Kurt R.A. Giambastiani

During times like these, when the world is screaming along at Mach 2 with its hair on fire (which, I think it fair to say, it is currently doing), we must not be afraid to practice some self-care.

Take a breath.

Step to the side.

Look up, look around.

Take note of something that pleases you. Music. Art. Nature. Your kids. Your partner. A piece of work well done.

Relax for a bit. Just a few moments of indulgence. Something just for you. A respite from the chaos, the frenzy, the tragedies large and small.

I’ve needed a lot of self-care lately—an escape from the cruelty I see each day—and have found it in a very unlikely place.

Rugby.

Regular readers will recall that I was born sports-gene-deficient. Standard American sports have rarely intrigued me. American football was (if anything) a social event for me: watching the ‘Niners with Dad or gathering with friends for Superbowl Sundays. Baseball was OK for a time, until they tweaked the strike zone which rang the death knell for “little ball” in favor of “crowd pleasing” home-run-fests (tedious, boring). Basketball and hockey were always too frenetic for my taste. Soccer (a latecomer in my lifetime) seemed filled with monotony, obscure rules, and amateur theatrics.

In addition, the trash-talking, exorbitantly paid prima donnas so prevalent in major-league sports just leave me cold. Generally, the various squads seem more like collections of egos than like real teams, and the public’s obsession with individual statistics and fantasy leagues only exacerbates this view.

As a result, I’ve pretty much opted out of sports altogether, only finding enjoyment when I watch curling. Sedate, polite, respectful, strategic, requiring amazing skills, it is a quiet serenity that, unfortunately, was the only sport I truly enjoyed.

Until two weeks ago.

At a friend’s enthusiastic suggestion, I sat down to watch a match of the Rugby World Cup, currently underway in Japan. My expectations were low, as my opinion of rugby at that time—based solely upon the few clips I’d seen over the decades—was that it was a brutish, violent game in which large men ran around a large lawn and bashed into one another like unprotected hockey players. I expected to see a group of foul-mouthed, ill-tempered, testosterone- and steroid-laden knuckle-draggers punch, kick, and drag each other around a field in a bloody caricature of American football.

I was totally, utterly wrong.

Without a doubt, rugby is a very physical game, but it is not what I would consider violent. The players tackle, grab, charge, and push, all with the passion of fervent competition, but it does not have the animus, the animosity, or the primal rage that imbues even the tamest NFL match-up. I’ve been watching for a fortnight, now, and from what I’ve seen, there is no trash-talking in rugby, there are no coaches prowling the sidelines spitting epithets and profanity in equal measure, and there is absolutely no challenging the calls of the referee. None. The personality of the game is formed of strict but simple and understandable rules, treating each other with respect, fairness in play, and the subsuming of one’s ego into the body of a true team.

No one does just one thing in rugby. Everyone must carry the ball, kick the ball, pass the ball. Everyone must tackle and block. In the scrum, where the teams form phalanxes akin to ancient Greeks on the fields of Achaea, pushing against the opposition en masse, the men become a physical unit, a single entity, each applying his own strength to the whole and striving toward a common goal.

Rugby is, counter to my every expectation, an extraordinarily civilized game, even quite elegant at times. It is fast-paced, to be sure, but at a human level, not the blistering, eye-befuddling speed of sports assisted by rackets or hockey sticks. Rugby also takes no breaks. American sports have evolved to accommodate our nation’s capitalistic nature, allowing the continual interruption of play (and enjoyment) for commercial advertisement. In rugby, play continues uninterrupted through two forty-minute halves. As wonderful, refreshing, and engrossing as that is, I must say thank heavens for on-demand streaming so I can pause the action for a bio-break.

Obviously, I’m smitten with this sport, but not just for itself. Rugby has also been my oasis during a time when every day I learn of some new strife in the world, some new betrayal, hypocrisy, or amoral dictum.

So, for you readers, I hope you have already found your own personal rugby, and if you have not, seek one out.

It is not a weakness to retreat in order to rebuild. Following battle, one must recoup lost vigor, in order to rejoin the fight and not fail.

Take a breath.

Find your oasis.

Restore your soul, your sanity, your strength.

Then, onward.

k