Swift didn't make the cut, but to my dissapointment, she never did.

My stress level on game day reached a point where I was desperately seeking a babysitter for the game- just for moral support and also as a back-up driver in case the Hubs had to be rushed to the emergency room after sustaining his 14th concussion of the game. I jest. Not really. He is a stud. I am the pansey. Remember? So I would con my sister or my girlfriends into coming to the game with me. My parents made it to every game they could. My mom is some kind of massive rugby fan- she would slip into depression if she had to miss a game, and she was always excited to talk rugby with the Hubs. I don't know what kind of sick woman thrives on watching men bash skulls and bleed all over the field, but there's something about the grit and intensity that my mom just loves.

Which leads me to the point of this post. Look at what she has done:

For Christmas, she gave my son a New Zealand All Blacks rugby outfit. Complete with a binky, hat, and booties. The Hubs, of course, loves loves loves the All Blacks. They are a HUGE rugby team in New Zealand. I had to talk him off the mountain at our wedding, as he wanted our first dance to be to the war chant the All Black's display before every game called The Haka. Click here if you would like to witness the madness. Have mercy.

Do you know what this means? It means, my friends, that my son is going to grow up surrounded by his crazed father and grandmother cheering him on in a sport that is sure to send me into the fetal position at every sporting event my son participates in for the rest of his life.

I lived it once with a man I love. I don't want to live it again.

The sweat, the blood, the mud, the tears. Well, my tears.

It's coming.

They start them early around here.

Much to his mother's dismay.